showtime
WARNING: eye gore!!, violence Disclaimer: this is..... an au where guy fieri isnt a cool and chill dude that just likes food. i am very sorry for what i do to him in this. i dont mean it and if the cops knock at my door i will blame it on hussie word count: about 3.7k. i am so sorry
context john gets kidnapped by his mom dave doesnt panic
Los Angeles, CA, Wednesday
âNo matter what happens, nobody cancels the premiere,â you say. âOkay? No matter whatâs in the news. No matter how bad it gets. The movie drops on Thursday, and people are gonna watch it. Got it? This is a scare tactic and weâre not falling for it. Even if the world is ending, we are premiering this movie and going through with the promo. With or without me.â
Catalena, your manager, has been with you for too long to think that youâre joking. She was who flew you in from Houston to LA back when you were twenty, who let you sleep on your couch until you made enough money to get an apartment, who thought that the message you had for the world was one worthy of her help. She knows that all of this is real, and that she canât stop you.
Her face says, Dave, youâre scaring me. Her mouth says, âYou got it. Could you at least tell me⌠what you think is going to be in the news that would make us not premiere it?â
âSomething bad,â you say. âHopefully, anyway.â
She tilts her head. âAre you faking your death?â
âLalonde and I are gonna disappear for a sec,â you say. âHow people interpret that is gonna be up to them.â
âNot like you to leave things up to chance,â Catalena says. âSome will think itâs elaborate PR.â
âThatâs why Iâm only telling you. Lalonde and I are gonna frame this to look serious, and no one else is gonna know whatâs going on. You keep your cool, but donât let anyone know that youâre in on it.â
âI mean, I barely am.â She gives you a Look, a capital L Look, then sighs and nods. âFine. So if I hear about your presumed death tomorrow, I wonât freak out. At what point am I allowed to assume you are actually dead, and freak out a little bit?â
âIf you donât hear from me in a week,â you say, âthen Lalonde and I have been killed by Betty Crocker.â
Houston, TX, twelve years ago
Youâre blind.
Thatâs not true. Youâre not blind. You donât think you are going to be blind. There is no way that youâre fully blind, because the assassin only got your right eye, so it doesnât make sense for you to be blind, but youâre blind.
The pain might originate from your right eye, but itâs engulfing your entire head by now, and there is something sticky in your left eye and you canât open it anymore and it burns, and youâre going to go blind, and then youâre going to die in a ditch, in a pool of your own blood, and this is it. Itâs over. You and your half sister fucked around on the internet a bunch, got really deep into some conspiracy theories, and barely two weeks after you made the discovery that Betty Crocker definitely, undoubtedly, literally is an actual alien, someone was sent to kill you.
They didnât manage, so far. They got your eye, and they broke your glasses, leaving a cut on your nose, and a bunch of cuts everywhere else, and you think you cracked your head open when you fell. But you cut their knife hand off, good and clean off, watched it fall to the ground right in front of you. By the time it hit the pavement, the assassin had already turned around and ran away, leaving you to crumple and suffer here by yourself.
This is it.
âStrider?â Rose says. Before the blood trickling into your good eye ruined your vision, you managed to dial her number and call her up, and now youâre lying on your side with your phone pressed to your ear, imagining her in her college dorm room in New York. You were going to visit her there, years ago, after you ran away from your parents. It never worked out. Neither of you has the money. You really wish you could have seen her at least once.
âYeah,â you croak. âYou at home?â
âAt the dorm, yes. Whatâs going on?â
âYou gotta go. She sent someone after me, sheâs gonna come for you too. If she knows that I know, sheâll know that you know.â
One of the most comfortable parts of friendship with Rose, youâve found, is that she never asks you to clarify what the fuck youâre talking about. Either she just lets you ramble, or she knows exactly what you mean. âShit,â she hisses, and you can hear rustling on her side of the line, hopefully from her getting ready. She probably has a getaway bag somewhere, you think. You have one, but not on you right now. Itâs too late for that.
âTheyâve already hit me, so whoever she sent to you canât be far,â you say. You try to blink your eye open, but then it hurts the other more, and it burns. You canât even tell where exactly. It just burns. âHurry up, Lalonde.â
âTheyâve hit you?â she echoes, still rustling, breathing into the phone. On the move. Good. âAre you okay?â
âNo,â you say. âGonna call an ambulance after this. Just get the fuck out and text me later, yeah?â
Rose pauses. You can hear her pause, you can hear everything go very silent for a second. She says, âYou called me before you called for help?â
âYeah,â you say. She told you, once, that there is a quick and easy way out the window of her second-storey dorm room, that lets her balance over to her girlfriendâs room only a few windows ahead. She canât hide there, itâs too close, but itâs a start. Sheâll figure it out, she always will. She was the first person to ever have your back. âOf course I did.â
On a plane, Thursday morning
âWhatâs on your mind?â Rose asks.
Youâre leaned back, staring out the window, listening to the clicking of her knitting needles next to you. The pilot here doesnât know who heâs dealing with, just that he is flying two rich people and their car to Washington, DC. Your Mustang is in the cargo part of the plane, a vital part of the plan. Youâll torch it later. It was the first car you bought with your own money, after SBaHJ had become big and you had finally paid off your hospital debt.
Roseâs apartment isnât that old, she got it after Roxy was born and she decided to move to Los Angeles, so you could help each other babysit. Trashing it still felt wrong. A home is a home, but you wanted it to look broken into, to make sure that people put two and two together. This isnât a Dave Strider marketing scheme, you both got hit. After all the work that youâve done, at least some of the public should understand what that means.
âUs,â you say.
âThatâs very sentimental,â she says. âAre you sure you arenât mourning your car again?â
âShut up,â you say, and blindly swat at her, hitting her elbow. She hits you back, hand slapping your shoulder. âItâs a good car.â
Rose hums. When you look at her, sheâs already back to knitting. You have no idea what sheâs making, but it looks like a onesie for an octopus. âWe will be fine,â she says. âWe have to.â
You nod, and go back to staring out the window, thinking about what Alma said. âItâs just,â you say quietly. âWe gotta start thinking about the endgame, here, donât we.â
âStart?â Rose echoes. âDave, we know the endgame to this. Weâve known for a while. The second you landed in the hospital with a cut inside your eyeball, you and I both knew that this would end in death.â
You donât say anything. Sheâs right, of course she is. You knew then, and she knew, as soon as you texted her from your hospital bed, and she texted you back from a Greyhound bus. And you tried to forget, you both did, for a very long time. You almost managed, for a whole decade, until last year, someone made you scared and angry enough to ram a sword through his throat. Until Rose came and disassembled the body on your rooftop, and then helped you burn it. Reality has caught up with you, and someone is going to die.
The clicking of her needles has stopped again. You turn your head to look at her, and sheâs looking back at you, and her face seems younger than it should be. She is just as scared as you are. Neither of you ever wanted it to go this far. Neither of you wanted to kill.
âI donât like it either,â Rose says. âBut someone is going to wind up dead, and it sure as shit isnât gonna be us.â
Washington, DC, now
)(IC: u comin or what TG: yeah about that
Youâre on the hood of your car. The children -- and Sally, Johnâs pet hedgehog -- are with the one sitter you still trust. Rose is in position, which means she is at a remote location outside the city holding Guy Fieri hostage. She has sent you a picture of him tied to a chair and gagged, which means that itâs go time.
All according to plan.
TG: how about you come kill me somewhere else instead of home sweet home )(IC: why would i do that TG: dying mans last request? )(IC: stfu lol this is so obviously a trap TG: wow ok so is yours )(IC: fair TG: just thought that you know TG: john means something to both of us and dont try to tell me no because i know he does TG: so like can we maybe duke it out somewhere where i wont accidentally blow him to smithereens TG: innuendo intended )(IC: UG)( )(IC: gross TG: lmao TG: anyway bethany you know me and you know im comin with c4 in my backpack if im comin TG: do you really want that around your son or can you just get off your ass and meet me here so john stays safe )(IC: u reely think ya have a fighting chance to even get that far )(IC: buoy you set one foot in my house and ya get spearfished TG: yeah not really making a great point for me to come there rn TG: just thought maybe youd wanna be with your guy guy )(IC: who TG: you know TG: guy the guy )(IC: tf
You text her the picture that Rose sent, just Guy Fieri looking miserable, no indication of whether or not you or Rose are with him.
)(IC: )(-EY )(IC: motherglubber what do u think yoar doin TG: yoar??? TG: thats literally not a word. wym you oar?? what TG: anyway im gonna dismember this asshole if you dont agree to keep john safe and come here and im gonna start with the frosted tips )(IC: FIN--E )(IC: cant effin wait to be done with you )(IC: ill come krill ya if its so shrimportant just gimme the location TG: ok shrimportant is actually pretty funny TG: [coordinates] TG: see you soon
She drives a fuchsia Jaguar that looks like Xzibit threw up all over it, because of course she does. You watch it leave from your perch on your Mustang, then slide off the hood. shes gone, you text Rose. get ready to bounce
Before you leave, you turn back toward you car, and gently pat the roof. âSee you soon,â you repeat, âfor one last ride.â
Look, itâs a good car, alright.
Later on in the plan, once youâve convinced John to come with you, and Rose has joined you in the no doubt brutal course out of the house littered with security guards, the three of you will pack into this car, and you will drive. You will be tailed, you know you will. Rose and you estimate two to three SUVs with more security personnel that will follow you, and sooner or later, you wonât stand a chance against them.
So, youâll call the cops. You donât usually do this -- even during all these years, neither you nor Crocker ever called the police on each other, and technically, you still wonât, today. You will just anonymously call authorities, and tell them about a burning car by the side of the road. Then you will hang up, and you and Rose and John will hop out of a moving vehicle as you crash your beloved Mustang and have it go up in flames. Authorities will come and find Dave Striderâs infamous car, and hopefully thatâll get people talking.
Crockerâs guys will hopefully exit their cars and go looking for you, or at least for John. Itâs an easy con from there -- while they look, you will steal their SUVs and drive off toward your safehouses. Simple. No sweat.
âThis better work,â you mutter to yourself, then leave your car behind and start climbing the fence around Crocker manor.
Youâve been here once before, while she was out and John was showing you around. You werenât actively trying to case the place back then, just spending time with your boyfriend and checking out where he grew up, but you couldnât help how curious you were. You still remember the most important spots, and you did your best to paint a proper picture of them to Rose (you drew a map in MS Paint), so now you have a pretty good idea of where you need to go.
The guard posts, of course, are randomized. Youâll have to take these as they come, and you feel prepared enough, with just your sword and a handful of knives. Youâre wearing the kevlar you wore to the Oscars. Youâre gonna be fine.
Itâs a race against time now, knowing that there is no guarantee when Crocker will be catching on and returning to her house, and knowing that you stand no chance actually fighting her face to face. You climbed in toward the side of the house, because itâs the shortest distance between fence and wall. The front and back yards are ridiculously huge and opulent, and while you would have plenty of gaudy statues to hide behind, youâre not looking to make your way through there.
The first guard spots you right as you hop down off the fence, and your knife is in his shoulder before he even finishes drawing his gun on you. Heâs also wearing a vest, but those donât stop blades, and you take offense in knowing that she made them dress up like that. As if either you or Rose were going to show up with guns. She really doesnât know you at all. You knock out the guard with a hit of the knife grip against his temple. Maybe you can get through this without deaths.
One of them you comfortably take out from behind a useless fountain placed in this part of the garden for some reason, appreciating how quiet and low-key you can be about it so far. The bigger the ruckus, the sooner sheâll return, so having them all go down in silence is your best case scenario.
Itâs the third guard that ruins your track record. Youâre almost at the house wall, and you know youâre under the right window, which means all you have to do is scale it and climb right into Johnâs room, but for that to work you need to have a clean path behind you. Which you donât, you realize the second a bullet hits your back.
Your vest catches it, but the momentum still knocks you down, and you scrape both of your palms open on the weird break between lawn and pavement. You hate this fucking garden. Who lives like this? Youâre gasping for breath and trying not to inhale any grass, dealing with the reality that this is the first time someone has shot at you and actually hit you, and the bullet might not have penetrated skin at all, but Jesus Fucking Christ it still feels awful. Like someone kicked you in the spine, only with a bullet instead of a foot.
Onward. You hear footsteps behind you, and now itâs your turn to kick, hitting them in the face with your boot in the same motion that youâre pushing yourself up from the ground. As they curse and stumble, you draw your sword, but they catch their footing quickly, and you know you only have a split second to act. That gun is pointing at you, again, or still, and theyâre going for your head this time, and if you donât fight now, the journey ends for you here. Someone is going to die, and it sure as shit canât be you. Your arm darts forward.
The sword goes through their vest, their ribs, and their heart -- you wouldnât call it smoothly, you really wouldnât. You can feel resistance with every inch, you feel it right up to your shoulder, and you hate it, and it makes you want to throw up, but you canât, now. You shove them off your blade and watch them crumple to the ground, and turn right back toward the wall. They are not getting up again. Thatâs on you, and you can deal with that later. You have to get moving.
Your phone vibrates.
You manage to pull yourself up on a balcony and crouch there, hiding from whatever is going on in the yard now. Other guards must have heard the shot being fired, so you really need to get the fuck out of sight, but this has to do, for now. If Crocker is messaging you, you have to respond, so she doesnât think youâre in her goddamn garden.
)(IC: yo )(IC: send me proof yoar still with him )(IC: almost there this betta be worth it TG: one sec
As expected. All according to plan, so far. You hope the blood on your sword wonât make the sheath sticky. Youâll have to clean it, later. You donât want to.
TG: shes asking for proof TG: go ahead. sorry TT: No worries. TT: I know we donât endorse violence, but honestly, Dawon, after being in a room with him for this long, I am quite happy to do this.
She sends you a picture, and you grimace at your phone. It takes a lot to make you grimace, as a Strider born and raised -- at the same time, youâre not easily shocked or grossed out, but this isnât great to look at. Fieriâs eye has been pulled from its socket, dangling down his cheek suspended from the nerve, a hole in the eyeball. You hope Crocker wonât be able to tell that this was done with a knitting needle, and forward the photo to her.
TG: hows this )(IC: )(--EY FUCK OFF )(IC: stop i reely like guy 38( TG: yeah well i really like john TG: eye for an eye TG: hurry it up im waiting and theres a second eye to gauge out )(IC: ten minutes )(IC: ur gonna be so sorry buoy
TG: 10 mins TT: On my way.
Okay. Crocker is on her way to a location where there will only be Guy Fieri and a set of elaborate boobytraps which you know wonât kill her, but hopefully slow her down. Rose is on her way here, to help you and John get out of here. Thatâs plenty of time you still have. Things are going suspiciously well, you think, before you remember the ache in your back and the fact that you killed someone.
You have to get to John.
Heâs another two floors up, but you are right in front of a balcony door. For a second, you wonder if you could get into the house from here and do the rest from inside, so you donât present yourself to the mob of people with guns in the garden. Unfortunately, before you can do that, another person with a gun appears on the other side of that door, mouths an angry what the fuck at you, and draws an assault rifle. Alright, well.
The thing that has mostly kept you from becoming too violent in the past is the fact that youâre fast, and youâre a great climber, so when you hop backward onto the banister of the balcony and pull yourself up to the next one above you, it happens so fast that nobody in the garden reacts. Itâs after youâre already crouching behind the balcony, thankfully made of robust concrete, that the shots start hitting it. You do nothing, count the bullets, wait for them to get rid of half of their magazines down there. Then you pull a knife, peek over the balcony, and throw it right into someoneâs bicep.
More shots. More ducking and counting. You have two more knives to throw, and you do, rinse and repeat. The people down there are very angry with you now, and very much still able to shoot, but you figure at least their aim will be off, and theyâll be slower. You hope. You havenât held a gun yourself in fucking forever.
You take a breath, and jump up to grab the balcony you know belongs to John.
As soon as youâre in the open, another bullet hits your back, further toward your side this time, and you almost let go. You let out an undignified noise instead, and hold on harder, focusing all you have into your arms to pull yourself up. Shots are ringing in your ears, and one hits the concrete right next to your head at almost the same time that another one grazes your leg. You hiss in pain, grunt in exertion, pull, pull, and roll yourself onto Johnâs balcony.
Someone in the garden yells, âMotherfucker!â
You sit, curled up, and pull apart the tear in your pants with your aching fingers to check the wound. Itâs not deep, certainly not as bad as the chunk of missing flesh you have in your arm from being shot at last year. Itâs fine. Youâll forget about it in a second, when your newest problem will be telling your amnesiac boyfriend that he needs to come with you.
You pull yourself up into a crouch, not more. You donât want to risk getting shot in the head as you finally face him, so you just do it like this. Hunkered down, disheveled and bloody, you lean forward and knock on Johnâs window.












