Right out of the bat, dear reader, I want to tell you that this is not gonna be a "funny haha" kind of chapter. It's gonna be a sad chapter with sad boy shit, implied-homophobia, abuse, and other trigger warnings. I'll try to be as subtle as I can with this, but you have been warned.

To say it's a pregnant silence would be selling it short. It's a 40 weeks, preeclampsia-ridden pregnancy, no baby-daddy in sight, the city has collapsed because of a flash-flood, and boy is it not helping that Silence's water just broke in the most unfortunate moment. It's that kind of silence.

Even the ever-present loop of Creedence Clearwater Revival seems muted and solemn as the Dick-mobile slowly, but surely, takes us to the outskirts of the town, past the railroad tracks, past the slums, past the line where the road goes from pavement to dirt, into the hills beyond. I really hope this is not an elaborate murder-suicide thing going on. When he said he wanted to "make us dinner," he didn't really mean he wanted to make us dinner, right?

I always wanted for Hayden to eat my meat, but not in a literal sense.

Still, the truck goes on, sliding on the muddy trail with the grace of a three-legged greased-up pig. And we, the bacon in this situation, can only watch in silence as Hayden takes up to the boonies, most likely to maybe eat us ass first. I would eat my ass first.

The only thing breaking the monotonous drone of the music and engise is the rumbling in Brayden's stomach. And even Brayden himself cannot bring up the subject, with all the tension in the air and whatnot. Not like we have to wait much longer, for there is a light in the distance, followed by many other lights, dim as they are. A run-down wooden sign barely tells us where we are arriving, heavily graffitied over: "HVMW City Trailer Park," with the word "City" crossed out with red paint, replaced by the word "Shitty" underneath. And boy if it isn't right on the money.

The whole park is covered with dilapidated husks of trailers past, most inhabited or broken, all atop a bed of mud and grime. The few inhabited trailers have people outside with fans, sitting on lawn chairs, trying to escape the humid air. Everything smells of gasoline and fried food, which is not the most appetizing mixture.

The truck trudges through the muck and mud, passing every trailer but one in the back. Of all the inhabited trailers, this one seems the most taken care of. But not by much. A coat of fresh white paint covers rust patches that threaten to resurface any second now, while dusty windows opaque the view inside. It has no wheels, standing on cinder blocks instead. There's a big chicken coop on the back of the trailer with about ten chickens roaming about. Don't worry, there's enough room for all of them.

"Home sweet home," says Hayden, killing the engine just in front of said trailer. Maybe it's a caravan. Let's just go with trailer for now.

I always knew Hayden wasn't that well off, but this is just on another level. The level of disparity between Brayden and him, for example, is ridiculous. Even from him and me. This is not fair. This is not fair at all.

"nice ," says Brayden, slipping out of the Dick-mobile. "you even have ducks."

"Those are chickens, see?

Lay eggs, cluck, like bread, no pants,

And contempt for life."

"sounds like a duck to me," says Brayden. "what are their names?"

Hayden, who has a thousand-yards stare, simply lists the names of the chicken in one breath. "Annabel, Bertha, Clarisse, Daniella, Elizabeth, Fanny, Gertrude, Hilda, Irina, Jolyne."

"And don't forget about Big Kenny," says a voice, which sounds as if a cigarette filter had come to life. The voice comes from a man standing at the entrance of the trailer, a man who is clearly hosting a competition between his wife-beater and his red-striped boxers to see which one had more stains than the other, and neither is backing down. He's greasier than a KFC takeout container and just about as harrier, with a thick mustache that draws attention away from his balding head. Speaking of KFC, I think that was his lunch, since his mustache had congealed chicken grease globs on them. "He's the cock of the walk, that one."

Hayden takes a deep breath, giving the man a gentle smile. "Hello, dad."

This shit-stain is his father? What's with fathers and wifebeaters? Is it a cliche thing? Anywhow, now that I see him, he does bear some resemblance to Hayden, if he suddenly fused with the marshmallow puff man and submerged in a vat of used kitchen oil. The only word I can use to describe him is "slimy."

And also violent, as he forcefully grabs Hayden by the back of the head with an audible smack, and pulls him closer. "Don't dad me, you little shit. Where were you? You were supposed to be here yesterday and cook me my dinner. You want me to starve to death, boy?"

What, the, fuck. How dare he lay a finger on my love? I don't care if you're a father, you never, ever, lay a finger on your kid. I take a step forward to confront him, but Hayden's outstretched hand stops me in my tracks.

"No, sir," says Hayden. "I'm sorry."

The man spits on the ground between them while giving Hayden the stink-eye. "You better be sorry, boy, or I'll make you. Now get your ass in there and make me dinner. And who the fuck are you?"

That one is directed at us, and honestly, how do I answer that? The man seems to be at the brink of punching Hayden in the face, let alone us. Lucky for us, it is Hayden who speaks on our behalf.

"Those are my friends. I invited them for dinner," says Hayden.

The man gives us a once over, as if to take in any sign of perceived imperfection to dislike us, before scoffing.

"Go make me my damn dinner, boy," says the man, turning around and disappearing inside the trailer.

Charming.

Unlike the relatively upkept exterior, the inside of the trailer is a hoarder's paradise. I can't even see the walls due to the number of boxes stacked on boxes, full of car parts, leaky transmission fluid, porcelain angels for some fucking reason, duct tapped boxes full of unspecified things, and moldy books, one on top of the other. Junk and trash, and nothing more, except for a little nook where the kitchen is. That is the only spotless place in the trailer.

"Please, make yourself at home," says Hayden. "I'll go get the ingredients. I hope you all like fried chicken."

"sounds good," says Brayden, sitting on a pile of musty books next to what I assume is a table. It's a big box with a tablecloth on it, with a used ashtray on top of everything.

"Aren't you vegan?" I ask.

"fried chicken is vegan. it's covered in bread. bread is vegan."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"what are you, the vegan police? are you gonna tell me chickie nuggies aren't vegan as well?"

This is not a hill dying for. Eat chicken all you can. Speaking of which, I hear a clucking commotion from the chicken pen, but it dies out pretty quickly.

Okayden takes a seat on the floor on the other side of the table. He's tall enough to reach the ceiling of the trailer as it is, so it's the best move. I, on the other hand, sit on a heavily stained couch facing a tv, the only real piece of furniture around. It's somehow stiff and squishy at the same time.

"Okay, quick question: anybody has a fucking idea of what's happening?" I ask my two companions. "I thought for a second he was gonna kill us and eat us."

"i thought he was going to leave us in the middle of the woods like my homeboys hansel and gretel."

"What does he gain from that?" I ask.

"i dunno, what does he gain from eating us? I'm, like, 87% baby fat. mostly in my cheeks. the ass kind."

"Murder/Suicide," whispers Okayden, yanking a book from the pile forming Brayden's seat.

Suddenly, a door from the back of the trailer opens up, followed by the smell of ball cheese and cooking grease. Out the door comes waltzing Hayden's dad, looking at us with the same disdain as before. We don't dare say a word as he fumbles his way to the minifridge, takes out a beer, and grabs a lighter by the stove. He walks up to me and stands very, very close. Close enough for me to smell the specific stench of his bellybutton lint. Vintage, 2016. Exquisite year.

"You're in my seat, boy," he says, with added waterworks from his spittle.

I move out of the way and take a seat next to Okayden on the floor. The man turns on the t.v, showing some tacky show with monster trucks and tits called "Monster Tittites." He cracks open a cold one, lights up a cigarette, and lays back on the couch.

Awkward... what are we supposed to do now? If the previous silence was pregnant and awkward, this one was trying to give birth during a nuclear meltdown.

"So, who the fuck are you three?" says the man, taking a drag of his cigarette, eyes glued to the monster tiddies.

Thank God, an out. Thank you, future father-in-law.

"brayden, your son's best friend," says Brayden, the cheeky bastard.

"Okayden," says Okayden. Short and to the point.

"And I'm Ayden. Your son's..." Hmm, has Hayden come out to his dad, I wonder? Somehow, I doubt this man has an open, progressive mind. I'll play safe, just in case... "friend. Just friends."

"Hmm," grunts the man with a swig of beer. "Where's that boy? I'm starving."

Just then, Hayden walks in with a plucked chicken in his hands. It doesn't take me long to put two and two together.

"Hurry up! You know I like to eat staring at titties and trucks, and I ain't pausing the DVR for you!" yells Hayden's father.

"Coming," says Hayden, who makes quick work of the chicken with the knife.

And we are back to the awkward silence. For about ten minutes, nothing happens. Then, nothing continues to happen, as Hayden fries the cutlets one by one, adding to the greasy atmosphere of it all. But true to his word, he cooks each cutlet before the show ends. He lays a paper plate with golden-crispy chicken in front of us, receiving a meek thank you from us three. His dad doesn't even look him in the eye, only shaking an empty bottle of beer at him. Hayde grabs it and changes it for a fresh one.

"Okay, dig in," says Hayden.

And so we do, in complete silence. Don't get me wrong, it's super delicious, but there is a wall between us all. A wall in the shape of a squat mole of a man with thinly-veiled anger issues. Our existence itself seems to bother him.

"Boy, where's the scholarship check?" says the man suddenly and without warning.

Hayden gulps down a bite of chicken, before grabbing my hand, just out of sight. He's shaking. "It must be lost in the mail. I'll call the school tomorrow."

The man turns off the t.v, and for the first time today, he locks eyes with his son. "Don't fuck with me, boy. I called the school today to know where your ass was, and I got told you quit the football team. What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

To that, he has nothing to say. He can only squeeze my hand and look down in shame.

"You know the only way I'm letting you stay in that school of yours is because you make money playing football. If you don't pull your weight around, I'll pull you out of that school and make you work on the workshop. I already called Mike and he has a job for you. Now, you're gonna be a good boy and be thankful for that job, okay?"

What? Fuck off, you fat bastard. There's no way Hayden is gonna lay down and take that abuse.

"No need for that," says Hayden.

Yes, give him the goods! Punch him in the throat! Punt him in the wee-wee!

"I already called Coach Fuches, and he agreed to have me on the team again. It was just a brief misunderstanding, that's all."

Yes, call Fuches, and... wait, call Fuches?

"Hayden, what are you saying? We have a club, remember?" I say, half laughing, half panicking.

He, just like his father, adverts his eyes, unable to look at me. "No, we don't have a club anymore. I called Fuches while I was outside and he agreed to get me into the team again. I'm sorry, brother."

Brother. Brother. "After all we have been through, we are back at brother? Fuck you. I gave you everything, and you're gonna backstab us in the back? I can't believe you. Is that why you invited us to dinner? To fill us up before punting us out of your life? Fuck off. Come on, guys. I can't believe this."

But they don't move. They stay right there where they are. "Guys?"

Brayden takes a bite of his chicken leg while swaying back and forth. "bro, hayden is right. it's over. we don't have a club anymore. it's every man for himself now. but at least we are not required to be in a club now. we can still be friends and hang out after school, right, fido?"

Okayden puts the entire chicken piece in his mouth, spitting the bones onto the plate.

"Hayden needs only,

To pursue his happiness,

And we shall support."

"Thank you for understanding, brothers," says Hayden. "You are still my friends. We will still hang out. Nothing has changed. I'll only be pursuing my scholarship."

Nothing has changed? Am I on crazy pills? Everything is changing! Literally, everything got fucked up. "Don't give me that shit. Everything is changing and you know it. You're tossing away your dream! And for what? To do something you actively hate? Tell me how that's suddenly okay with you. You owe us at least that much."

A laugh pierces my tantrum. Hayden's father chortles and coughs, as if mocking me. "Dream? What dream? You only have one job, and that's to play football. That's the only thing you're good for."

"What dream? Are you seriously asking that?" I yell at him.

"Ayden, don't-"

"Ayden, yes!" I yell. "Your son is a genius cook, you fat bastard. And he's gonna go to cooking school and achieve his dreams of being a pro-chef!"

And then, silence. It's not even pregnant. There is nothing to hope for here. It's as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed in the room. Hayden's father looks at me between bushy eyebrows of contempt, and speaks slowly.

"Ah, you're still on that?" he asks to Hayden. "I told you to forget about that. Your sissy little dream already cost us your mother's life."

His what now? "Hayden, what-"

"Oh, he didn't tell you? Some friend you are." His father lights up a new cigarette with the butt of the previous one, blowing a cloud of smoke towards my face. "He always had this damn dream of being a cook. He even pestered his mom about it, twisting her arm to enroll him in cooking classes. She saved every penny from any odd job she could get her hands on. Cleaning, ironing, babysitting, you name it. One rainy day, after she saved enough money for his tuition, they went out to enroll him. On the way there, she got T-boned by a freight truck, and she was no more. It's all his fault. He killed his mother with his dumb dream of his."

Oh, my God. I never knew. I didn't know. I... I'm sorry. "Hayden, I-"

Hayden stands up suddenly, giving us the same gentle smile he gave us while inviting us over. "You're right. It's a dumb dream. That's why I'm returning to the football club. Guys, it's getting late. I'll take you all home."

Everything is crumbling around me. Everything we have worked for, dust in the wind, and here I am, grasping at air, trying to snatch it back. And yet, every word is just another gust of wind, blowing it away from me.

I grab Hayden's hand and squeeze it with all my might. "No! I refuse to give up! I refuse from surrendering! I love you, and I will make your dream come true, no matter what!"

Hayden's dad stands up from his seat in the blink of an eye, making the trailer shake from the strength. "Why the fuck are you grabbing my son's hand, you freak? Are you some kind of (F-word I'm not going to repeat here)?"

And no, dear readers, it isn't fuck. It's a word that in any other context would mean "a bundle of sticks," if that helps. A word so derogatory and so heinous that I refuse to put it in paper. I shall not.

"Yes, I'm gay!" I yell at him. "And you know what? So is your son. He's my boyfriend, you slur-flinging fuck!"

His eyes might as well pop out of his sockets, bounce around the room, and back to his skull. "What in the sweet name of baby Jesus are you on? I knew you were a sissy since the day you picked up a frying pan, boy, but to be an (f-word I refuse to say again)? You're no son of mine. You're a fucking disgrace." That last part is punctuated by him smashing a beer bottle right next to Hayden's face. "Get the fuck out of my sight, you (yep, f-word), all of you! And don't come back until I'm sober. I beat the devil out of you, I swear on your mother!"

Hayden, instead of lashing out, or defending himself, simply shakes my hand off.

And with that, my heart sinks to the floor.

"You should've kept your mouth shut," he whispers under his breath.

But I heard him, dear reader. I heard him very, very clearly.

He walks past us, past his screaming dad, and into the room in the back. After a minute of rustling and clanking, he comes out with a black trash bag full of stuff. Mostly clothes, I reckon.

"C'mon, guys, let's go," he says, turning around and leaving the camper, us in tow.

"Yeah, you better run, boy, before I kick your ass!"

Without anything else to be said, we march back into the darkness, with guilt and fear swirling inside my heart.

What now? What's next? I'm afraid for the future.

I'm afraid for Hayden.

I'm afraid of Hayden.