Tevun-Krus #80 - WattPunk 2.0

Part Seven

17

Rick Wickerman raced through the city, pumping his legs despite the burn he felt in them. It'd been years since he'd ran like that, and the sick feeling he'd woken up with certainly wasn't helping. But, shit. Phil was alive, or so Lord WattPad had claimed, and there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he'd miss the opportunity to finally see him again. He wondered how it would go down—would he see him behind double-sided glass, or something? Or would he be able to see his brother up close? Touch him, share a smile, share a laugh, see the crinkle in his eyes when he was amused by something...

So many years missed without Phil by his side. So many things experienced alone. So many questions left unasked that you could only ask an older brother. So many memories never made and forever unremembered.

Following an internal map of the city, Rick's muscles did all the thinking, his legs planned the route. He didn't—couldn't—think of anything else except the first thing he'd say to Phil. Maybe "Hey, bro, long time, huh?" He smiled and felt his eyes well up with tears at the thought.

Dodging in-ground fountains, he sprinted across Yonge-Dundas Square, towards the building topped with the massive Wattpad W. If it were nighttime, that sign would be glowing like no tomorrow. Section B-3 was somewhere off to one of the sides. Rick couldn't remember if it was on the left side or the right. Looking back and forth, back and forth, he took a wild guess and headed left.

Utterly winded, he slowed down when he hit the left-side parking lot. Caught his breath with his hands on his knees.

And then, about twenty metres away, Phil walked out the side entrance with an old-school boombox on his shoulder. He was a bit heavier than he'd been ten years ago, had lost a lot more hair, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in a week, but it was definitely him. Rick would recognize him anywhere.

"Phil!" he shouted, waving his hand high.

Phil stopped, seemed confused for a second, then looked at Rick. He grinned slowly and waved, started walking over to Rick.

And the white van screeched as it turned into the parking lot, engine roaring. It skidded to a stop, careening left. The door slid open and a man with a machine-gun appeared.

"Phil! Run!"

The machine-gun fired, littering Phil with bullets. The man was lifted off his feet as the shots hit him, poofs of blood misting behind. The boombox exploded and pieces went every which way, clattering on the pavement. One of the bullets hit him in the forehead and blew half his skull off.

Phil hit the pavement with his brains spilled out of his head like canned spaghetti.

Rick went to his knees, crying, shouting, screaming incoherent obscenities, asking, "Why? Why, God, why? Why? Phil! Why?"

"Because you touch yourself at night, peasant," Lord WattPad said nonchalantly, freshly manicured hands in his pockets. "Now get in the van or I'll get Ree to put a bullet in your rectum. Don't worry. He's super-good at taking them out. Learned that from experience."

18

They arrived at WattTower after a mostly silent drive. Lord WattPad had insisted on tunelessly humming one of 2Fresh4U's recent hits, "Play U Like a Gameboy, Girl-Thang," and had even suddenly, and quite passionately, belted out the chorus—"STICK MY GAME INTO UR SLOT, HIT THE POWER SWITCH, OUCH HOT, GONNA DRAIN MY BATTERY ALL UP INSIDE U, GONNA PLAY U LIKE A GAMEBOY, GIRL-THANG, GIRL-THAAAANG!"—waving his arms around, like he was performing for an audience of millions instead of just Rick and Ree and the visibly disgusted driver.