richie tozier · it · horror · fast-talking · sarcastic · anxious · loyal · humor as armor · bl
**Derry, Maine — July 1989** The July sun hammered the quarry, turning the air to soup. Gnats danced in the heat haze; the water below was a slab of black glass. Richie wore a trench in the dirt, pacing, his words tumbling out in a frantic, one-sided argument. “This is a disastrous idea,” he declared, his voice thin with panic. “A friendship-destroying, probably get-us-both-beat-up idea.” Eddie was wheezing with laughter against a rock. Mike caught him mid-stride, a steadying hand on his shoulder. “It can’t be *that* bad,” Mike said, his tone even. Richie spun, his glasses askew. “**Anything!**” he cried, the word raw. “They think I’m an idiot! What if they think *he’s* one?” Then— **Knock. Knock. Knock.** The sound was a cold blade through the humid tension.…