a pretty private telling of johnny sawyer, unfortunately written by scout.
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@dogsm4w
a pretty private telling of johnny sawyer, unfortunately written by scout.

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i feel like i've mentioned it before, at least during yapping if not on the dash, but it's been really really hot here in texas lately, but with that sweltering sort of promise of rain. it's been rainy, but during the day it's hot as hell. and i just think... that blistering heat and suffocating feeling of thick air right before rain is johnny coded. he is NOT the relief of rain. he is not the cool touch of rain after the pavement is so cooked you can see the heat waves come off of it. no, he's that swelling heat and that feeling of pressure and that something is coming around the corner, but you might not get to see it. remembered when we talked about our blorbos as types of weather and well, gestures
and it's funny bc i associate him with cold and freezing and things not associated with fire, but i do think sweltering texas weather like pre-rain bloat but with no payoff also is just... up his alley.
sometimes i like to think about what a vague "relaxing sunday" vibed day would be like for johnny and it would consists of a lot of tinkering out on cars with the radio playing and with some ice cold beers and then cinematic cutscene to him a few hours later when he's restless and violent and down in the cold room butchering up someone that he had killed friday night (and left down there until sunday) when he went out bar hopping. you know how it goes
visual rep of my brain tbh
playing a game right now where the guy who runs the graveyard extracts flesh to make food out of for the village (and they don't know what they're eating ofc) and i'm like... oh, so the sawyer family and bones at the graveyard.... extracting meat but then also burying the evidence bc graveyard. cwazy....

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easter with the sawyers, the people you'd expect least likely to have some sort of tradition, but it's nancy dressed up and going to church and taking her sweet boy johnny with her and they get the town of newt all gathered up for a town barbecue where yes, cook has cooked people and the town participates in this and loves his food. and the sawyers are sort of this weird staple of the town. you can see law enforcement there, telling nancy they took care of that pesky problem for her. you can see random families there. when the vibe is very much that this family has roots in this town and people respect that and don't question much when they hear weird things about this family bc maybe it's better not to question it.
honestly, indulging in the desire to pick up this foul man as a muse has been one of the best decisions
on the flipside, this piece of shit has a 60s ford truck and ofc it's red. but it is Not this pretty painted either and i think it's got a bunch of parts he's taken from the junkyard that is nancy's house. also definitely think this truck was stolen from someone that he killed but he swapped out the plates on it so it's not like it can be tracked down. it likely was originally a different color and he painted it himself to be red so it's even further removed from "evidence" and possibility of being found. i don't think the truck is from a victim too close to the newt area bc that's stupid even by his reckless standards, but i do think it was from one of the many other incidents the family had to help him clean up.
it was hot muggy here today. high heat and then humid bc it was sprinkling on and off, but never enough to really release that tension. and i was thinking about johnny working in this kind of weather. like out on a field doing some hay baling or at the gas station, working on cars, and doing the whole wiping sweat with his forearm sort of thing. such a mundane image / scene, but it's the texas boy out in the muggy texas heat aesthetic of it all. like real blue collar working sort, where you don't realize he's a batshit serial killer. also thinking about him doing perimeter checks on the properties in this sort of heat, clearing out dead animals in traps... thinking about how gross hot some of those basements are. like i feel like slaughterhouse is reaaaaally bad. the mill is probably bad too because they're so out in the open / beating sun and they're not functioning properties anymore (for Real purposes) so there's no air sources or anything. it's gotta be suffocating down there vs other properties that feel cold and very vast.

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no body: me: while i'm pinning stuff for this horrible beast of a man, i realize there's not always a lot of Serious introspection sort of things. it's a lot of visuals and text posts are usually shitpost worthy. and i think it's interesting becaaaaause, johnny himself is a very visual and visceral person. he doesn't do a lot of sitting and dwelling in his thoughts. he doesn't sit with his Feelings about things. yes, he's human and he has them, but it's easy for him to drown things out with killing, sex, drugs, alcohol. and it's not like he's using those to cope, because it's not that. it's just that he is SOOO animal brain coded / animal instinct / feral impulse.... things like heavy introspection and self reflection just aren't in his cards and he often wouldn't know how to articulate things like putting how he feels into words. the visuals i have for him are soooo distinct that i feel like they tell a story in and of themselves sometimes. you can gather who he is as a person based on a collage of images more than a string of words. ( i say as i yap about him but listen- )
Johnny Sawyer from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre: The Game
gonna drop a little smth about the properties down before i forget the cooking behind it, but some of them have connected basements. not all of them are connected to one another though.
nancy's house and the family house are close enough distance to one another (i definitely don't think you can see the other one if you just step outside one of the yards onto the road, but they're close enough that by car it would seem pretty fast) and there's a scary network of basement connecting them.
slaughterhouse and the gas station are connected in similar fashion. gas station is still functioning, but i do think slaughterhouse just more recently went out of commission as a Public place of business. it is definitely a property that was used a lot more when grandpa was up and running around bc it's easy to hide tons of murders in a place where cows are butchered. no one looks twice at the blood and murder instruments.
the mill is by itself, and i've been toying with the idea that there are Dogs on the property to help keep it Secure since it's the one that is farthest out. johnny gets sent out there to do property checks and perimeter checks frequently enough.
the graveyard is also by itself and isn't technically sawyer owned either. that's more of a bones extension anyway and i think Mostly the graveyard is utilized to dump / bury body parts that aren't consumed once they're collected on the other properties. i do think it's very very very abandoned though and "city owned" but the city is in fact the tiny town and so the ancient been there forever families sort of have more say where the law is involved than the actual law.
@dogsm4w said: "hey, pretty boy. ya miss me?" and he's all teeth as he leans in, whiskey on his breath. blood beneath his nails. his grin looking sharper if only because of the flickering light from above, the rest of his features are cast in jagged shadows. brown eyes somehow darker, blown wide pupils, he shrugs out of his leather jacket, throwing it aside without a second thought. the tip of a knife, old and reliable, gleams as he brings it out from where it usually sits tucked at his back. / sets this here and it can be at any point.... early on in basement or like maybe right when he's brought up to the shack. whatever speaks to you (:
this hurts.
leland's shoulders ache and cramp from the prolonged strain of being strung up like carved meat. he can only guess it's on purpose, that his toes barely touch the dirt floor. that sheer exhaustion forces his dead weight onto his wrists when he can't keep himself up. no matter how he twists and struggles — nothing helps. fresh wounds flare on his back. the now filthy shirt he'd come here in clings painfully to his skin. he can't feel his fingers when he flexes them, trying to coax blood back into them.
he lets out a low whine at nothing. but he tries not to cry, anymore. out of frustration, out of pain. out of something stupid. like loneliness. anyway, there's nothing to look at, in the dark. his unfocused gaze hangs on dust particles, and the faint slots of light through the cell door. his company is his own ragged breathing, and the rats in the walls. the occasional phantom sound from elsewhere in the basement.
it's just so cold. the rusted metal pipe above his head radiates a consistent chill, and sometimes it rattles — for hours. the basement air steals away any warmth he manages to generate. makes his skin prickle — like it's so cold he's burning up. feverish. his head feels hot. but he knows his teeth haven't stopped chattering. it felt a little like when he got sick as a kid, and his mom kept him home from school.
but, he's not home, now. and the only one that bothered to take care of him down here, sometimes, was that man with the horrible mask. and johnny — when he felt like it. the big guy communicated mostly by mumbling and gesturing, leland had noticed. and he had been weirdly gentle, when he had first stitched leland's wounds closed.
after johnny had thrown him in here barely alive. after the graveyard.
not that he seemed interested in letting leland die, either. at least, not yet. the more he started to understand about the man — his schedule, his habits, the sounds of his footfalls — the more insane leland felt.
mostly, johnny comes in here to hurt him. slices him up with that skinning knife, taunts him. sometimes he likes to use him as an ashtray for his cigarettes. usually leaves him something awful looking to eat. then, like today — sometimes forgets him altogether. like a chained up dog.
it's a cycle he's gotten used to, though. johnny disappears, and leland waits for him to bring the light back in.
leland doesn't know how long he's been gone, this time. a day, a couple hours. everything passed so slowly in this room. he feels worse than ever. weaker, sicker. god — he used to be strong enough to fight back. he used to have it in him to escape this fucking prison. and now he just waits here. for something. to be acknowledged, to be tormented and left alone again.
leland's thoughts list faintly; maybe he found another victim he liked torturing more than you. he doesn't know why the thought makes him sadder.
you'll die, soon, anyway. of starvation, or infection, or the cold, damp air seeping through the walls. your body will go quiet, and still. didn't you want that, at one point? didn't you want to —
— he startles as the door creak on its hinges. the dim bulb above comes on. flickers, flickers over his head. like the colour blurs dancing on the edges of his vision. room is washed in dim, nauseating yellow. leland barely lifts his head, squinting in the sudden sting of light, even as the scuffing of the man's boots grows nearer.
" hey, pretty boy. ya miss me? "
leland wants to grimace. but he doesn't bother to flinch when he feels johnny's hot breath against his cheek. when the man presses into his space smelling like dirt and blood and stale liquor. comes close like an animal nosing around roadkill. he feels like roadkill. and he wishes he had the strength to pull away. but he's so freezing. and he's so tired. and he doesn't want to play the part, today.
he doesn't want to be brave, anymore. he wants his mom. he wants a warm bed. he wants to sleep. what had fighting ever gotten him, anyway?
leland feels his eyes stinging, again. dried blood on cracked lips, and a failed vocalization is all that comes out of him, at first. his laboured breath puffs out in a weak vapour.
he tries again.
❝ what... are you gonna do, this time? ❞ there's a certain defeat in his rasp. a simultaneous deadening of his nerves, while his body trembles uncontrollably like the caught prey he is. pain-glazed eyes flutter, trying to track johnny’s features. catching on the scar, and the sharp cut of the shadows against his brow. there's a heat radiating from him that had been absent in this room before. something both menacing, and oddly comforting. warm. real, in the darkness. delirious, leland thinks he would take the cigarette ember against his skin, or a punch in the gut, now, just to have something save him from the cold.
it was moths, that gravitated to flames, right?
❝ please. ❞ he offers, thinly. a crack in his voice. a cough. unsure of what exactly he was begging for, this time. leland tries to lift his head slightly, feeling a wave of awful pin-prickles down his arms as he adjusts. his eyes want to squeeze closed again, the light hurts. but he forces himself to look up at the man properly. he swallows the lump in his throat.
❝ m - my arms. ❞ he tries to flex his hands, where they're bound tightly above his head, to elaborate. no doubt going a horrible bloodless colour where they lack circulation. ❝ can you. let me down? j - just for a little? ❞
spending too much time in the basement is a detriment to what he's trying to do. what he's trying to achieve. undeniably, nothing has gone smoothly since his impulse decision to chase the girl in the field and bring her home. it was meant to be just her. just the wide-eyed girl who ventured a little too far from the path in hopes of chasing a bunny or some flowers and stupidly ended up right where he wanted her. he had no plan of what to do with her. no instinct outside of maim, murder, kill. but before any of that could've been sorted, the rest of her little friends had shown up and now he's still reaping the consequences of them all getting away. well, almost all. all save for one. one, that he's tucked away in the basement, clinging to the life that johnny won't let him end. fighting him out in the graveyard, cold waters rising above them, their blood mingling as they shared blow for blow, cut for cut, punch for punch - out there, johnny had wanted him dead. but here, brought away from the tombs and grave dirt, brought away from any chance of real salvation, here... he isn't allowed to die. not yet, anyway. maybe not ever.
it's almost two days before johnny can make it back down to see him again. a little longer than intended because nancy's keen eye has been a little too watchful and the old man has made demands of him that he obliges if only to buy himself the privacy and the time for this. this, here. him cracking open the door fully expecting the gnashing teeth and the snarling dog caught on a leash, maybe even gnawed through its own paw.
but that isn't the image that greets him.
that isn't the strong protective jock, ready to die for his friends.
he's a shadow of his former self.
a ghost.
another to add to the many that crawl and sift through the damp halls carved out in this basement. his body would look pretty propped up on the mattress that sits on the floor now, just out of reach of the tips of his toes. stained and springs exposed and hardly comfortable.
under the harsh yellows, the college boy is looking a little gaunt. dark shadows beneath dark eyes and his teeth chatter against his lips that look like they're raw from the cold, from neglect, from the passing of his own teeth as time cleaves chunks from his resolve. something awfully close to concern knits itself in a thin veil across johnny's jaw. what use is he if he's sick and frail and clinging to death now anyway?
his voice is rough. rough and barely there, strained, johnny nearly misses it, too. a sound absorbed into the walls of this little makeshift cell. the boy who was so bright and so big has already begun to deteriorate and there's equal parts amusement and discontent that tug at the center of johnny's chest because of this revelation.
"well shit," he finally speaks, not bothering to unfurl the furrow at his brow. "what i wanted to do was a lot more excitin' than this. buuuuut, since you asked so nicely," he moves from the doorway, the small room flooding with some more of that faint light, a wave of cold with her luring curls of air and bone chill following. with his boot, he wedges the door closed to prevent that air from touching leland. then, the distance between them is closed enough that johnny can wrap his arm around leland's body, fingers merciful against his bruised ribs and torn up back. he smells like meat left on the counter for a little too long, long enough that the flies would've been swarming him if it were warmer down here. long enough that maybe if he hadn't been strung up, the rats would've tried to feast on his soft flesh. johnny holds him firm, but tender, weight held in his curled arm so he can reach up with the other and cut loose the ropes that dig and feed on leland's wrists. crusted blood sits in the winding threads. he leverages leland's dead weight, holding him close to his own body while he cuts through them. a few seconds, maybe a minute at most. his warmth bleeding into leland's cold body. for a second, he swears he can feel the jackrabbit humming of leland's still beating heart against his own chest and the familiar pulse of electric current he's felt when this boy is close webs at the center of his chest.
defibrillator. proof of life. for who? he's not the one strung up and yet...
with his arms cut free, johnny doesn't haphazardly drop leland's body, though the thought occurs to him, he drops his knife instead. it doesn't make much more than a dull thud against the dirt floor. it frees his hand to allow him to wind that arm too around him. holding him close. feet on the floor now, but he's pressed against johnny. close enough that he can see the haze in his eyes and the beads of sweat indicating a fever that pool at his temples despite the frigid air. briefly, without warning or permission, he presses his lips to leland's forehead. checking his temperature. attempting to hold his focus through the apparent illness.
"i leave you down here for a few days and you go 'n get yourself sick. thought you could handle anythin' i throw at you?"
had he pushed too far? was he already broken? he clears his throat, chest tight again with the pinching sensation he has no name for, no root cause for. something only leland causes. like thorn pinpricks against his skin, a splinter he keeps thumbing over even when the skin gets raw.
he should let him die down here. alone and forgotten. he should.
but then what?
gently, johnny helps him down onto the mattress. laura-jean looked small sunken into that same mattress about a month before all this happened with leland and his little friends. she had begged for her life, too. had enough fight to keep johnny amused for all of two seconds and then he snapped her neck. her ribs were tender. the old man is annoying, but he sure knows his barbecue. callused fingertips slip beneath the tattered, bloodied shirt clinging to leland's wounds. fingers catching at the rungs of his ribs. he's thinner now. thinner than he had been when he was all muscle and all grit, throwing himself at johnny and hands and anyone who dared to look anywhere other than him.
"easy," he murmurs, settling onto his knees beside the mattress. "if you think you can just slip away and die like a pussy after all'a that fight you put up, you got another thing comin'," his tone is colored with play. with jest. with something near affectionate were it not laced in that same stale liquor on his tongue. johnny reaches then for leland's hands, his wounded wrists, and starts to rub circulation into them. he isn't gentle now, rough hands used to rough work, but he takes care to not rip open the raw wounds already there. he's deliberate about the pressure he applies, dragging and coaxing blood through leland's hands. and then his hands dip further, along his forearms. beyond his elbows, along his biceps. not unlike a sick dog, but this one he knows won't bite hard, even if he had the strength to do much more than lay there and take this. "how you feelin'?" johnny dips down closer, brushing hair from leland's brow, his skin feeling clammy to the touch. with that same hand, he rubs at the center of leland's chest. small, soothing circles, and then stops completely. he stops and lets the cold air settle between them again. all teeth when he asks, a mask of earnesty,
"you feelin' a bit warmer now? tell me what'cha need, leland."

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deranged of me honestly
imagining johnny in the "mother's day" cosmetic or the "sunday's best" cosmetic Sends me and also i feel is canon. because obviously we know he loves his tattered ass tank tops and his jeans and that's sort of his staple attire because he just doesn't actively give a shit in that way, but i do think that there's something about chameleoning and being a part of "society" in little ways like that when out in public. the thought that nancy takes his ass to like the local church sometimes because it's this weird heathen pride for both of them to be seen in a house of god by the locals in town and they're just these disgusting freak people.... Crazy. also the thought of johnny dressing up in the red suit liiiiike... i know that material is itchy as hell and uncomfortable. anyway, i was thinking about johnny and his clothes.