He Doesn’t Get to Have a Chapter Named After Him

Ashe Stickygum. I’m leading with his name in the body so you know who I’m going on about, but I am absolutely not fucking naming a chapter after this cockstain. I will also be saying his name as little as possible, so stay by my side, babe. Don’t wander off and get lost and start whining about who ‘he’ is and stuff, m’kay?

So I went to school with this asshole. That would make us teenagers. There was a sliding scale of delinquency on the Jung, and this guy would have been squarely in the ‘poser’ category. Like, it’s purely an aesthetic for him. We can get into where I might have been and why some other time. I’m not afraid or embarrassed of that convo, it will just take us pretty far off topic, which I’m already prone to.

Anyway, so this a-hole and his cronies were also part of that subset of kids who got really fucking tall. I don’t know what it was like where you grew up, but by the time I was in high school, there were some folks who looked like they could be, like, twelve or something and others who looked like they were twenty-five. He was one of those latter types, but with the face of the first type.

And these dickwads would walk around the campus in the same sort of formation as the Wrecking Crew, but they weren’t into that shit. They were posers. Yeah, some of them were fucked up, too, and show up in other stories where you might see some of that. But this guy was not. He was a privileged little piece of shit that was always second on the scene, first in the headlines. You could argue that that’s the way of popularity in general, I guess. And he was definitely popular, but in an odd sort of way, like everyone who was trying their hand at going upstream. He didn’t really, though. He just pretended like it.

He’s the short of douchebag that would drive around in his CRV or whatever faux rage screaming to “Bullet with Butterfly Wings,” a song which is the perfect anthem for this kind of fuckhead, actually. What a shit song. Lemme spin it for you, so you can have a taste of its awfulness:

This guy fucked Nassau Burgeander at a fire festival. I’ve probably told that story before, somewhere. If I find it, I’ll link it. But there really isn’t much more to it than that.

If you know the story, and I have the names wrong, then just say this is a similar sort of deal but not the exact same character. You know how I feel about canon and rigid continuity, so.

He also fucked Mickie. That’s the part that’s hard for me. It’s not that I’m jealous or possessive. I’m not. Maybe I was a bit about Mickie in a couple situations. But this happened when we were on a break, so I wasn’t upset with her about it; and, even then, I was trying to train jealousy out. I knew it wasn’t helpful. She lied about it, too. She told me that she was just making out with him. But I know she did him. I’m not dumb, and I’m telepathic, empathic. All that shit. So I knew. And it was fine, honestly, that she didn’t want to admit to it. I knew she was lying to spare my feelings, which is a kind thing to do, even if it’s not very wise. She lied about a lot of things, but never mind that. Don’t get distracted. This isn’t a me & Mickie chapter, though I suppose it does serve as a footnote or an aside to them.

I also trained with this asshole’s dad. Well, his stepdad, Master Cunin.

Master Cunin was a chill dude. He was funny and easy to talk with. One of the soft masters, as it were.

I recall talking with Master Cunin one day after class, in his atelier.

He was going into a bit more detail about some technique or another, and he mentioned his stepson—not by name, just by role, like that: stepson.

I said, “Yeah, I know him.”

“Yes?” Master Cunin said.

“Yeah. We went to school together. Normal school, I mean. Not secrets school. Obviously.”

“Interesting. I didn’t know he had any friends like you, Teresa.”

“I wouldn’t really call us friends, exactly.”

Master Cunin understood then. He nodded. “I see. In that case, you have my family’s apology on his behalf.”

He gave a small bow, which I returned.

“Think nothing of it, Master,” I said. “It’s in the past.”

Which, you know. Is true. But it’s still stuck in my craw, even a few lifetimes later.

This is the kind of shit, I say to you, this kind of motherfucker right here. This is why I keep being reborn.

You think whatever you think about that, and say or do whatever it is you say or do.

I go, “I’ve got to figure it out. I’m tired of coming back here over and over again, reliving the same stupid dramas.”

I sing quietly to myself. “Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage … then some-one will say what is lost can never be saved …”

With a sudden look, I realize you are listening to me.

“Okay, so maybe it’s not a total shit song. The musicianship is tight. And they were really pretty.”

You say what you say.

I shake my head. “Fucking nostalgia. The saccharine of saṃsāra. Imma take a shower. Feel dirty.”

Then I add, “You coming?” You know. If we have that kind of relationship. Otherwise, I’ll see you in like fifteen.

Play procedures

• You can collect “Bullet With Butterfly Wings” for your song grimoire, if you’d like. YouTube plays “1979” right after that for me, so you can have that one, too, or whatever song it plays next for you; whichever you’d prefer. “Drown” is probably their best song, by the by, with “Eye” being a close second … fuck, “1979” is good though. Aw, who cares. It’s Smashing Pumpkins.
• You may now train with Master Cunin, who can greatly enhance your understanding of any three secrets you are working toward. Count this chapter twice toward unlocking those three. He’s super nice, too. Very easy to learn from and ask questions of. You’ll like him.
• Think about a person (or maybe a few people if you’re feeling particularly inimical) who continue to bother you in your memory the way this asshole does me in mine. Write a story about them, if you want. I have your back, and encourage you to overcome them.