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Dash was not a happy man. His life had gone to shit; why did his young dumbass self have to be right about Highschool being the ‘best years of his life’?. Fuck this. His love life was nigh nonexistent, bar the occasional meaningless one-night stands with people he either doesn’t remember the name of or never even got one. His football career, that he had banked goddamn everything on, was actively swimming down the drain every single game that coach stuck him on the bench; hint, the number of games he’s spent on the bench so far was Every. Single. One. He was completely and utterly fucked. Capital F fucked with a hard enough D he could cut himself with it. And then there was the flaming shit pile that was his ‘friend’ group; namely people who were on the team who felt obligated enough to invite him to their parties... and James, his favourite bartender from across the street behind the hippy goodfoods store that couldn’t be bothered to give a crap about Dash’s piece of shit fake ID. James was to blame for a great many of Dash’s ill-advised hook-ups, and stopping Dash from many many far more ill-advised and illegal decisions.
That man once chased out a drug dealer while bashing them with a chair; said chair had previously been bolted down to the floor. Dash swore on that day to never take his business elsewhere. Because fucking alpha move right there, seriously. Though the fact that that was the single most eventful thing to happen all goddamn year was serious bullshit. This was supposed to be his next big hurrah before he had to ‘be a real adult’. It was his first real get-the-fuck-away from his folks and from the nightmare trap that was Amity, he was supposed to be fucking living it up. But no. He’s benched, having truly shitty meaningless sex, getting shit face on fucking Southern Comfort, and developing a goddamn gut.
All in all, he was goddamn bored. And he was approaching the point of giving not a single fuck. All his fucks were flying off into the sunset and shitting out whatever was left of their ‘give-a-fuck’ abilities down on all the well-off assholes that probably didn’t work or try half as hard as his ass had. If his previously fucking charmed life had to spoil into an utter pile of crap then he should be able to take the piss and shit out on anyone he goddamn wanted.
Scowling at the air, thick glass clanking loudly on the cheap particleboard countertop, “fuck”.
James doesn’t pause in drying off a glass with a slightly stained towel, “you okay there”. Dash just scoffs and pushes himself up off the old torn stool, shotgunning whatever’s left, fuck he doesn’t care, “I’m heading out”, and starts walking over to the door.
James chuckles, “you do that. Just no driving”. Dash pauses slightly before waving dismissively over his shoulder, “you know I don’t have a car, dick”. Which just makes the man chuckle more. Again, dick.
And of course, fuck his life utterly and completely, the first thing Dash comes face to face with as soon as he’s out the door is a fucking mugging. Sure the drunk bitch doesn’t exactly look like the money type but dude-bro clearly gives zero shits; meaning Dash should probably fuck right off. Guy was probably high off his ass or desperate to become high off his ass.
Lighting up, he walks out of the alleyway while shoving the lighter back into its designated burnt pocket. Was he trashing his lungs? Fuck yeah. Does he care? Fuck no. Why would he? He doesn’t need the stupid things. Since obviously he wasn’t going to be using them to make touchdowns any time soon or ever. Fuck coach Barnes. Stupid fucking dick weasel. But you know what? Maybe alley dude had some kind of point. Like, what the fuck was Dash doing? Wasting money on university to fuel a sports career that’s obviously not happening, that’s what. But also, Dash ain’t some kind of quitter. Maybe if he was, like that Fenton wimp, then he’d actually be making his life happen. But hey, if the legal system decides to dick him over then he can’t exactly go to his bullshit college from a fucking jail cell, now can he.
Leaning against one of the less disgusting least piss-covered walls, watching the people go by is just ticking him off more; making a damn point to scowl at anyone who gets close or glares at his cigarette. Fuck you, let him have his vices. If y’all can have your shitty little high heels and snappy suits then he can have a fucking cig or two... or five, fuck it. Fuck all these people honestly. They’re probably all stupid fuckers that slept their way into money or sucked off some corporate boss. Eyeing some dudes fucking flawless shiny dress shoes, alley dude bro’s got the wrong fucking idea. Some teenage street rat wasn’t gonna have shit for cash and she probably dealt with that crap so often that frightening or beating the crap out of her wouldn’t even be fun. But these rich money bag assholes were a whole ass nother story.
Plus, alley lady probably had a shit life like him, why would he go fucking with her? Fuck, he probably wouldn’t even beat Fenton’s stupid face in these days.
.... naw, scratch that. He definitely would do that.
Watching these people go by, he almost resents Paulina and her ‘my-dad-gave-me-a-company-and-pent-house’ shit more than he ever resented Fenton’s constant getting the fuck back up. Fuck he should have agreed to date her instead of chasing his stupid football dream. God he fucked himself so hard. But also, fuck her. Fuck all these stupid pricks and bitches.
Taking a hard drag on his cig before putting it out on his pants. He should do something stupid. Smoking was fucking stupid and look at the goddamn worlds of good it had done him. By the Realms, the amount of times a cig in hand stopped him from bashing some arrogant son of a bitch in the face. Scowling, but fuck, there were worse ideas than bashing someone’s nose into their face... repeatedly. Screw this.
Screw all these people and their money.
Screw literally all of sports for snuffing him and his goddamn greatness. Their fucking loss.
Screw normal, moral, friendly society. It ain’t his fucking friend and it’s a fucking bullshit liar.
Screw continuing on with this goddamn chicken race bullshit for even another goddamn day.
Fuck going home too, just because.
Pushing off the wall and digging in his other pocket, fiddling with the knife there. Maybe alley dude-bro really did have a point. Dash doesn’t give a shit what the guy’s reason was or were or whatever the fuck, but maybe if the world couldn’t give him his dues, couldn’t give him his fun, then maybe he should just go and goddamn make some. What does he care if he dicks someone’s day up royally, or even their life for that goddamn matter. Every last one of them snuffed him first. Fuck them bitches. Taking their shit would give him some booze cash, fuck, at the very least it would be some kind of a thrill. More of a fucking thrill than sitting on the bench for hours anyway. And if he gets spotted? Then he’ll get the thrill of running from some two-bit dumbass cop or ‘righteous’ civilian. Fuck that, ‘helping’ someone, ‘saving’ someone, wasn’t some righteous good crap; it was just a big ol’ pile of ego-stroking.
And now he’s thinking about that stupid Fenton twerp again, which only encourages him to do this shit more.
Yeah fuck it. He’s gonna get his heart pumping then drink top-shelf shit to celebrate.
It’s not hard. Just put one foot forward. Just lean a little too close to someone, pass it off as a drunken stumble. Just slip the knife around the blonde bimbo's purse strap; fuck cares if you nick her stupid sparkly little dress too. Just run off into the crowd, follow the flow of people. Just stuff the purse under your shirt hastily, meeting no one’s eyes. Just breath in and out through your mouth because your buzzing so much your nose might as well be plugged and the sound of it is the only sound you can hear over your nerves. Just laugh when she shrieks in anger and fright, when she trips trying to chase after in god awful yellow stilettos. Just have the biggest rush, the biggest heart pounder, when you turn the corner to nearly smash straight into a cops chest; not that you could tell jack fucking all about them beyond the suit before going aw fuck and booking it like a rabid dog just locked its sights on you. Just laugh like this is the best moment in your life -because at this point it fucking well is- when the cop doesn’t have the awareness to chase you until the dumb bitch you fucked over shouts.
“That bastard stole my purse!”.
Ha! Guess even high-class pieces of fucking shit can swear. Aw fuck this, his legs burn and it is so good. It’s everything. He missed this. He doesn’t even care if he keeps the purse, doesn’t care if it falls from under his shirt when he launches himself over one of those shitty brick lay things they put across sidewalks that are too low down. Hell, he’ll book it across the street just to keep this goddamn high going, fuck if he gets hit, he feels like he’s running his fingers and teeth over electric wire. God the only thing that’s missing is someone else on the other side of his knuckles, the bruise and hurt of someone wildly kicking him in the stomach trying to get away or from an opposing team player ramming into his side. The urge for the full-body bashing honestly just ticks him off, just fuels the goddamn fire pumping into his veins, the opportunity to shove someone out of his way is just too good to resist.
Him getting tackled isn’t expected though. Him. Dash fucking Baxter. Who had a lead on this goddamn asshole ruining his fun. Guess he’s lost his touch just like he’s lost every other goddamn thing. But fuck it, grunting, this dipshit ain’t keeping him down. Managing to spin onto his back before they hit the ground, punching cop-whoever in the stomach and kneeing his groin; it’s enough to get Dash up and running off again.
He tries his luck with another alleyway turn, eventually one of these civilian dipsticks will get smart and try to trip him. Fuck he knows how eager wimpy dipsticks are to interfere with those clearly better than them. Fuck all of them.
He doesn’t exactly make it very far, receiving another -far more effective- tackle. His chest and chin smashing into the cement; the forming bruising already felt like a return to form. But fuck this guy, fuck him. Dash just wants what life owes him, a good ride, cheap satisfying thrills, a good brawl. Fuck this guy for saying he can’t. Fuck this guy for cutting him off when he had just manned up and gone after his high again. Fuck this guy for deciding that this piece of shit society and its piece of shit false safety was more important than him. Dash snarls, half-feral and raw.
“Stop struggling!”.
Dash actually manages to laugh at that, scratching his face on the ground. Stop struggling? Stop fucking struggling?!? Struggling is all he goddamn does and he’s owed his goddamn dues. “Fuck you, man! This world goddamn owes me! I’ll do what I fucking well wanna, prick!”.
“Eh I don’t know that you can steal the world's purse, dumbass”, cop asshole is rough about the whole pulling Dash’s arms behind his back and cuffing him thing. Fuck. Dash hopes it damn well bruises, gives him some shit to show off. Can’t show off soon to be pleasantly sore muscles. His fingers are still tingling, the spot where the purse was feels like it goddamn burns in a good way, and the cop prick tearing his knife off him feels way sharper than it should. Turning his head enough so he can spit at the guy’s face feels goddamn amazing, but he feels like numb ice when he actually registers the bastard's face; watching the prick go slowly wide-eyed with saliva dripping down and off his face.
“Dash?!?”.
“Fenton?!?!?”.
Goddamn Fenton chuckles, “well I’ll be damned”. That really only pisses Dash off, because fuck this is some goddamn bullshit. Fuck the entire universe. Scowling, “oh fuck you! Does this stupid goddamn world really wanna piss on me so goddamn bad that I get tackled and smashed up by fucking weak wimpy ass Fenton! Fuck you-!”.
Fenton furrows his brows while cutting him off, “oh shut up”. Dash scowls even more and goes to speak again, “I’ll tell you and the world to get fucke-”, on to get cut off by Fenton physically grabbing his jaw with one hand and forcing his mouth closed.
Since when was this stupid tiny fucker this goddamn strong. Fuck the universe letting this little piece of shit pipsqueak man up even an ounce while dicking Dash’s life over.
Fenton looks over his shoulder out the alleyway while Dash just growls bloody murder at him. Apparently the ex-puny bastard finds that funny, looking back to him with a frown and chuckle, “hey now, growling’s kinda my thing”, sighing, looking up at the sky and back down to Dash. Dash grunting as fucking Fenton decides to really piss him off by moving to literally be crouched on his feet directly on Dash’s back, “you know, my senior officer is a real lazy prick”, the sheer venom that was said with silences Dash real quick and makes his body go cold in a way that even that massive Jackson kid from Trenthigh never could.
Owning that old cold fear on the field is another thing he’s missed so much. Beating that down. Making a man of himself. There’s less of a bite behind his mental ‘fuck the world for denying him this’ though, because he’s staring at Fenton who’s staring at him... and the freak hasn’t fucking blinked. Shit. Was this wimp always this creepy and Dash had seriously lost his shit, his touch, his hardness, this goddamn much? Fuck.
Fenton leans forward towards his ear, making Dash decide that no he was never this fucking creepy. The whispering doesn’t fucking help, “Dash. You were never better or stronger than me. I was never the wimp to your brawn”, then proceeds to dig his hands into the cement like it’s fucking peanut brittle and tears out an entire chuck of the cement. His arms are still fucking twigs. Dash just eyeballs it, completely blank and numb.... and yet, there’s a level of giddy thrill. Fenton’s words cut through him like he’s fucking butter and Fenton’s a red hot knife, “tell me, why are you doing this. Why purpose does this serve you, Dash”, and removes his hand.
Fenton’s standing perched on his goddamn wrists, Fenton’s arms resting lazily over his own knees; even with the relaxed position Dash feels like he’s got a human-sized vulture staring down at him. He can’t help the way words and explanations spill out of his mouth, fuck at least his voice doesn’t shake, “my life’s turned to shit. Coach won’t even let me onto the goddamn field. The highlight of my week is James letting me drink his shitty beer and hoping I’ll accidentally pass out and drown in my shitty Chinese take-out. This world has fucked me over and I’m gonna fuck it back until I get my blood pumping again. This is the most alive I’ve felt in fucking years”. Fenton tilts his head like a fucking owl. Dash keeps talking, “I ain’t aiming to hurt no one but I don’t fucking care if I do, fuck them. What did they do that I didn’t to deserve their shitty little charmed fucking lives. I deserve my goddamn dues, don’t I. I can’t even get a chic, man. Highschool wasn’t actually supposed to be the goddamn highlight reel of my life, but it goddamn was. Jail would be a goddamn favour, at least there I could actually stretch a muscle and pound someones shit and assert my fucking dominance. Fuck this world, this society, and all the bitches in it”; he would have added ‘and fuck you too, Fenton’ but he genuinely feels like he’d get his head literally bitten off for that. But in pausing he notices somethings. Some seriously fucking wrong things. Fenton’s perched over his wrists, on his goddamn back, but he barely feels like anything yet it also feels like his entire body's being pressed down; this is physically impossible. And... staring at him, his eyes are fucking green.
This...
This isn’t Fenton.
It’s a fucking ghost.
Fenton-the ghost, gives a crooked smile; Dash fucking swears there’s a hint of goddamn fangs or some shit. He is so seriously fucked, but goddamnit this was the best day in a goddamn while. At least he got a last hurrah. Fuck. The ghost chuckles, eyes crinkling into crescents, “aw, how honessssst”, chuckles again and shakes his head a little before returning to their staring match; the fucker still hasn’t blinked. The ghost sighs, it seems both humoured and pitying, “I’ll admit, Dash, that’s pretty fucking pathetic”. Dash is almost offended. Almost. “But fuck, even I know you were always kinda the shit on the field. So, like, justified anger is justified or whatever”, the ghost actually waves one hard around dismissively, “but man, you can’t be stealing people’s shit for your jolly kicks”, and grins. And oh yeah there’s definitely fangs there. Dash didn’t even know overshadowing could give the persons body fangs. Or did the freak always have those things??? “Made my little plan easier though, so hey, thanks. I found you in record time”. Oh fuck, this ghost was looking for him. He was so fucked. Left Amity and he’s still gonna face death by ghost. Fuck this world and fuck this life. Goddamn. “After all, you never did wind up with the big leagues. And if you ain’t yet, you’re never gonna”, shrugging, “so I figured, like one does, why not bring you home. Testlauf can’t teach gym forever, you know”.
Dash stares dumbfound for a bit, “what”. The ghost chuckles and leans his face into Dash’s without breaking the staring match, “Dash, I’m only creeping you because you cut that lady. Anyone who knows anything knows I don’t tolerate people getting hurt”, smirking, “I’m a protective son of a bitch like that”. Which talk about a roundhouse kick to the fucking skull.
“Phantom???????”.
The ghost-Phantom? -What the fuck. What the actual fuck- chuckles and leans back, “your breath smells like shitty beer”. Dash wants to tell him to go fuck himself but can’t make the words form. “Anyway, surprise or not, try as I might I have my possessive side, and at the end of it all you’re an Amity Parker. One of my humans. Even if-”, facepalming and shaking his head into his palm, “-you’ve devolved into a freaking purse-snatcher of all things”, dropping his hand and looking back to Dash, “so come back. Be a teacher. Why not, right? You’ll get to make kids pelt each other with balls. Yell at pathetic wimps for being weaklings. Coach the football team into shape even”.
Dash stares a bit. It’s... honestly enticing or whatever. What is there here in this town for him? In the university? With the fucking coach? Fuck all, that’s what. And, I mean, this is his goddamn hero asking -offering?- this get out of jail, town, and shitty life, free card. And Phantom... Phantom’s probably the only one he’s still got any respect or fondness for; even if he’s apparently capable of be supremely creepy. Phantom’s a teenage ghost, someone who life fucked so hard they didn’t even survive to adulthood. Phantom wasn’t a privileged little bitch. And Phantom didn’t -normally. Dash is pretty sure the dead hero didn’t normally go around tackling humans. Fuck maybe that was Fenton and then Phantom just kinda jumped in because he was around and realised this was Dash? Fuck that makes almost less sense and would be excessively convenient. And if there’s one thing Dash’s life wasn’t, it was fucking convenient- go picking fights with people outside of his weight class; just stretched his ecto-muscles and bruised fighting his fellow ghosts. And even if Dash did envy Phantom’s freedom and getting to spend his days fighting instead of wasting away in boring classes or on benches, the ghost got brutally injured and well... he was dead. Dash couldn’t find it in himself -or maybe he just hadn’t sunken low enough- to genuinely envy Phantom. And the continued staring, the unnatural head tilt, the near-weightless weight, the wide glowing eyes; it’s never been so obvious that Phantom just is not human. Is not alive.
Even if he wanted to say no, could he? To his hero? To someone he could never envy? To someone who apparently wants him, even if not really in a personal way? To the face the ghosts wearing, the face that Dash had cherished as his favourite punching bag? ...no, he really couldn’t. And the deal Phantom’s offering, it... wasn’t bad. Was appealing even. His chuckle is more than a little hallow, “wouldn’t that be one way to stick it to that asshole Barnes. To become a coach, and a fucking better one than his shitty ass”.
Oh Realms Phantom’s laugh feels like a physical relief and the pressure on his body all but disappears excluding where Phantom’s perched on his wrists. Fuck his hands are going numb; they’d probably be broken if Phantom/Danny/whatever didn’t weigh less than a large potato. Especially considering Phantom stands up straight, still on Dash’s wrists, before sidestepping off him. “Well? Get up you sack of shit”. Which honestly just confuses Dash, grunting as he struggles up due to the fact that he’s still in fucking handcuffs, “now you sound like Fenton”.
Phantom shrugs extremely exaggeratedly but offers no kind of explanation -which almost pisses Dash off. But fuck, dead kids are allowed to be dicks to people. They should get that. Just like he should have gotten that ticket to the big leagues, fuck you Barnes- before shoving his hands in his pockets and sauntering towards the alleyway exit, calling over his shoulder, “you coming? Or am I leaving you here to rot after I put in so much work to find you”.
Dash grumbles, “now you’re just being a dick”, but follows regardless. Phantom shrugs, “eh, you seem to like punishment”. Dash doesn’t know what the fuck to say to that, so instead, “where the fuck are we going. ‘Cause if you wanna go off and fly, leaving the alleyway seems like a dumbass move. Also, handcuffs”. Phantom chuckles, and looks back at him with a smirk, “purse snatches get handcuffs. Also, to my partner and the cop car”.
Okay... There’s zero fucking chance Phantom’s actually working as a cop in Fenton’s body, “you stole a cop car?”.
“I like how that’s your assumption, you dirty little thief. But yeah. Pretty much. My existence is already illegal, so the rest of humanity's laws are suggestions at best. Also, fuck the police”.
Oh Zone, Dash’s hero-worship just kicked up a notched. “Hell yeah, fuck the police”. Dash’s shit mood is dying a quick death -much like Phantom probably did- and he doesn’t really care or know why Phantom seemingly taps at his right eye; Dash’s mood does sour some at spotting Foley of all people sitting in and tapping at the wheel of a cop car. Well, until he realises the geek's eyes are goddamn red.
Phantom opens the backdoor, faces Dash and leans against the passenger side door, crossing his arms and quirking an eyebrow. A very obvious ‘well? Come the fuck along’ message written over his face. Dash raises his own eyebrows, “so what? You jacked Fenton and one of your ghost friends jacked Foley?”, but does struggle to climb in. Ah goddamn, he is so starting to feel those bruises. Also, fuck handcuffs so hard. The ghost in Foley chuckles, “just call me Duulaman”, and starts up the car while phantom climbs in. Dash stares at the red eyes through the rearview mirror for a bit, because Phantom was fucking Phantom but all other ghosts were dangerous. Phantom laughing doesn’t actually help.
Phantom putting an arm over the back of the seat and turning around to look at him, “so ready to be back where you belong”.
“Dude, when you say shit like that you sound creepy”.
“Ah fuck off. I’m not wrong”.
“Says Mr. Possessive”.
“Hey!”.
“Oh like this is gonna be the last ex-Amity Parker you chase down and try to drag back”.
“That’s not the point”.
“I think the fuck it is, dude”.
Honestly the friendly ghost bickering makes it easier for Dash to relax back into the -not actually comfortable but fuck it- seats, these two felt more like his friends than the entire goddamn football team ever did. Fuck the lot of them. And looking out the window is a nice way to personally and explicitly mentally tell every single part of the town he sees and the people in it to get royally fucked.
Predictably, they wind up getting chased by a cop -an actual cop for the, you know, stealing a cop car thing Phantom apparently pulled- and Dash joins the two ghosts in shrieking laughter as they flee and phase through buildings. Dash is high on the tingle, on the rush and thrill. He’s alive again. And looking at the grinning near-feral glee on the overshadowed human faces, he’s more like them than any human. Maybe that’s the way it was for anyone in Amity Park. Should he blame the town? Curse it?
Naw.
Fuck that.
Screw the rest of the world instead.
He’s riding high on home; and then getting a good drink.
End.