Tim the Printer Guy opened his eyes. His vision was hazy and his brain was still spinning. As he slowly regained consciousness, Tim noticed that he was back in his bedroom—back at Fred’s house. It was morning, and he was still wearing his chemise and dirty tube socks. As he looked up, Tim could see a ray of sunlight hitting the picture of the comatose man at the foot of his bed. Feeling around, Tim the Printer Guy also noticed that he could not move. There were leather straps around the bed that kept him tied down, cutting into his skin, still rough from the night before. The shards of Mikeal’s window were gone from his wounds, which were slowly healing.
“What the hell is going on?” Tim the Printer Guy said, panicking and fidgeting.
“This should keep you still,” said a familiar voice up against Tim’s right ear.
Fred Shudnow slowly walked into the room. He was wearing his simple, billowy t-shirt and cargo pants, riddled with holes and mysterious little stains. His overall appearance was gray and dark. He glided around the bed and sat down in a chair facing Tim. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I fixed you up. You looked really beaten last night. What happened?”
“Why am I tied down?” asked Tim.
“So you don’t run off and get into any more trouble,” said Fred.
“I need to go, I need to go,” Tim muttered, while hyperventilating.
Fred put his arms around his shoulders to try and ease him. “Please, stop moving, you are still sore.”
“What do you want with me?”
“What do you mean?” asked Fred, perplexed. “Something happened to you last night and I just brought you in, and fixed you. But you need to rest.” He glided his hand across Tim’s forehead.
Tim the Printer Guy stopped fidgeting, as he found that his struggles were pointless. The restraints made it impossible to move. Fred stood up and moved over to the foot of the bed. He rested his hands on the footboard and hunched over Tim’s body.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
Tim’s anxiety was ever present, mounting in rapid breathing and nausea. Sweat trickled down every area of his skin. Somehow he found some words to yell at Fred. “Nothing! Nothing that you need to know of!” he screamed.
“Well obviously you fell or something, but what was all that glass doing on you? It ruined that women’s underwear thing you have,” said Fred.
“Sure, I fell. I was up a tree and landed on something. Installing your damn cameras!”
“Funny you mention it, because one camera, I saw, is no longer there,” said Fred. The dark circles on his face, highlighted his almost yellow eyes, the piercing stare. “I am actually missing the one you put by that house, by the neighborhood. Did you fall on that?”
Tim the Printer Guy held his breath for a moment, not wanting to risk Mikeal or Octavian’s position. “Yes,” he said. “But it was nothing, I will go out and replace it!”
“No, I can’t risk you going out and hurting yourself. Just stay here and relax and I will go out and replace it,” said Fred, walking out the door.
“No!” Tim called out.
“I will be right back,” Fred said before shutting the door, leaving Tim alone.
The silence after he left the room was mind-numbing and disorienting. Tim had to scream at the top of his lungs to break it. He needed to release the frustration of knowing that Fred was out there, and could harm the Adonises. Unseen forces in the universe brought them back into Tim’s care, who’d tasked himself to protect them. Why didn’t Tim the Printer Guy see this before? Bandaged Cage told him to stay away from Fred, and the Adonises hated him. He was so persistent in getting them to come over to his house. Tim did not want to think of any possibility in which they could have taken him up on the offer. They would most likely be in the situation he is now, struggling to move. He’d treated Tim so nice and given him a home… and Tim the Printer Guy became a fool.
Time was nonexistent, a constant hell of nothing but horrible thoughts. Seconds turned into minutes, which turned into hours, and Tim the Printer Guy kept screaming. He hoped that someone would hear him, but those efforts were proving more and more futile. Tim was alone in this room—alone in the middle of the woods, far from the suburbs. His voice finally broke from the strain of it all. He inched his head up, but all Tim the Printer Guy could see was that picture—the comatose man, whom he had known was once so fair. His sickly appearance tormented Tim, as he was certain he would fall to the same misery. Tears dripped down his face, until something caught his eye.
A beautiful, but dreary remembrance of what Tim was useless to save—Cage’s hat. It stuck out of the dresser drawer and incited something within him. Though he was not even sure as to what would happen, Tim needed the intervention of Bandaged Cage. He closed his eyes and began to meditate.
He whispered to himself: “I know you are here, watching me. I know that I may have not been wise enough to listen to you, and that I have shown disrespect to you. But I need you. I need to save them from this man. I know you understand the threat he brings and at this moment, I am the only one who can slay him.”
Tim the Printer Guy opened his eyes, yet nothing had changed. Just when he started to weep once more, the door handle started to turn.
“Bandaged Cage?” Tim called out.
Fred Shudnow entered, dispelling all Tim the Printer Guy’s hopefulness. He again moved around the bed and stared down at the helpless Tim with an ominous presence. Fred’s eyes looked him up and down, but he stayed silent.
“Wow!” Fred huffed out a breath. “There were a lot of police officers around the neighborhood.”
“Police?”
“Yeah, one of them told me that a house was broken into last night. He wanted to know if I saw anything or if my cameras caught anything…”
Tim the Printer Guy cringed with despair, feeling as though he was found out. “What are you going to do?” he asked.
“What do you mean? That’s not my problem, I didn’t see anything and I am not sharing my cameras with anyone, especially the cops!” exclaimed Fred. “What I should do is get more cameras around the house, or set up little things to make sure no one gets into my place. I told you, those houses over there were nothing but trouble. Those people are criminals! I got to protect what is mine!”
Tim the Printer Guy felt more tears trickle down and stain his face, as he was unable to wipe them away. “What do you want from me?” he blubbered, finally breaking into a frenzy of crying and pleading.
Fred slid his finger over Tim’s lips to shush him. “Don’t cry, just relax,” he whispered. “I will deal with the cameras, so you can focus on art. Did you find the creative spirit last night?”
Tim decided to play along with him. If he wanted him to paint, then he would have to untie him. “Yes! I can paint you,” he said, quickly, and tried to squirm a little more. “Untie me and I will paint you, however you like!”
“I would love that!” exclaimed Fred. “But let me just look at you for a moment.” He stepped back to examine his prey and whispered, “You look so small… Can I take a picture of you?”
This was it. Tim knew he was about to face evil. Fred Shudnow did not even wait for him to respond, he just left the room for a moment and returned with a large camera attached to a larger, elaborate tripod. Tim the Printer Guy watched anxiously as he lined up his shot.
“Why do you do this? Why do you think that my pain is something to photograph?” screamed Tim.
“This isn’t just about pain, Tim. It is about the struggle too, and you know what that is all about! You are the perfect model of struggle and just to watch you squirm like that, it is all so beautiful,” said Fred. “Don’t you understand that? You have the desire to be an artist. You told me how much you had to suffer with that calling—how no one understands you and they will just try to use you.”
“I found those damn pictures of those men! What happened to them?”
Fred kept his eye in the viewfinder, carefully adjusting the lens and fondling the knobs and buttons. “They are fine, don’t worry,” he said. “But they all had the tendency of self-destruction. I gave them what I could to enjoy and use, but they just seemed to always want more. They never understood the value in what they had.”
Tim struggled more. Fred continued.
“They also wanted too much money to spend on clothes or liquor or whatnot. I used to be in many forms of business so I could give them those things, but I don’t know... All it seemed to do was ruin them,” he said.
“Did they all just die? You still gave them the drugs and they killed themselves, you bastard!” screamed Tim, with a now raspy, tired, and broken voice.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Fred lifted his head and, it seemed, took offense to Tim’s shouting. “Hey! I gave them what they asked for and they moved on. Some died off due to other addictions, and others… I don’t know where they are. Probably living boring lives, as their beauty could not last them, not with the way they were carrying on.”
“Is he still alive?” Tim the Printer Guy ushered Fred’s attention to the portrait behind him—the large full image of a man, limp to the effect of the pills by his bedside.
Fred turned to stare at his past work. Instantly, he dissolved into a solemn state, softly hanging his head with the essence of shame and loss. “He was my only real casualty,” he whispered. “I told him not to take too much. Those sleeping pills can be really strong. But he just was chasing something and passed out. I thought he was sleeping and…” Fred turned back to Tim. “He died right where you lay.”
Tim the Printer Guy broke into another fit of tears and screams, fighting against the binds and desperately trying to get off the bed.
“Oh, keep doing that!” exclaimed Fred, zooming the lens close to parts of Tim’s body. “These pictures are turning out great!”
Tim tired after a few minutes of struggling. He waited for Fred to finish this eerie violation of his soul and body.
“I am really glad I found you,” said Fred, stopping for a moment to move the tripod. “Usually, I try to find potential talent out at stores or around the park or whatever, and they are always tough to get. I wasn’t sure about you physically, but you are proving to be one of my favorite subjects.”
Tim the Printer Guy thought about the Adonises and how they fought against his persistence. Looking at Fred now, Tim was able to see every trait they loathed: his awkward movements, his filthy appearance, and his inability to listen. Fred treated every scream and jerk like a performance. He reveled in each sound, continuing to adjust and snap more pictures.
“When will I paint you?” asked Tim the Printer Guy, tired from the shame of it all.
“In a moment, you will get your chance,” said Fred. “I am excited to see what you come up with. I have always wanted to get my portrait painted. Your work is really good. Finally, I have another artist here. Someone who knows what I live with.”
“I am nothing like you,” said Tim, softly. “I would never do this. This isn’t art.”
Fred stopped. “Did you already forget what I told you, Tim?” he asked. “I thought you understood what good art should do. It challenges you!”
Tim shed more tears, until he was red in the face, as rage seeped into his speech. “My art gives you hope, and protects you! I want to capture beauty and nothing more!” he screamed.
“What kind of beauty is that?” asked Fred.
“Freedom and kind hearts, the joy of learning and creating friendships. Life is full of beauty—beauty in kindness towards others! When we met, I thought we shared that. You let me stay with you, I thought, because you had a kind heart and I wanted to repay you with such. Now I know you are a wicked man who fetishizes pain! You are a disgrace, someone who only hurts things!”
Fred Shudnow glared at Tim with anger of his own. “I never wanted to hurt you, I just wanted to have you,” he said. “When we first met, I was struck with your kindness. I would come back to that PaperClips store every once in a while to see if anyone wanted to come back to the house. Those guys looked like what I would typically go for, but they were stubborn and boring. You were interesting. The way you were stranded in the rain, and I came and saved you… I knew you had more to tell then any of those drones at that PaperClips store.”
“Those men are Adonises!” shouted Tim the Printer Guy, straining his voice.
“Is that what you think beauty is?”
“I know it is! They have so much to give, so much life and love in their hearts,” Tim shouted more, whining and pleading with Fred to see their beauty. “I am nothing of what they are!”
“You are just confused, Tim. A little lost too,” said Fred. “Blinded by their physical traits and not seeing their true worthlessness. They looked fine enough, but they really had nothing to offer.”
“You are worthless!” Tim snapped back, throwing Fred an intense, narrowed stare.
His anger sent Fred a few steps back, knocking into the cabinet, which sent Cage’s hat onto the ground. Fred picked it up, and Tim spit out more rage.
“Don’t you dare touch that!” he screamed.
“Okay,” said Fred sarcastically, setting the hat down with a melodramatic tenderness. “Sorry, about touching your precious hat.”
“That hat belonged to an Adonis—a pure, innocent being. It cannot be sullied by the likes of you!” exclaimed Tim.
“Someone at PaperClips gave you this?” asked Fred, now intrigued. “Was it that slog with the black hair? Adam, something?”
Tim repulsed at the thought of Adem. “Oh no!” he said. “Him I don’t care for. But that doesn’t matter! It belonged to someone of high superiority!”
“Okay, whatever. Are you in love with them?” Fred asked with a sarcastic, mocking tone.
Tim the Printer Guy did not know what to say. Of course he loved the Adonises, but to what extent could he categorize his love? What he loved about them was their yearning for more. They inspired him to think beyond his mundane job and, once again, find beauty in life. Their physical attributes were impressive, and Tim enjoyed capturing that in his art, but was he at all attracted to them sexually? The thought never occurred to him. Tim the Printer Guy did not ever seek the physical and emotional spoils of intercourse. He figured that, as he was so involved with unloading that raw energy into his painting, Tim did not possess the need for intimacy. The only woman he ever found beautiful was his mother, and even though she did share anything biological with Tim, he never once contemplated something such as that. Tim the Printer Guy was obsessed with the male form, yet he devoted every ounce of that obsession into his painting.
The Adonises were his muses. Overall, they needed to be protected from the evils of the world—the same that plagued Tim every day, and brought him to the hell that is Fred Shudnow. If only Tim the Printer Guy could conjure the influence his mother had on him and serve as a parental figure in their lives.
Fred started to pack up his equipment, folding the tripod and unscrewing the lens from the camera. “How about we take a break and you can paint me?” he asked.
Tim the Printer Guy perked up, feverishly anticipating Fred to release him. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “Just get these belts off of me!”
“Hold on,” said Fred. “Let me get all my stuff out of here.” He picked up the equipment and left the room. A few seconds later he returned with Tim’s canvas and an assortment of paints. “I still don’t think you should be out of bed, but I really want to get this painting done.” Fred set up the canvas in front of Tim, then moved back over to the door. He took out a key and held it up to Tim’s face. “This should keep you in here, working,” Fred said before locking the door and shoving the key in his pocket.
Tim the Printer Guy then watched as Fred began to release him from his binds. Slowly, he regained control of his arms and legs. Tim then rose from the bed and stared into the wild eyes of his captor. Fred kept staring back with a wicked smile and with his head tilted down—almost like a bull.
“Paint me, Tim!” Fred shouted. “The spirit is in this room, I can feel it!” He jumped on top of the bed and threw his knees into the air, mimicking the same impish gestures of yesterday morning. Tim the Printer Guy did not move. He remained still, as he did not want to excite the man in any way. Fred was waiting for movement, to ignite the same veracity of the previous painting session. It was all some sick game to him.
“C’mon, get the key!” Fred called out, while jumping up and down on the bed. “Win your freedom by painting!”
Tim the Printer Guy slowly strolled over to the canvas and studied its overwhelming blankness. What could he even capture in this moment, that would not scare him and further send his mind into blackness? The darkness of Fred left Tim stagnant, doubting his ability to paint anything. However, as Fred tossed out more jeers and commands such as, “Paint!” and, “Don’t you want to ever see those boys again?” Tim the Printer Guy lost all sense of fear. He just had to give him what he wanted, no matter how dark it was.
Tim began to paint, deciding to start with a dark black to outline the uneven, wild shape of Fred’s hair. It dripped onto the canvas like ink, pilfering the virginal image that Tim once thought to be his future. He took the brush and spread the black paint into circles, gradually creating a smoky, cloudlike representation of hair. Tim the Printer Guy could not find a way to gently touch the canvas, as he normally would for texture, Instead, rage compelled him to force down the brush with all his might and generate a dark, imposing silhouette of his face. He followed the contours of Fred’s cheeks and jawline closely, not letting his mind slip into creative alterations.
Next, he had to fill in the skin. Tim mixed different light hues to make a sickly, greenish white. As he took the brush and blended the paints more, the color became more gray and dreary—devoid of any chromaticity, which would attract any attention. The painting’s visage was as uninteresting and dull as the broad, dumb, gremlin population that Tim hated. His eyes were droopy, along with his mouth, culminating in an expression of stupidity. This form of evil was more frightening, because it was real—a man not unlike those trapped under corporate aspirations or mindless servility to the dullness of others. Fred Shudnow was a lost, weak soul who could only find happiness by holding down those he thought wouldn't fight back. He was a true manipulator of innocence and kindness, taking joy in subjugation and pain. Fred was no true artist and Tim made sure that the painting reflected that.
“Let me see,” Fred interrupted, jumped off the bed and held his face over Tim the Printer Guy’s shoulder.
He did not say anything at all. More agonizing silence filled the void between the two. Tim looked down at where Fred hid the key, and then back at his face. Fred’s expression was dumb-founded, seemingly in a desperate search for something within the painting. Tim was intensely preoccupied by his lack of movement, trying to find the chance to run or to act in some way.
“What do you think?” Tim asked, staring at the door.
Fred mumbled a bit, but could not respond with any coherence. A strange hiss-like breath also came out of his mouth, as though his brain was boiling. Tim the Printer Guy decided to take his chance, not seeing another moment to do so. With one quick motion, Tim pushed Fred to the ground and made his way to the door. He thrusted his body against it, hoping that the weight would be enough to bust it down—alas, it was to no avail. Tim the Printer Guy turned around and stared at Fred, who was still picking himself off the ground.
“Give it to me!” he shouted.
Fred rubbed his head, trying to find his sense again. He languidly pulled the key out of his pocket and dangled it in the air. “Why don’t you come and get it?” he asked.
Tim the Printer Guy took a breath and channeled his rage into a jumbled strike. With his shoulders and head directed downward at Fred, Tim charged forward, screaming a warrior's scream. As Tim was about to collide, Fred pulled the key out of the way, sending him into the wall and smacking his face. Tim the Printer Guy felt dazed for a second, making his way back to his feet.
“You will have to try better than that!” said Fred, urging him to strike again, taunting him as a matador would, building on Tim’s rage, puppeteering his emotions and actions. “Come on!” Fred shouted once more.
Tim the Printer Guy reached down in the pit of stomach and let out another loud shriek, summoning every inch of strength and launched at him once more. Fred gave a flourish and dodged the printer guy, watching him fly past him and onto the door. This time, Tim achieved freedom by smashing through and stumbling into the hallway. Once he was finally free from the bedroom, he took off down the stairs and out of the house. Fred chased him the best he could, but Tim maintained a great distance by running far into the trees.
The sun continued to shine on Tim, lighting his way through the thick of the forest. Tears filled his eyes, refracting the sun’s rays and almost blinding him, yet he continued on with an explosive pace. Soon, Tim the Printer Guy jumped into a clearing and dropped to his knees. As he wiped the tears away, he noticed that he was along the shore of Red Flow Lake, staring back at Penn Island and all its glory.