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October 11, 2018. First night of TGWDLM performances.
Opening night. Jon was used to the mad fervour of musicals’ opening nights, sure, but this one seemed different. The air seemed charged, almost, like there was something electrifying about it. Perhaps it was the fact that he was playing a main character who didn't really sing or dance. Surely that was what it was, right?
As the little cast of eight wrapped up their first performance, an idea struck him like a meteor, and blew up his mind like a grenade. He returned backstage, and before anyone could even take off their costumes, Jon spoke up. “You know, I think we should pray. To the meteor. All of us, as a group. It couldn't hurt, right?”
Lauren chuckled. Her voice was a bit hoarse from all the screaming she'd done just a few minutes prior. “Jon, you are a nitwit…”
Jeff proceeded to interrupt her, throwing his arms wide. “OH, GREAT AND TERRIBLE METEOR! EMBRACE ME WITH YOUR LOVING HANDS!” This sent him into fits of laughter, drawing his mouth open as he smacked his own leg. “Good shit…”
Jon’s head snapped towards the troublemaker, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You think this is funny, do you? I'm being serious right now.”
Mariah chuckled a bit before going to his side. “Hey, I'm cool with whatever. So how do we do this prayer thing?”
Corey stood by the door, clearly not wanting to be there.
“I kind of have a thing to go to tomorrow. Can we make this quick?”
“Jon says he's serious! And when Jon gets serious, we have fun. C'mon.” Jeff beckoned Corey forward with the palm of his hand. “Who're you to judge what he does?”
“That's the spirit!” Jon’s eyes lit up, the smallest hint of a mischievous grin gracing his face. “Robert? You in?”
Robert had a concerned, bemused look to him that day. His wig was in his hand, its position already taken on his head by his trademark baseball cap. “Um... I dunno, I didn't know this was what we were doing tonight, so…”
“Neither did I. It's an impromptu thing. But come on, we're all gonna do it, right?”
“Just... this is weird... I mean, first there was all that talk about Satan... uh, you weren't there, Jon, but Joey was, and that was just really strange…” He blinked his eyes a bit. The stress of opening night had gotten to him a bit; he'd never played a character as exuberant as Professor Hidgens before.
Joey interjected, ending his train of thought. “Oh, yeah. That was fun. I'm totally up for whatever this is!”
Jon laughed a bit at the enthusiasm. “Now that's what I'm looking for!”
"Well, it's better than just going home, I guess." Lauren casually stepped closer to Jon, her ribbon hanging askew. "How do we do this?"
Robert didn't move. "Look, I didn't... this is kinda odd, and y'know, theatre companies aren't usually... uh, this open about Lovecraft space-creature stuff..."
Jon turned to Robert, his eyes shooting daggers at the fellow actor. “You just said there was Satan worship. This should seem normal.” He took Mariah and Lauren's hands since they were closest to him. “Everyone hold hands around the meteor, and I'll lead us in a chant.”
Jeff shrugged and went right for it, pulling Corey closer. "C'mon, get out of the corner, Rob."
Robert reluctantly took Jeff's left hand. A curl of hair peeped out of his hat, and he didn't have time to push it back in before his own left hand was pulled away. Jaime took his hand in hers, reaching out her other hand towards Joey.
Mariah reached out to take Corey's palm in hers. The circle was starting to close. There they were, a little pile of actors surrounding a meteor that the props guys hadn't even bothered to build a complete reverse side to. Jeff began to speak. "So, uh, what's the plan?"
“I'll lead us in prayer.” Jon stared intently at the meteor, unblinking. His eyes were a shocking blue in the lighting, urging the crowd to not look directly at him.
“Oh, great meteor, praise be to you. Bless us with your apotheosis.” He chanted the phrase over and over like a broken record player, never faltering, measured and slow, never speeding up or slowing down.
Robert said nothing at all. He watched the others fumble along with Jon, trying to keep in sync. He so desperately wanted to tell them that their little ceremony was one of the stupidest things he'd ever seen since he'd gone to college, but he didn't want to shit on something they were clearly having fun with. He hoped no one would notice his silence, a hope that was in vain. Jon noticed. Of course he noticed. He scowled at Robert, his chanting growing ever so slightly louder in frustration. He hoped this served as a reminder to the actor of his clear defiance.
His voice the opposite of the theatrical persona he put up on stage, Robert mumbled the chant along with Jon. He didn't like this. There had been a certain change in the wind when he'd come backstage, too dull to investigate, too bright to be ignored.
Corey shook off the feeling that Jon sounded wrong. His own dialogue was on autopilot; he put together theories in his head as to what the hell had possessed the new guy to do something so ridiculous. Then he remembered that his own method of celebrating the opening night of The Trail to Oregon had involved a can of Wacky-Foam sunscreen and a bag of thumb tacks.
This was StarKid. People did weird shit every day.
Jon’s chanting didn't cease. Something in his voice shifted slightly; the meteor glowed, the lighting rig on its rear turning on of its own accord. It seemed like a faulty special effect to everybody else, but deep down, as much as he tried to deny it, Jon knew exactly what was going on.
Corey dropped Jeff's hand in a rather sudden motion, breaking the circle. Even though he couldn't see it, he could feel Jon's gaze burning at him from behind the prop meteor, and an odd chill travelled up his spine. "Look, it's been fun - it honestly has - but I really have to go. I don't want to stay up too late. Like I said, I have a thing."
Jon’s speech stopped as soon as his costar pulled away. His hands dropped to his side. He blinked, feeling a bit dizzy from whatever just happened, a small headache starting to form. Slowly, he waved goodbye to Corey and went to get out of his business suit.
Lauren meekly smiled. "So... see you guys tomorrow?"
“See you tomorrow!” Jaime waved as she left.
"Yeah, you too!" Jeff smiled. He looked forward to the group's antics. Things had gotten a lot better since Jon arrived - the fellow was a character actor in a leading man's body, and he'd no doubt be a great addition to the troupe.
They didn’t realize what they'd gotten themselves into, getting him involved. That meteor incident had proven to someone up there that he was willing to devote himself. Over the next few years, Jonathan Matteson was going to bring them far more trouble than he was worth.
October 12, 2018. Early morning, Team StarKid group chat.
nlang: hey, matt and I have the casting for black friday all done. srry for keeping you in the dark but we took the old idea and formally made it part of hatchetfield so there's gonna be a paul cameo early. is anyone free to stay late on saturday to talk about it
coreydorris: So I kinda threw up blue shit this morning
slowpez: Corey, you're not supposed to drink it. You're supposed to just pretend to drink it. I didn't think that needed to be said.
corridorris: I'm not Joey. I don't do stuff like that
jrichter: Hey, I ate dog food *one time* and it was an accident.
mariahrose: Wait. Did you actually drink the stuff?!?
jmatt: He must've. How else would that happen?
corridorris: At no point did I put it in my mouth
jeffreyblimbleton: that’s what she said :ok_hand:
corridorris: Ask yourself why I would deliberately eat something that smells like glue
jlb528: Look, I don't know, but it's either that or the cult shit did something and I don't think that's it.
jrichter: Oh my gosh, Satan *is* a real man!!
nlang: I have no words
robertwmanion: Just woke up. Why am I suddenly being informed that Corey ate blue shit?
jrichter: I blame it on Satan. We should've done that ritual again.
nlang: sorry but this is the 6th time you’ve blamed the troupes problems on satan and it’s pretty clear that we’re just experiencing the consequences of our actions
jmatt: You gonna be okay, Corey? I'm a little worried.
corridorris: Well, next time I’m gonna be very careful not to get any in my mouth. I was tired as heck last night and I would not put it past myself to have eaten it in my stupor
nlang: yeah about the casting. we want to bring back dylan and jon gets to put a tie on his head in one scene
slowpez: I think it’d be easier if we got to actually see the cast list and not hear secondhand about who gets to put their tie on their head.
jmatt: Awwww, but that's such a funny detail! Let me have that.
nlang: I know youve kind of heard bits and pieces of the story but I should probably give you the whole thing
nlang: basically its the concurrent stories of a bunch of people stuck in a mall during a black friday riot but you knew that. there’s two siblings who are connected to another dimension and two middle aged windows who fall in love, and the lady leading the riots is a massive bitch
nlang: the script would be easier to send lol
nlang: this play sounds un hinged if you don’t know whats going on but then again when does it not
jlb528: Hey, Nick, who's playing the windows? Hehe.
nlang: srry, widows. cast is gonna need a lot of bodies on stage so might reach out to rosenthal about tcb collegues. u still have his number joey?
jrichter: Yep. I'll text it to ya later.
nlang: we are gonna need someone with a hell of a belt who can go a bit lower than jaime no offense
jeffreyblimbleton: …and somehow NOT ME?!
slowpez: Jeff, you know how Nick feels about gender and casting
jlb528: So then who are you thinking? And no offense taken, don't worry.
nlang: there’s no one here who has opara training, we’re thinking about mariah for a differnet role that has to be on stage at the same time, and jeff, playing the saxophone does not automatically qualify you as having a belt even though your belt is good
curtmega: My wife can belt.
jeffreyblimbleton: Oh shit she can. Nick, have you ever heard her
jrichter: Oh, hey, Curt!
curtmega: I’m only in this chat for the dog pictures. I just saw you talking and threw it out there.
slowpez: Hi Curt :wave:
slowpez: Speaking of which
slowpez sent an image.
curtmega: Ok, how many ex-wives have you got now, Diane?
jeffreyblimbleton: Well, Diane is a belter, and she’s got experience with bad romance. Let’s have her do it.
jmatt: The dog? Yeah, guess that works.
jrichter: Hey, the new guy agrees. What do you say, Nick?
nlang: sorry had to piss and didnt see. we are not making a dog play her this is a serious role
jeffreyblimbleton: I should send the demo tracks I have. Diane can check if her range is in the right spot for them.
curtmega: How many of you have actually met Kim? Just Jeff? Joey, I know you know her because she came to that Idle Worship taping and thought it would be a good idea to throw a bag of Cheetos at you
jrichter: Oh, yeah! Yeah, Kim's cool if we can't have Diane play the role.
nlang: I know abolutely nothing about kim is it ok if I get to meet her first
jrichter: Definitely, but you'll like her.
curtmega: She’s amazing. Really amazing.
corridorris: Okay I definitely can’t come in early. That is a lot of puke. I really hope I get better in time for the show
jmatt: You sure you didn't drink it, buddy?
corridorris: I guess I did.
jmatt: Get some rest, 'kay?
corridorris: I’ll try to take it easy. The show’s gotta go on.
September 30, 2019. Black Friday rehearsal #6.
Kendall sat in the corner of the rehearsal studio, a glass of iced tea with too much sugar firmly grasped in her right hand. The thud of something soft against her leg caused her to look down.
As her gaze fell upon the thing that had landed, she rolled her eyes. "Hey, someone kicked the creepy prototype again! Don't you think it'd be a good idea to, y'know, put it on a chair so this doesn't happen?"
Dylan tipped his head to the side, realising that he was the culprit. He tried not to make eye contact with anyone.
The doll stared off into the ceiling, its gaze bloodshot and unblinking.
Jon walked over, eyeing the plushie and slowly picking it up. Something in his gaze seemed a bit different, more intense, almost furious. He handed the piece of merchandise to the girl.
“Why don't you take care of the doll, Kendall? Clearly you care more about it than anybody else here.”
Kendall took it in her free hand, and placed it gingerly atop the barre, her emotions still relatively neutral. "I don't think I need to be assigned 'doll guard' or anything. I just don't want it to get beat up or damaged, and leaving it on the floor seems like a pretty good way to get it dirty."
“You're learning already.” He smiled at her, perhaps the tiniest bit too wide. “Wiggly should be taken care of, after all.”
"I don't get why you keep this one around. It's weird... and you've got the new one here already, so you don't need it for rehearsals..." Jon's presence was unnerving. He was certainly a comedian, but he could disconcert people when he wanted to, and there was a fine line between comedy and horror when it came to StarKid.
Jon rested his hands on her shoulders. “That doll is more important than I think you realize. The new Wiggly originated from this very doll. This doll is part of my history, of our history. It's of great importance and should be cared for accordingly.” His grip tightened, slightly overgrown nails digging into her shirt. “Do you understand me?”
She frowned, and looked him in the eyes. "Jon, I'm not gonna damage the thing, but I think you need to get out of my personal space..."
Dylan raised his voice, stepping a bit closer. "Hey, uh, Jon? What're you doing over there? We need you to carry Lauren."
He let go of her and stepped back. “Just treat him well for me. That's all I ask.”
Kendall weakly nodded, taking a sip of her tea.
“Good. Now, wanna join us in a prayer to the doll?”
This was not the first time he'd done such a thing, but it was certainly the first time he'd tried to rope her into it.
"Aren't you guys busy? I'm really just waiting for my cue here..."
“You can join us today. After rehearsal. All of us. Unless you're too scared.”
Kendall laughed. "Nah, I'm not scared. Sounds like fun, I guess. Anything's better than watching Joey parade around in his sweater with the pooping reindeer on it."
Jon chuckled a bit at her remark.
“Very true.”
October 18, 2019. Apartment in undisclosed location in Los Angeles.
Jon entered the apartment, feeling another headache incoming. That meeting must've drained him more than he thought. He took off his cloak and folded it respectfully before turning back to his roommate with a slightly concerning grin. “That was fun, wasn't it, friendy-wend?”
“You really don’t need to call me that.” Robert took off his own cape, placing it on top of a chair. “I can’t believe the show’s coming together, uh, so quickly… it’s remarkable.”
“It really is. But it would go better if Jeff could get his act together. Can't believe he wrote the songs and yet acts so childishly.”
"I don't think he's that bad." Robert made his way to the Frigidaire, removing a box of frozen fish sticks. He'd nuke them once he got the damn plastic off. "A couple of missed notes aren't too bad, considering how high he's trying to go during the harmonies on 'Feast or Famine'."
“It's not just those. It's his behavior overall. He doesn't take this seriously. The way he plays with Wiggly, the way I can just tell he doesn't pray enough during ceremonies. I mean, you saw how he reacted the first time. He sees it all as a game, a meaningless joke. It is not a game, the fool.”
The bag of breaded meat slices tore open, spilling its contents onto a waiting dinner plate. "C'mon, Jon. Don't tell me you think this is real."
Jon’s hands slammed against the table, causing it to shake. “It's more real than I think you understand. It is incredibly real.” His eye twitched. Another migraine whipped through his mind, and he trudged over to the couch to sit down.
Robert sighed, opening the microwave door. He didn't like to see Jon that stressed - when Jon got stressed, Jon got superstitious.
"It's ok, buddy. You go sit down. I'll put on Home Alone and we can laugh at it."
“Okay... And could you get me a Tylenol, maybe?” Jon clutched his head, trying to ignore how much it was hurting.
"Yeah. I'll get you a glass of water, too." Rob left the room, and promptly came back with what was requested. "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to take tomorrow off. Also, I think you're sitting on the TV remote."
Jon shifted enough to let his friend grab the remote before downing his paracetamol. “I can't take off. They need me there to lead the meetings.”
"You started the meetings, Jon. You're in control of whether they happen or not. And although I don't exactly get enthusiastic about dressing up like an idiot and worshipping a doll, I'm sure that Angela'll keep them going if you get a day off." Rob sat down next to his roommate, placing his hand on the man's shoulder. "C'mon, Jon. Take a break."
Jon shook his head. “No, no. Angela can't keep it running. I'm in charge. They need me there. And it'll be bad if the meetings don't happen.”
"I really, really hate to say it, Jon, but you're leaning a little bit too far into playing the cultist here. There'll be plenty of time to act like a crazy person once you're in your tie and on stage. Nothing bad's gonna happen if you miss one meeting."
“It's not a cult. It's a new, exciting religion that I started. And I'm not playing a game here. I'm not acting. This is real.”
“Okay, now you're scaring me. Can you just... give me the remote now?”
He handed it over. “Why am I scaring you? This... this is normal.”
"No, no no no no. There's, y'know, levels of superstition. It's normal to, I dunno, tap your feet three times before entering an audition, or carry a Star Trek keychain in your breast pocket. This is... well, it's kind of crossing the line from superstition into delusional behaviour... I don't think there's a nicer way to put it..."
“You think I'm delusional? I thought we were bestest buddy-wuds. Buddy-wuds don't call each other delusional.”
“You’ve changed. I just feel like you’ve changed… not a lot, but there’s been something different about you, um, ever since this play started. And I don’t know if I like it…”
“I haven't changed, Robert. I swear I haven't. What makes you think otherwise?”
“You didn’t use to jump into character, uh, backstage. I mean, yeah, I see that from Joey, but look now… like, you’re using that silly voice in casual conversation right now.”
“I guess I just... don't really notice when I'm doing it.”
“And that’s why we have old movies with massive plot holes in them to make us feel like people again.” On went the television, the light blazing through the windows of the little apartment. “I guess, um, Netflix doesn’t have it anymore. We can just watch the trailer and pretend we’re watching the movie.”
Jon chuckled a bit, sitting back and relaxing for the first time in a good long while.
“There’s always Adam Sandler, but I don’t think it’s possible to get through one of his movies without booze. Does the original Spider-Man sound any good?”
“Yeah, that works. Anything to distract me from the pain.”
October 22, 2019. Black Friday rehearsal number... I have no idea.
DONK. DONK. DONK.
Angela hit a cowbell, shamelessly stolen from the Hatchetfield High School Band, with the blunt end of a fork. “Y’ALL BETTER SIT DOWN! HE’S GONNA TALK, AN’ YOU’RE GONNA LISTEN!”
Her cheeky enthusiasm was typical of Jon’s scheduled meetings. She punctuated her sentence by donking the cowbell a couple more times before taking a post next to Jon at the head of the room. The troupe sat cross-legged on the floor, looking up at them.
Robert wanted to groan, but said nothing. It’d been ages since a rehearsal had gone by without strange behaviour from the others. The “meetings”, for lack of a better word, had become far too frequent for comfort; they occurred before and after each rehearsal, and had gotten longer and longer. He knew this for a fact. He’d timed them.
He could recall a time when the director was actually the one in charge of the troupe.
Jon threw his robe around his shoulders, watching as the others did the same. Everything was going according to plan, until…
“Robert, why aren't you wearing your robe? You know better by now. Or at least, I thought you did.”
“I left it at home. I mean, uh, it’s not a big crucial prop for the show… it’s just a thing that you tell us to wear after the rehearsal… and if I have to be honest, uh, it chafes…” Robert uncrossed his legs, moving to stand up in one fluid procedure. Being a professional dancer afforded one a certain level of control over one’s body.
Jon sighed, shaking his head. “That doesn't matter. The meetings go better if we're all a part of them. Consider it... a team-building exercise.”
“It’s one day. We can do this without a fifty-cent robe made of tablecloth…”
If he had a choice in the matter, Robert would rather not do it at all. The willingness of the others to listen to Jon’s mad diatribes had escalated to a level he was extremely concerned about.
Jon snarled. His tone shifted slightly, and the air seemed to crackle with electricity around him. “Would you like to come home tonight, pally-wal? Would you like to sleep in your cozy-wozy wittle beddy-weddy?”
“Again with the voice…”
Rob’s phrase trailed off into the ether. He hated it when Jon broke out the Wiggly voice. Not only did it make him sound insane, it made him very hard to take seriously.
Well, hard to take seriously when it wasn’t accompanied by Jon baring his teeth.
“That’s the other thing… you’ve been getting home late, uh, so often, and I don’t know why, since we all leave at the same time. I don’t think that this routine is too good for your health…”
“What do you mean by that, friendy-wend? I get home at just the right time.”
“If I get home from rehearsal at eight, and you don’t get in until ten-thirty…”
“I would prefer it if you don't question what I'm doing. Is that clear?”
“You know what? No!” Robert awkwardly threw his hat on the ground. “You’re always telling me to be more like I am on stage when I’m at your meetings! If you want assertive Robert, you’re getting it! No, I will not ignore all the weird crap you’ve been doing! This is where I draw the line, and I don’t want to, uh, be part of this right now…”
“Ooh!” Angela closed her eyes and tilted her head, as if Rob’s refusal to listen to Jon’s orders looked like a particularly nasty scene in a Saw film.
Jon rose, a horrible rage in his eyes, worse than the typical play-anger that he gave his friends. A few green specks seemed to peek out past the blue.
“Angela, find some scrap fabric.”
His voice was strained. He tried to keep himself from strangling his roommate right then and there.
Angela smiled, and disappeared into the rear of the room, emerging with one of the fluffy sleeves from her own Sniggle costume. She handed it to Jon, giving an overexaggerated bow. “All yours, Wiggly.”
“He-he-he-HIC! He-he-he-HIC! He-he-he-HIIIIIC! Thank you, Angie-wangie!”
He took the fabric and blindfolded Robert.
“Today, you will learn your lesson. Anything you have to say?”
“I have been to Rocky Horror. There’s nothing you can do to me that’ll make me enthusiastically participate in your cult.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jon raised an arm, his fingertips unmanicured and filthy. He grinned widely, envisioning what he was about to do, letting the excitement bring his heartbeat to a gallop.
Robert couldn’t see anything, but he sure felt it when Jon touched him.
The mass that was undoubtedly Jon’s hand didn’t stop when it reached his chest. It moved all the way through his sternum, wobbling its fingers playfully, even though he knew nothing had broken the skin. Pain exploded through him, but Angela held him steady. Light burned behind his eyelids, damascening an uncountable number of spirals and stars and vaguely triangular blobs into his mind.
He tried to scream, but there wasn’t any air in his lungs to cry for help with.
“You can release him now. I can assure you, friends, that our rebel will, in fact, be joining us tomorrow.”
Angela let go of Robert, pulling the makeshift blindfold off his face. He began to squeal, scratching at the place Jon’s arm had entered him, trying in vain to stop the unnumbered sensations that crackled in his core.
He could have sworn that Jon’s teeth had narrowed to points. At this point, nothing was impossible. He knew for a fact that something was wrong with his roommate.
“Go home, if you can. I trust that you'll be joining us for tomorrow's meeting.”
Rob threw the door open, slamming it against the wall as he fled screaming like a headless chicken.
He was right that he was going to live up to the assertiveness of his roles. He'd just been a lot more of a Peter than a Hidgens that day.
October 31, 2019. First night of Black Friday performances.
Late. Robert hated being late. There'd been another road closure, and his GPS hadn't told him about it. He'd gotten his costume on, and the play was due to open in ten minutes.
As he pushed the door to the dressing room open, he was met with the utterly bizarre sight of a whole raw chicken hanging from the ceiling, still with turkey frills capping its legs. Angela stood next to it; the carcass had been doused in glitter, and she was in the process of hoisting it higher.
"Okay. Nope. No. Not doing this." He nervously waved at Angela, turning to leave. "I have no idea why there's a raw chicken backstage and I don't want to know. I do not want any part of this stuff tonight."
Angela's response was simple, as if the chicken disco ball was the most normal thing in the world. "Well, I couldn't find a live one, and Farmer Brown was the cheapest brand I could get!"
Jon walked over, cackling at what he was seeing. His eyes glistened in the light, wet and uncanny. The fluorescent bulbs changed his typical smile-and-dance act from comedic to intense.
“Perfect, Angela! Wiggly will be PLEASED with the sacrifice! E-HE-HE-HIC!”
Angela feverishly applauded like an electrocuted Barbie doll, the thick sleeves on her arms bouncing up and down.
Robert didn't know what to say.
"I'm... just gonna go now." These two were utter lunatics. Robert ran his fingers through his hair, emitting a deep sigh. He felt like an underpaid children's entertainer whenever he had his Sniggle costume on, and that was for one reason alone: it itched. A lot.
The house was packed. He thought he saw Joe Walker's face in the front row. He'd be on stage soon, and maybe then, they'd put all their ludicrous behaviour on hold.
Jon practiced his Wiggly voice a few times to make sure he had it right. It felt so weird doing it when he looked like Paul at the moment. But this was normal. He looked normal but seemed insane.
Was he, though? Was he crazy? He didn't think so. Maybe he'd always been. No, he was perfectly sane. His eye twitched, another headache hitting him. He was just stressed about the performance. That had to be it.
Opening night had come again, but this one would be stranger than the last.
October 31, 2019. About fifteen minutes after the beginning of act two.
Act one ended to applause. By the time the second act commenced, the crowd was frothing at the mouth for more entertainment.
After having to poorly pretend to make out with Jaime on top of the theatre balcony, Robert had just under four minutes to change his costume. He had to make them count.
Jon was more focused on a certain somebody than whether or not he would be on stage in time. He stood over Nick Lang himself, the veins on his hands bulging with a substance that wasn't quite blood. Nick's eyes were blank and empty, and he held a Wiggly doll close to his chest.
The comedian cackled excitedly at his own handiwork.
“Thaaaaat's better! Now I’M the one in charge! He-he-he-hic! He-he-he-hic! He-he-he-hiiiiiiiic!”
"J-Jon..."
A queer gurgling noise emerged from Nick's throat.
Robert ran. Jon, with his tie still firmly on his head, was definitely glowing. Jeff'd gone off stage already, but Jaime hadn't started talking. He had a couple of seconds before he needed to get to his mark, and he made them count.
Jon was prepared for anything. He scarcely noticed the changes in his psyche that had been happening over the past year. His comrade had no idea what he was in for.
October 31, 2019. On stage, twenty-six seconds before Frank Pricely’s death.
Robert Manion, the actor, had to do his job and act. It was opening night. He couldn't do much more than play along for now...
Lauren's box cutter.
He could take it from her when he went off stage to change again, and he could end this madness once and for all. He didn't want to hurt Jon, but he wasn't above hurting that stupid doll. Maybe then, things'd go back to normal. Maybe then... maybe then whatever Jon'd done to everyone, all the meetings he'd made them attend... everything would stop.
As Corey broke the blood capsule in his hand, Robert readied himself, and before he knew what he'd done, he had taken the weapon from Lauren's fist. He exited his scene at the appointed time, his little mission complete.
Jon’s body was on stage, and yet it was somehow also backstage, still watching over Nick. He knew something was coming. His cackling grew louder.
“You really want to stop me, friendy-wend?”
"Needs must..." Rob’s hands shook, raising the item, switching off the safety Lauren had turned on, extending the blade.
"Jon, just... uh, walk aside... I just want to deal with Wiggly..."
“He-he-he-HIC! Why would you want to do that? I thought we were pally-wals!"
"Please move, Jon... please."
“I think you'll have to make me.”
Robert tiptoed closer. "Really, Jon. Just stop this. There's something wrong with you. Your eyes are glowing."
Jon finally stepped to the left, crudely beckoning his friend to advance.
“You can try, but you can't stop Wiggly, and you can't stop me.”
Robert leaned over Nick's comatose body. He pulled at the doll in the man's arms, but it didn't budge; his grip was tight. He wasn't waking up, and he wasn't moving at all.
"Oh, god..."
The box cutter plunged into the doll's face, roughly cutting the right side of its head open from top to bottom. It felt like stabbing a soggy, bloated piece of roadkill, and a most horrific scratching sound broke the silence of the room, like a balloon being twisted into a microphone.
A horrific pain overwhelmed Jon. His head hurt worse than ever, and he could feel his vision blur as Robert exposed the doll’s insides.
“What the FUCK have you DONE? You will PAY for this, you fool!”
Robert turned around to confront Jon, and screamed, the box cutter clattering to the floor of the theatre. "OH MY GOD."
Jon’s face had been split, a mirror image of the wounds inflicted upon Nick’s plush. Yellowed, aged pillow-stuffing spilled from the fault, his skin loose around it. He snarled, fangs bared, as his hands glowed a vibrant emerald. Each word was a spit.
“You're dead to me, Robert Manion. Let's see if the dead can still act.”
Robert's vision swam with black, misty haze. He hadn't gotten into his costume yet. He was late. He should have gotten into it ages ago, but circumstances had changed.
There was a sudden twitch. He went to move his hand, but it didn't want to listen to him. As his head snapped back, twisting on its own, he felt something inside his psyche shift laterally, forcibly making room for an unknown, shapeless mass, moist and chaotic.
“If you thought your acting was good before, it'll be even better now, since it's not an act anymore. Get into your costume, quickly now. You'll be missing your cue soon enough.”
One second Robert was backstage, and the next he was up on the balcony again, his sense of time melting to null. Someone else had the reins now, holding him upright, choreographing his every moment.
Kendall. Oh, god. There she was. Right there, in the centre of the stage, and she didn't know.
Jon’s smile grew wider, his grip on the man's psyche tightening.
“Yessssss. Scare the shit out of her. Make her cower before you. Feel the guilt of what you're doing. Maybe then you'll learn your lesson.”
Rob couldn't control his own expression, his own body, his own throat. Jon was making him do it. Jon was performing for him, and Robert had no doubt in his mind that his costar was no longer the man he knew.
The ichor-slick hole in his thoughts exploded with malice, and the spotlight's glow hit him right in the face. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. He could only speak, and the words were not his. The speech was carefully scripted, running through every goalpost it was supposed to pass by, but there was far more aggression in it now. Far more... wrath. It was true, that the monster backstage had once been human, but that had changed the moment the Lords saw he was ready. And he was finally going to bring down his frieenemy.
Angela stepped out of a side room behind him, looking down at Nick's body. "Well, thank Wiggly that's over. You need anything before you start narrating, Jon? Coffee?"
He turned to Angela. “A bandage would be nice, thank you. I have to patch up this injury.”
"Oh! Oh, yeah, I'm such a ditz. I thought that was part of your clothes since you weren't bleeding or anything." She ran to the dressing room, unfazed by the state of him, and came out with a sewing repair kit. "This'll probably be a lot better than a bandage for a gash that big."
“Would you care to do the sewing for me? I trust your hand.”
"Yeah, I don't mind. Y'know, that voice is growing on me." She removed a spool and a darning needle from the box, and drew closer to Jon. "Is it gonna be tonight? Are we gonna do the summoning tonight?"
“Closing night. I need to make sure that the stupid son of a bitch isn't rebelling anymore. Then, and only then, will the summoning work.”
"You've got him right where you want him. A couple more minutes with you in his head and he's never gonna try to be the protagonist again."
“I hope so, Angela. I certainly hope so. This has gone on long enough.”
“And then we get to celebrate with cake?”
Jon chuckled a bit.
“Perhaps. Or the typical closing night celebration at Denny's.”
"Don't get the corned beef hash. That stuff is grody, man."
He giggled again as his cue came. As Angela continued sewing shut his wound, he narrated with abandon. With each line, his headache grew worse. Something was wrong in his skull, his typical migraines digging deeper. His nails grew out into sharp, jagged claws, fingers merging together until he had three on each hand. His eyes glowed brighter. Yes, he was almost completely gone.
Angela gave a thumbs-up to Jon, cutting the end of the thread with a little pair of safety scissors. She wasn't gonna be on stage for a while, but she still wanted to get herself ready.
What remained of the wound faded immediately. He didn't want anybody else to see what had happened, but in a way, he wished it was still there. He’d won the war; he deserved a battle scar.
"Give 'em hell, Johnny."
Angela gave him a brief salute before disappearing into the dressing room.
December 8, 2019. Final night of Black Friday performances.
Jon stood backstage, paint splattered around him in something resembling a pentagram. The colors were strange, a mix of whatever pigment was left back there from props and other shows that had graced the Hudson Theater. He only hoped Wiggly would forgive that minor flaw.
The others were all onstage for the finale. So too was his double, acting as though nothing was unusual. The group number, thankfully, gave him the time he needed to do his job without interference. Not from Robert, not from Kendall, not from anyone. Not even Angela. He felt something akin to guilt at leaving his most devoted follower out of the loop, but he had to do this on his own. A small part of him, the last soft, mortal piece of his thoughts, was afraid she would be hurt by whatever was to come. And so he prepared to do the summoning alone.
He had only just finished wracking his mind to come up with the necessary procedures for the ritual when he saw him. A clearly inebriated man, very lost, had stumbled backstage, feeling around on the walls.
This guy was clearly a very big StarKid fan, judging by his obviously homemade Professor Hidgens costume, and he smelled like a butt. His hair drooped over his eyes, his hands shook, and as he repeatedly knocked at the brickwork, he began to groan like an animal. He didn't notice Jon, but Jon certainly noticed him.
“He-he-he-HIC! Hello, friendy-wend!”
The drunkard looked up immediately at the voice, alarm sending him stumbling back. That familiar sound made his blood run cold.
“You…”
“I’m so happy I get to say goodbye to you! Wiggly will come more willingly if I have fresh blood for him!” Jon raised his hand, snapping the drunkard’s neck without laying a hand on his body. If the police ever did find the deceased, which they wouldn’t, there would be no evidence he was behind the murder. He could always blame it on the alcohol.
With that out of the way, he invoked the name of Wiggog Y'Wrath in quiet whispers, repeating it several times over. At first, it seemed as though nothing had happened. Then he felt it, a stirring, a tugging at his very soul.
It was in that moment that he realized what had been happening to him. His complete ignorance faded like a rising curtain. The headaches were never mere headaches. The meetings weren’t an excuse to do team-building exercises.
This whole time, Jon Matteson, the man, had been becoming Wiggog Y'Wrath, the god.
He cackled wildly, thrilled that he himself had been chosen as the vessel. His voice rung out into the theater as he fell to his knees, permitting the appendages to break through his skin, permitting his eyes to saturate to a bright ulfire, permitting himself to change until he could not be described as human by even the most oblivious onlooker.
Jon’s laughter echoed through the Hudson Mainstage's walls for the rest of the night.