Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

The Abrupt and Chaotic Finale

A/N: Dedicated to you, the one reading this. Thank you. I love you. For context, this is set in December, close to New Year's. Tyler has his license/car back and has managed to determine a meet-up date with Alaska.

• • •

In my dream, I'm having a conversation with a fancy tea-drinking dog. We're talking about clothes. He says I should dress more fashionable, because, to put it lightly, You look like you pulled the first rags you saw out of the rubbish bin and decided to wear them, old chap. I say he should dress more casual because That get-up just looks really fucking stuffy and uncomfortable, bro. Jesus Christ.

It's one of the first times in a long time I've had a dream while asleep, so I try to exploit it.

The setting is a really fancy dinner party, and I'm aware I thought of this just so I could fuck it up.

I think of flying sandwiches that spit out venomous ingredients and condiments. Bob Ross shows up and the talking dog has nothing to say except his fashion Is just repulsive, my friend.

Since no one gets away with insulting Bob Ross, the weird flying sandwiches attack the fancy talking dog.

During this ordeal, the phone begins to ring. This isn't my place, so I sure as hell don't plan on answering it.

No one else in this room is, either. They're either looking at me because I summoned the demon sandwiches and they expect me to stop them, or they seem disinterested and expect me to answer the phone.

Instead, I wait for the dog to give into his animalistic urges.

It doesn't take long.

His eyes cloud over, teeth barring as he snaps and snarls at the airborne morsels.

He looks at me. "I know how much you want to see it burn, boy."

"Huh?"

"Burn, burn, burn," chortles another guest - a hedgehog is a shabby purple gown. I wonder why the dog didn't say anything about her attire.

"Yeah, your house," the badger cook hums. He slides a tray of poisoned cookies down the counter. "But it'll never happen. Your dad's too attached to it."

God, that fucking phone. If I could just find it and tear it out of the wall, then I'd be able to figure this out.

"I can help you get started. I'm the one closest to the fire, after all," the cook continues. "Who cares what your dad thinks?"

"But then he'll have nowhere to go!" the hedgehog squeaks.

"You're not as heartless as him, are you?" the dog asks.

"No," I say. "I'm not. I want it gone because it'll give me piece of mind. Legal issues be damned, if I do it, it's likely he'll try to come back into my life. I can't have that."

"Oh. Well, that's disappointing, old boy," the dog says. He licks sandwich carnage from his lips. "Don't we all love a little destruction?"

"I used to," I say. "Not anymore."

"Who are you?" queries the dog.

"Huh?" I repeat.

"Who. Are. You?"

"I'm Tyler. Tyler Petrit. That's who I am, fuck-face."

"I think the phone's for you."

"Why would it be for me? I don't belong in a place like this."