Life is effort and I'll stop when I DIE!

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      〝…Minty?〞  Vox’s expression sours, appalled―  𝗝𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗦𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗹𝗮𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱’𝘀 𝗗𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗮𝗻!  〝What? Mint is for green. Mint is a green thing. Not blue. You could’ve said… fuck, I don’t know, blueberries? Mint??〞  He looks away from Jerry, then back, like the double take will bring some clarity to the bullshit he’s been served; no such luck, because the idea of blue being minty is still there, and it’s like a knife twisted in his gut to know he’ll never be able to taste and confirm it for himself.

      Ah, he can’t lost focus. Think. He waves off his own offence, slipping easily back into his sleazy smile, scooting closer when the conversation switches gears.  〝Woah-ho, now, that’s a lot to digest― before I decide anything, how about you tell me about this family of yours? You have a wife, and a…〞  His eyebrows furrow.  〝…Space. Version. Of your wife. Tell me about that, Jerry.〞

      Now, Vox looks around the room with a different purpose. There’s a chance this man could be one of those types destined for the crazy ward, a lonely suburban man living out his fantasy of being a lonely suburban father in an otherwise empty home. It’s a lived-in living room, but it could all be prop-setting for his helpless delusions. Oh God, if he’s crazy, that’d be fucking perfect!! Could he convince him to kill himself? Would that pull him down to Hell?

      He looks Jerry up and down, then grimaces. Na-da. Way too vanilla for Hell. 

But it's promptly brushed off. Moved on. This isn't the first time he's dealt with volatile personalities. Appeasement is the key here, and as long as he's not being threatened, that's good enough for him. Compliance is survival!

"M-m-my wife. Yes. Beth. Space Beth! That's what I call them. But no one knows which one of them is the clone, so if you talk to her, uh... Don't call either one a clone. They get really mad if you do that! I have two wives--well, technically the same wife, and two kids. Morty and Summer. And then, uh... My father-in-law is a crazy scientist inventor like I told you who creates all sorts of wacky gizmos and gadgets!"

Was that satisfactory enough? Can he go now? Oh, he HATES it here right now. Where is his Beths?! Where is Rick?!

He just needs to buy time. That's it. Yes. That'll work, Jerry! Placate him until help comes.

damn😭😭😭😭

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      𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗶𝘁, 𝗝𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗦𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗵, 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.  Customers love what they know, almost as much as they love what they don’t— but, cowards that they are, they’re so afraid of a little change, a little spice; anything more à la mode than what they’re used to. They’re like pigeons, too, taking any stick they can to build up their houses made of a dirty string and one outdated penny. Jerry’s scared. A big, rectangular-headed delight has stepped into his living room and has plans to offer him a change-up of biblical  [and profitable]  proportions. Vox can see it clear:  he only needs a dash more coaxing.

      His posture straightens up fully against the cushion of the suburban couch, and he hangs one knee over the other, shoulders pinched just so to give the length of his arms a stiff prowess where they rest his palms over his heightened knee.  [An esteemed scientist, and he works in a garage? I know every entrepreneur will tell you that big things start small, but it doesn’t have to be that way anymore. How about an office, Jerry? How about a job?]  He drums his fingers and lets his eyes jitterbug around the room, landing back on Jerry seconds later like he’d forgotten his importance; and then, there it is, back again! Jerry is the world. Vox’s eyes shower him like a maintenance room's low red light.

      〝Yeah? A device that lets you taste colors? Well, ha, now I have to ask—〞 He drops his heads weight to one corner edge, tilted and watching.  〝What does blue taste like?〞

Jerry expected it to be something familiar like the standard candies. Sometimes thing are just boring and plain! He remembered Rick being disappointed at what he tasted and then blaming it on being this dimension. It already was a bit weird with how people said 'parmesan'.

"It's been a while, but that's what I can recall. It was refreshing. Rick said he tasted salt and seawater. So maybe it's different based on the individual?"

Oh, why was this guy looking at him like that? He didn't like it. He didn't care for the way it felt like an apex predator was staring him down. But then again, maybe it was the red eyes. They were a little uncomfortable by default. It made him look like he was mad at him! And he didn't even do anything!

Silence befalls them for a short time. At least, short enough for Jerry to voice his next set of concerns.

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    Jerry Smith? Are you kidding?  (Is that the Jerry Smith?!)—  that's a sentence no one has ever said, or thought, or begun to think. A character name is to be delivered with purpose and careful practice.  Vox, derived from Vox Populi; the opinions of the most, the word of the masses.  They reflect a character’s intentions, or their conduct.  Valentino, an Italian-given name to a man of the movies to be handsome and desirable, and unendingly so.  And while real life doesn’t ask of that kind of bluster when you name your child, Vox can’t imagine Jerry Smith’s parents were awfully creative people. He can’t imagine Jerry Smith is an awfully creative man. It’s as if he were hand-made in a lab to give Vox his jollies!

    〝Don’t worry,”  he drawls out the y, head sliding to the left until the syllable stops and he rights it,  〝I’m not here to harm anyone. Do I look like the kind of guy to hurt a guy like you?〞  He lets his hand drop, taking no offence. It’s not like he wanted Jerry Smith’s milquetoast germs anyways; they’d mingle with his own and turn them into deskworkers. He takes a seat on the couch, bringing his head more level to Jerry’s own. His screen turns wholly to face him, while his hands rest on his knees, touched together and shoes dug into the carpet.

The television head man that has the sharp sharklike teeth with the professional tone of the men that he'd worked with in his previous office job brings an air of conflict--two distinctly contrasting things. One brings comfort on the basis of what he knows, the other alien and unfamiliar. It's disarming enough that it allows the man to realize that he's not immediately being jumped at or attacked as sensibility sets in.

"S-scientist, yes. He invents all sorts of things. Just the other day he invented a device that lets you taste colors."

Turns out that orange did NOT in fact, taste like orange. And purple, didn't taste like grape!!! Quite disappointing. It tasted bitter and terrible actually!

Golly, this guy is tall. He has about, what, a foot over him? Definitely a little over it, Jerry reckons. Slowly, the nervous energy from the man twists more into confusion and fascination. Awe might not be the right word, but the factor intimidation still has him rightfully nervous around the edges of his thoughts.

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    The rims of his eyes breed lines of disgusted intrigue, like discovering a wad of gum’s attached itself to your shoe. Then, there’s a second of delight; Vox understands what the man in front of him is. A wet blanket. A blanket so thoroughly wet that it’ll never be dry again. Crying out for someone to save him, and if that someone isn’t Vox, then he’ll be wasting his time. Vox’s spine cracks as he leans down, any embankment holding back his interest sloughing down into a bubbling, swirling sea of marketing.

    His first trip back to ol’ topside, and it’s served him up fine dining! He can only imagine that the universe knows the formula, the magic behind movies, and wouldn’t dare offer him someone exciting enough to see past the pretty adverts.

This guy hasn't attacked him yet. At least. As Jerry stands on the furniture clearly meant for his butt to be on instead of his feet, he remains like a deer in headlights, ready to professionally flee at a moment's notice should he go the extra mile to scream and cry for help that clearly has not heard him yet.

Why does this guy have such sharp teeth? He's so horrifying! He was just in the television a second ago, now he's out of it! Those claws--they look so painful and ... pokey!

Unfortunately, Vox's terrifying visage does little to instill confidence on his safety. Feelings didn't always ride on the coattails of rationale.

Self preservation comes first. Cowardly or not, it's kept him alive this far.

"Jerry.. M-My name's Jerry Smith."

"A monster?!" Valentino barked, the word snapping back out of him louder than he intended. His stride faltered. Not because Jerry had told him to stop, but because sheer shock at the audacity made him freeze. "Bitch, you wanna see a fucking monster, I'll--!!" He bit the words off, jaw tightening so hard it almost ached. The string of venom sat hot and bitter on his tongue, burning for release. He knew he could do it. Five seconds of sizing this guy up had already given him all the ammunition he'd need to shred what little self-esteem he was clinging to.

But he swallowed it back, and the restraint stung worse than any insult ever could. This was Rick's family. And Valentino, for once, wanted to play nice. Even if every inch of him screamed otherwise. Even if he was ninety-nine percent sure this was the idiot son-in-law he'd already heard about.

Jerry remains nearly shrinking away from the tall man who stands at least a steady seven feet tall at minimum. But then Valentino relaxes, which leaves Jerry in less of a fight or flight mode, but fear still dances within the pits of his gut keeping him on his toes if need be. He was a professional at bobbing and weaving these days--being in this household promised the development of that skill.

Maybe the innuendo and nasty words would have held weight if he weren't still locked on the very sight of the man before him. Multiple arms. An antennae, and one that was broken. Insectoid appearance.

"Rick really has a type for bugs, huh?" Jerry asks, still keeping on the other end of the room as he verbalizes his inner thoughts to no one in particular but himself. But once he realizes he said it out loud, he course corrects. "N-not that that's bad! Just ... Surprised! Considering... who he was dating a few months ago."

Another second of realization.

Valentino jumped slightly when Jerry called out for his wife. He was realizing a beat too late what Jerry was seeing. He was not just some guy in the kitchen, but a tall, sharp-smiled moth demon with faintly glowing eyes and antennae that twitched lazily in the dim light. He was finally thankful that Rick had made him about six feet, because he could only imagine the reaction at his natural, looming eleven.

Oh. No. Now this guy is coming CLOSER? No, Jerry does NOT like that, and now he's making an effort to take some steps BACK in response, to the point where he doesn't look where he's stepping, which is right against the kitchen counter. Horrified, and now backed up against a figurative half corner, he proceeds to do the next logical thing--

Throwing himself over the counter and clumsily crawling over it to land on the other side, closer to the kitchen table and chairs.

"Your MAN?! You’re dating RICK?! He didn't even tell any of us! Good LORD! Y-you're a... You're a MONSTER! Why didn't he alert the house?!"

Should Valentino try to come any closer, Jerry holds a hand up.

"Stay right over there! Don't come any closer! You're fine RIGHT where you are!"

His expression is nothing short of horrified throughout the darkness of the household, his features barely lit up. But he could sure as hell see Valentino's eyes shining through it.

Jerry's going through it, running his hand through his hair, holding back some distressed whimpers as he goes through the five stages of grief within seconds.

It was well past midnight when Valentino padded barefoot into the Smiths' kitchen, the house dark except for the soft yellow spill of the fridge light. Rick had grumbled about being hungry in that fucked-out half-asleep stage he was in after hours of being entangled in one another. He rummaged through unfamiliar cabinets, trying to piece together something edible with what the Smith household had on hand. Bread, some deli meat, a jar of pickles. Not exactly fine dining, but it'd do.

He'd just started slicing the pickles when he heard footsteps. Turning, he found Jerry in the doorway, hair messy, pajama shirt buttoned crooked. "Oh uh… hey," Valentino said, voice awkwardly unsure. "Hopefully I didn't wake you up? Ricky's hungry, so..." he said simply, going back to his slicing. Small talk was never his specialty.

Leaving the man of the house, Jerry Smith, to come to the conclusion of either two things.

One, this is Rick's boyfriend. Or two, Rick is going against the established rules and thought he was slick.

That doesn't stop the man from gawking, though, because this late at night, seeing something that looks akin to a MONSTER? In his HOUSE?

He's a little scared!

"H-holy shit. BETH! BEEEEEEETH!!!!"

“Oh, great, yeah... Because my daughter’s sexual life is exactly the kind of useless trivia I woke up craving today.” Sarcasm.

“What? No, I’m golden. Unless you feel like handing over the passcode to his little cryptic man-cave under your garage? You know the one.”