Tim the Printer Guy felt a soft tickle on his nose. He opened his eyes and saw Fred Shudnow standing over him, touching a feather across his face.

“Wake up,” Fred whispered playfully.

Tim batted the feather away and smiled, welcoming the devilish mood his friend was in. He jolted out of bed and chased him around. Fred, with high knees, evaded each tackle and skipped out into the hallway. Tim followed him and the two ran down into the living room, to find a large canvas and easel setup over a wide, beige tarp. There were paints of all different colors, and brushes of all different sizes and textures.

“What is this?” Tim the Printer Guy asked, frozen in amazement.

Fred, who was still running around the room, skipping and jumping around with the feather said, “This is yours! I got you all new supplies so you can paint with.”

A tear trickled down Tim’s cheek. This was the work of the gods, giving Tim the Printer Guy someone so kind.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Tim, wiping away the multiple tears that streamed uncontrollably.

Fred ran up to him, drew his long boney finger, and pressed it against Tim’s lips. “Don’t say anything,” he said. “Just paint me.”

Tim the Printer Guy could feel the festering anticipation of creativity boil inside him. After hearing Fred’s call to action, he charged towards the canvas and found each can of paint to use. Fred moved in front, jumped on the couch and undulated into a ‘heroic’ pose. He pointed in the air to mimic Napoleon Boneparte or Julius Caesar.

Tim threw paint on the canvas and was furiously sketching the outline of Fred’s body—following each contour, each moment of action, to construct the image. He started to find that, in order to capture the essence of what Fred was trying to invoke, he needed to make some adjustments. For starters, Fred’s hair was too coarse and nappy. Tim the Printer Guy wanted something more luxurious and flowing. He began to think of Mikeal and his long, blonde locks which almost looked like feathers. They fluttered through the breeze, and were truly beautiful—truly remarkable!

Fred’s frame was also too boney and his skin was this pallid color, which did not match any of the paints that were at Tim’s disposal. There was the thought of Octavian’s righteous muscles which always had the most glowing hue of tans and pinks. His biceps were rosy, as if he was fighting off evil demons. Octavian was a warrior, and also a lovely soul. He brought Tim a new understanding of what he thought a Jewish person would be. The prejudice inherited from his father, became a burden on Tim and Octavian’s relationship. After that revelation, Tim was embarrassed and continued to mull over his thoughts and let go of the deep anti-semitism he had.

Fred’s face was also so pale and thin. He had these slightly non-symmetrical cheeks which presented a slightly off-putting feeling whenever Tim looked at him. He loved his friend a lot, but Tim’s fascination with physical, conventional beauty while painting, made his mind try to fix those imperfections. Tim the Printer Guy thought about the angelic features of Cage. His demure, delicate facial features brought an innocence, which Tim began to combine with the raw, almost animal-like appearance of Octavian and Mikeal. This amalgam of beauty was impressive, but nothing like his model. Tim the Printer Guy took a step back to finally look at what he created.

“Let me see,” said Fred.

There was nothing of his friend in that picture, only the fragments of three Adonises besmirching the relationship between Tim and Fred.

“No!” Tim shouted, and grabbed the canvas.

Fred jumped off the couch and glided over to Tim, who desperately tried to keep the portrait away.

“What’s wrong with it?” asked Fred.

“Just…everything. I need some time to get my talent back. I need to keep practicing!” Tim the Printer Guy took the canvas and ran away.

Fred was growing impatient and concerned. “It can’t be that bad at all, let me see!” he snatched away from Tim’s grasp.

There was a pregnant pause in the air, as Tim the Printer Guy anticipated what Fred was going to say. On the canvas was a figure that looked nothing like Fred. It had long hair and perfectly sculpted abs, as well as the face of Cage. Fred stared at it, with a muddled expression.

He tilted his head a bit, but said, “This is pretty good!”

Tim the Printer Guy widened his eyes. “It doesn’t really capture you,” he said.

Fred tilted his head again, and glanced back at Tim, with the same muddled expression. “Yeah, that doesn’t look like me, but it is really good.”

“I guess I just took some liberties and it turned out like this, we can try again!” Tim said, while pushing his arm towards Fred, attempting to snatch the painting back.

“This face looks familiar though,” said Fred, evading Tim’s attempts. “There is something about it that reminds me of someone.”

Tim the Printer Guy held his breath. “Well I wasn’t basing it off of anyone…” he said.

“It’s familiar. A real ugly face though,” said Fred.

Tim’s heart felt heavy—weighed down by the uncertainty and disappointment by that statement. Fred’s remark of ugliness fractured Tim’s own archetype of what beauty was. It was such a shame that he did not feel the same about Cage’s face.

“I certainly did not intend to make his face ugly,” said Tim the Printer Guy.

“Well, that's what you did… I’m sorry but I just don’t like it. It unnerves me.”

Tim was a bit astonished that Fred was unnerved by this, since he had to put up with the pictures around Fred’s house. “This unnerves you?” asked Tim the Printer Guy.

“Yeah, I don’t know. It makes me mad,” said Fred. “Don’t hang this up anywhere.”

“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Tim, exploding with unexpected rage.

Fred found some rage as well, standing his ground and tensing his shoulders. “This is tasteless!” he said. “The face is ugly, and so is the long hair. What do you think I am, some sort of lady?”

“Excuse me,” shouted Tim the Printer Guy, “for just trying to put some beauty on the canvas! You could use quite a bit!”

“What did you say?” Fred asked, coldly.

“You heard me,” Tim snarkily responded.

Fred was silent for a moment—shocked by this sudden defiance. He stared Tim down with a menacing glare. Tim the Printer Guy remained still, sticking his nose up in the air—a magisterial gesture which not only reassured his distaste, but also mocked Fred. The boney face of Mr. Shudnow tightened with frustration. His mouth widened, yet his lips remained tightly closed. He grimaced and rolled his shoulders, to perhaps relieve some of the tension.

“So, this is what you think, after all I have done for you,” Fred said slowly.

Tim the Printer Guy huffed. “No, I am just dealing with a lot right now. Painting is something that I haven’t done in a while, and I just need to get back into it gradually,” he said. “I truly appreciate everything you have done.”

“Then show me!” Fred shouted. “All I ask is that you paint me.”

“I will, you just got to give me time. Once I bust out a few practice pieces, I will be able to find my skill again. I am sorry, I just… need to adapt to this new life you gave me.”

“Do you want anything like drugs or medication?” Fred moved over to the kitchen and started pulling out some bottles and vials.

“What kind of drugs are you talking about?”

“I don’t know the name of them or anything, but they are from the Doctor. I think they would help get your mind working again. Maybe it will help you paint.” Fred planted the medication in his hand.

Tim the Printer Guy carefully examined the bottle. It was a lot like the ones he had gotten from the Doctor and Fred in the past—no label, in a small orange container with a white cap, and containing this time pink and white pills.

“How much do I take?” Tim asked.

“As much as necessary I guess. Just keep taking them and you should get your creativity back. They always work for me,” said Fred, turning away from Tim.

“Well, what do they do to you?”

“Just take them. I got to go out for a bit, so you will have the house to yourself.” Fred walked over to the stairwell, which led down to the front door. “See if you can figure out this creative block you are in and I will be back later,” he said.

“How long will you be gone?”

“You are so full of questions today. I don’t know, probably until late, like nine or ten. If it is any later I will give you a call, okay?”

“Okay,” said a puzzled Tim the Printer Guy. He did not want to pester Fred too much about his business, but it was more unnerving to Tim that he was still this mystery, often disappearing for long stretches of time.

Fred felt the need to prescribe drugs for everything. He had so many different types given to him from the Doctor—the same ones Tim had to resolve pain, yet also some for sleep, and now for creativity? The Doctor was just as fruitful as Fred was—passing out prescriptions easily, and not allowing for examination. Not one to pass up free medication, no matter the lack of understanding, Tim the Printer Guy dropped a couple of the pills down his throat, trusting his friend implicitly.

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He looked at the canvas for a while, and then developed the urge to sit down on the couch. Tim the Printer Guy’s mind started to languidly focus on small aspects of the room he was in. He zoned into a small cabinet in the corner of the house that had a few items on the top. Then he heard a loud bang from the door downstairs, which let him know that Fred was out of the house. Tim the Printer Guy succumbed to the typical anxiety that always plagued him. He really had a knack for ruining the things in his life. He felt that pain was inevitable and he was unable to keep the people in his life happy, whomever they may be. Tim continued to look intently at the cabinet, noticing more and more. There was a key on the top which, perhaps, went inside the keyhole on the top drawer, which seemed to be forced open. He stood up and made his way over to the cabinet and opened the drawer, already jutting out. The room started to move, as his balance was teetering. Pulling open the drawer, Tim the Printer Guy saw nothing but old, polaroid photographs. Five of them were displaced throughout the drawer, all colored and delicate with age.

Tim picked one up and saw that it was a picture of a young man, possibly in his mid-twenties, sitting on a couch and striking an elaborate pose. His clothing was reminiscent of a style at least ten or twenty years old, and his feathery, blonde hair was of the same age. Despite that, he displayed an essence of a playful, curious youth as he teased the camera with soft auburn eyes. Tim the Printer Guy set the photo down and picked up another, which showed a different man of the same age but with darker features standing still, or at least not in a pose, and with the same precarious glimmer of life. What was Tim the Printer Guy even looking at? Fred had a collection—one similar to Tim’s own treasure trove of pictures depicting the Adonises saved on his old phone.

This all sent him into a frenzy—sifting through the photos, all of young men, some posing and some just doing simple things, yet all staring at the camera with innocence. Then Tim picked up a truly familiar sight. A photo, depicting a young man Tim knew quite well. The same model of Fred’s disturbing portrait which hung at the foot of his bed. He had the same demeanor as the others, yet there was something else—a wide eyed apprehension, carefully looking deep into the camera and doing his best to feign a smile. Tim the Printer Guy could not find the same glimmer that the others had behind their eyes. His eyes were a dark green and under a furrowed brow. Tim saw another photo sitting underneath all the others. It was of Fred, who held the camera in his hand, but facing himself. His face was close to the lens, blinded by the flash, looking like deer or a shock-white old man, delusionally fiddling with something to which he does not understand. In the photo, just over Fred’s shoulder, was the same young man, resting on the couch, in an awkward pose similar to that of the final artwork that frightened Tim the Printer Guy ever so.

“There is something wrong here,” Tim said to himself.

The room started to spin and waver, as the medication began to take full effect. He was losing his balance and feeling numb, yet his mind was racing, firing off different shudders of anxious nerves. Tim had to get out of this house and recollect himself, or he was going to be sick. He ran downstairs and outside to eventually collapse to his knees. Tim the Printer Guy felt the twigs and dirt grind against his skin and ruin his precious chemise, which he’d worn to bed. Tim began to cry again, releasing all the pain. Who were those men? Why did Fred have those pictures? He began to feel as if Fred was truly hiding something from him, as the picture that displayed his face, made Tim feel as if he was unhinged or even deranged. Then he thought about the cameras, knowing that there was one facing Mikeal’s house.

The thought of Mikeal ending up as one of the models in Fred’s large prints was devastating. The young men in the polaroids all had the charm and beauty of the Adonises. Their prowess and innocence reminded Tim the Printer Guy of what life was all about—the joy of the moment, living with no hesitation. Yet, there was always the thought of where it could lead to. The body facing Tim’s bedside was devoid of all that. Sprawled out in a lifeless display—the product of a selfish need for control. Feeling the drugs infect his mind, Tim succumbed to Fred's influence. There was now a desperation to not end up on the other end of his camera.

Tim the Printer Guy summoned what energy he could and ran towards Mikeal’s house. Furiously, he pushed back the trees and shrubbery, slowly making his way into the suburb. Eventually he was met with the house, looming over him, and filling his mind with tortured memories. Tim then plummeted to the ground to sift through the loose grass. His hands stopped as he found the camera. Picking it up, over his head, Tim the Printer Guy gave a warrior's cry and threw the device onto the ground, smashing it into tiny pieces. After the camera shattered, breaking the connection to Fred’s web of deceit, Tim let out another loud cry.

He had saved Mikeal from a murky fate, and allowed him a chance to live with ignorance. Tim looked back at the house and thought of what Mikeal might say to this. Would there ever be a possibility that he would thank Tim the Printer Guy for what he had done, how he protected him? A soothing sense of redemption overcame his soul, yet there was still more to ponder regarding Fred. He pressed his face against the fence and tried to look into the house, but noticed the windows were all dark. Tim then walked over to get a better look at the driveway and saw that there were no cars—no one was home! Not knowing where the Adonises were, while also not knowing where Fred was, disturbed Tim once more. Serving as a protector and feeling as though he could provide for the Adonises again, brought Tim the Printer Guy this newfound understanding. After these paranoid, anxiety-filled moments at Fred’s house, it was clear that being here was what Tim needed to be happy. Fred’s generosity and wealth was all too vague and mysterious.

But the Adonises made sense. Tim the Printer Guy realized that their control over him came from his genuine, unabashed desire for beauty and innocence. They were cherubs in his eyes, and protecting them from ugliness and dullness was all that made sense. Tim kept gazing through the windows of the house, hoping to see Mikeal or Octavian. Instead he could see the glimmer of metal sitting atop the kitchen counter—his father’s katana. Shōgun no Fukushū was again in Tim the Printer Guy’s reach. If he could regain possession of this weapon, it would grant him the power to further serve the Adonises. Perhaps it would also bring back some of his family’s lost honor.

Tim, through the loss of inhibition due to the drugs, started to climb the fence. With a couple of mangled pulls, he haphazardly flung himself over the top and landed in the backyard. Through miraculous means, his chemise which dangled over his naked body, remained unscathed. Tim then shot glances around the neighboring yards, lest he come in contact with any other pigeon-eyed gremlins and their disgusting mutts. The coast was clear, so he clambered back to his feet and shoved himself up to the back door. There, he could lay his eyes fully on the blade. Tim the Printer Guy shook the handle but the door was locked tight. All this commotion began to send irritable gurgles through Tim’s stomach, and as the drugs kept the world around him spinning, he vomited on the ground.

The eruption of puke had a way of purging his mind of the toxins. Tim the Printer Guy snapped back to the moment and started to think of how he could get in. He scanned the back of the house but nothing seemed promising. At this point he was at the brink of yet another disparaging failure, so Tim began to mediate. He took in careful breaths to calm his woes. The answer to his problems was around here somewhere. As he opened his eyes, his attention was drawn back to the chunky regurgitate that lay at his feet. Near it, something small and shiny started to stand out to Tim the Printer Guy—Mikeal had left a key! By the gods, this was the solution right in front of him. He fumbled with the lock at first but, soon enough, got the door open.

Tim the Printer Guy walked in and was immersed in the scent of Mikeal. Fred’s medication brought waves which lifted Tim’s steps and sent him into moments of relaxed bliss. Tim the Printer Guy was entranced by such a lovely house. Inside, there was a modern kitchen with marble countertops and leather bar stools. Each appliance was stainless steel, sort of what Fred had, but with a much warmer spirit. He danced, allowing the chemise to catch the wind and tickle his stomach—a sensation which was surly elevated by Tim’s deluded state of mind.

Suddenly, Tim the Printer Guy could hear a car pull up to the house.

“Fuck,” he whispered as the footsteps made their way to the front door.

Tim the Printer Guy needed to vanish fast, so he quickly looked around and leapt into another room, leaving his precocious sword behind.

“Yeah I figure we could just hang out tonight and watch a movie or something…” said Mikeal.

He, along with Octavian and the two females, walked into the house. Tim the Printer Guy could see them all while he hid in the next room, shrouded in darkness. There was Racquel—the tall, ebony form who Tim had previously thought of to be a river beast, yet now seemed to be nothing more than a non-threatening fancy for Mikeal—and another, extraordinarily pale female to which he could only assume was Sindy. Upon seeing her walk through the door, Tim the Printer Guy felt an eerily cold chill creep across his spine. She had nappy, black, curly hair and white skin. She seemed fit and possessed muscles, not as impressive as Octavian’s, but enough to be thought of as trained in the martial arts. The expression on her face was that of a cold, dolefulness—seemingly aggressive. Nausea washed over Tim as he started to believe that she resonated the same worrisome energy as Adem. In a way, she also reminded Tim of Lorraine Keegan, the unforgiving counselor who had kicked him out of the institute.

They all moved as one, in a frenzy of chatter, over to the kitchen. Tim remained out of sight, still with eyes locked on the katana and now the door to the backyard, which remained open.

“Oh shit, did I leave the door open?” asked Mikeal.

“No, I remember you closed it,” said Racquel.

“Maybe something blew it open, maybe I just forgot to lock it?” Mikeal pondered, stepping closer to shut the door. “Oh god, what is that?” he shouted, staring down at Tim the Printer Guy’s pungent discharge.

Octavian and Sindy rushed over to see the commotion.

“That looks like puke,” said Octavian.

“I think one of the neighbor dogs was sick or some animal let itself in, we should probably look around the house if there is something still in here,” said Mikeal.

Tim panicked. He maintained as much silence as he could, avoiding the light and making his way to the front door. With as much speed as he could comfortably exert without detection, he closed in on the exit. Tim the Printer Guy was almost free from the shame of impeding on the two Adonises and their evening, until he heard a couple of footsteps making their way towards him. Feeling the walls closing in, Tim looked up and saw a stairwell. He ran up and into the second floor hallway, then dodged into one of the rooms.

“There is nothing up here in the living room,” Tim heard Octavian call out to the others.

“I’ll check downstairs,” said a female.

Tim the Printer Guy huddled in the corner of this dark room. It appeared to be a bedroom that they were using. Clothes were messily piled up inside a suitcase that sat atop of the bed. The sheets were untouched, and a few toiletry items—such as a toothbrush and hair gel—were sitting on the dresser. Tim decided to muddle through the clothes, hoping that they were from either Adonis, yet the smell was different. A lot of the clothes were heavy, typically worn for the colder seasons. Tim then thought of that woman again—Sindy. The aura around her was cold, and her skin was pale, despite being under the bright rays of the sun.

There was a story his father once drunkenly told about a dangerous yokai who would steal the life force of men. It was much like what Bandaged Cage said the kawahime would do, yet this particular yokai came from the snow—the mountains. It sat along snowy paths and enticed men with its physical beauty. Just as they would grow comfortable, the beast would drain them of their youth, to sustain its own immortality.

Perhaps, it was through the aid of Fred’s medication that Tim was starting to connect all of this back to his loose grasp on Japanese folklore. From what he remembered, the creature was called a yuki-onna, and it was indeed frightening. There was no chance that Sindy was a spirit or demon with supernatural powers, but her frigid appearance might reflect a cold, unforgiving heart. Tim would be a fool to ignore those eccentricities and toss them away as nothing but that! The story of the yuki-onna was an allegory about how these discoveries could lead to a bad person, right?

Just then the lights in the room turned on, and Tim was staring right into Sindy’s eyes as she stood in the doorway.

“Who the fuck are you?” she screamed.

Tim the Printer Guy, who was hunched over her clothes in a dainty pair of women’s lingerie, jumped into a fighting stance. “Shōbuda!” he shouted.

“There is some crazy guy up here!”

“I know what you are!” Tim shouted, getting ready to charge.

Sindy took a few steps back, but looked downstairs to see Octavian and Mikeal running up to her.

They could not see Tim the Printer Guy like this, especially when he was generating so much anger. He had to make a getaway. Before the two Adonises could make it to the bedroom, Tim jumped out of the window. Broken glass cut his skin and ripped his chemise into pieces. He landed awkwardly in the backyard, having fallen from quite a height. As he picked himself up, he could feel that something was sprained or broken inside of him. There was blood and bruising all over his body, and it hurt to move. As he slowly regained the sensation of pain, he heard Mikeal and Octavian who had made their way to the bedroom. A surge of adrenaline granted him the ability to evade their gaze. Tim ran back to the fence and threw himself over. The darkness secured his anonymity from the Adonises, but he had made himself known to Sindy—a dreaded yuki-onna!

After Tim trudged through the wilderness, he made it back to Fred’s house. The broken glass, still speckled his torn chemise, while blood gushed out of his open wounds. Exhausted, he fell down hard on the front porch of the house and began to black out. Though just as his vision was enveloped by darkness, a car pulled into the driveway.