He had a plan. To what purpose? To what greater good? In Axl we trusted.
⚠️WARNINGS: Sex, Drugs, Violence, Profanity,
Explosions - you name it, it is in here
*Mature audiences only, please*
-Soundtrack: "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane.
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•PRESENT (90s Seattle)- Friday night
*Kurt's POV
I make napalm and blow up my condo.
Don't ask. I don't even remember doing it, but what is left of the bathtub looks like it's been through an atomic explosion. I have a receipt in my pocket for enough cat litter to supply an animal shelter and there are five empty fuel tanks in the back of my car.
More than enough of both to gut a house.
More than enough to blast my Ethan Allen couch clear across the street and litter tiny shards of my dishes across the lawn. More than enough to sink slivers of my coffee table into the porch railings and launch my Henkle Harris dining room set high enough that half of it landed in the trees.
I tell the police that it was the pilot light, the temperamental flame that regularly blows out and fills the house with gas all day long while I'm at work. The refrigerator must have kicked on.
I guess these things just happen...
They don't fucking believe me.
💢
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This is how I meet Axl.
In jail.
💢
Every visit to this place is predictable. Same rotten, pissing drunks. Same crusted, catcalling girls. Same dismal fluorescent lighting that gives everything hepatitis. They toss me into a cell with another guy and my one-free-phone-call has been wasted on my good-for-nothing lawyer. It's probably best that I never sleep anyway, because I sure didn't plan on doing any of that here.
"Hey man." A guy slouched against the wall nods at me. "Whatcha' in for?"
"I think I blew up my condo." All the hair on my arms is singed and the back of my throat tastes like the tailpipe of a shitty old car.
"You think?" he laughs. "That's the kind of thing you probably know for sure, or not."
"I don't remember. I haven't been sleeping and I have this problem."
"A girl." he smirks and winks at me like I have her goddamn name carved across my forehead. A flashing neon sign.
