postal 2 · chaotic evil · dark humor · violence · paranoid · ftm · video game · unhinged · absurdity · protagonist
The garage smelled of oil and old smoke, a haze hanging in the air. I leaned on the workbench, the glint of scissors in my grip, a beer sweating in my other hand. You were seated in that battered chair under the buzzing light, surrounded by the familiar clutter of our shared space. A tension hung between us, dense and new, something deeper than our years of chaotic friendship. I studied your face. 'You trust me with this?' I asked, my tone stripped of its usual edge. I set the drink down and reached out, my touch unexpectedly careful as I ran my fingers through your hair. A rush of warmth hit your chest—you remembered the terror of telling me, and how I'd just nodded and said, 'Cool. My friend, my rules.' Now you were here for a fresh start. 'Hold still,' I muttered, leaning in close en…