30,000 was a lot of anything; it was 30,000 ants infesting a home, or 30,000 civilians dead in Manhattan, or owing 30,000 dollars to a very, very dangerous man.

30,000 was a lot of anything. It was $30,000 8-Ball didn't have more than a nick of, unless he counted the $3.5k stock-piled under his kitchen sink. Only a penny to the dollar. He took a crack at their savings every-so-often to pay for the necessities, drinks and car-repairs. It usually dropped from $3.5k to $2.4k by the end of each month, before bouncing back up around the same, if not a smidge less.

Whatever the case, it wasn't $30,000.

"Well, well, well; you need another extension on your loan?" A grainy, distorted voice fed its way through 8-Ball's rotary phone, causing a chill to ride up his spine.

How the hell did he get himself wrapped up in this?

8-Ball's hands clamped at the young man's tone, clutching tightly the receiver. He'd met Bill Cipher many times before on less formal occasions, back when he'd been more-famously known as only the heir to a crime empire, and son of Mob Boss Ronald (Ronnie) Cipher, who (prior to his death) had been a good friend of 8-Ball's.

Sure, Ronald Cipher was a high-end capitalist in his hay-day and ate off the backs of working-class grime like 8-Ball. Who didn't? They'd made acquaintances at a bar one evening, caught between the dock and an alleyway. Ronald asked for a smoke. 8-Ball talked fishing. They were casual buddies; like old, grey memories of golf trips and threading hooks, coupled by a thumb's worth of whiskey to tolerate the heat.

They were both slow, simple conversationalists. 8-Ball remembered roaming the Cipher's Mansion most-every Friday for a customary cigar, discussions on the paper, talk of finances. He never retained more than a lick of whatever the man said, though it hardly mattered. Ronald only ever monologued to himself and whoever else bothered listening in. 8-Ball supposed he was good company to a man who hated interruptions. For that, he was rewarded handsomely.

Ronald Cipher showed gratitude through his wealth. At first, it was enough to buy 8-Ball a new pair of work boots. Then, enough for truck repairs. After a while, he could've made plans to build a pool the size of a small lake, though he didn't, but accumulated wealth to ponder what he would do with it. He took what he could, but never outright begged for it.

Bill Cipher had been somewhere in his early teens at the time. Thirteen, fourteen; 8-Ball wasn't sure. He was all but disengaged from Bill's life; barely gave a damn what the kid did, or who he did it with.

There were just some things he couldn't tolerate.

8-Ball only tipped Ronnie off on his concerns. Bill had a habit of staring too long at their personal butler, Philip; a slim-wasted, pointy-nosed man with smooth, round nails from France. They all knew what men from France were like. Bill was a conniving young fox, of course. He always made his biggest messes around Philip's shifts, all lingering pats and high cheeks, which he'd thought had gone unnoticed; 8-Ball was always just a room away, peering over his glass, feeling repulsed and disserviced at the longing in the boy's eyes.

The heir to Ronnie's empire couldn't be some fairy.

He informed Ronald Cipher one hushed evening, a sly elbow, with worries over Bill becoming "one of them queers." Ronnie's face had turned white at the proposition; he looked more scandalized to find someone had finally caught on. That'd been the extent of it. 8-Ball assumed he set his son straight, so to speak. Philip was shipped off to some no-name three-star establishment and replaced by Mrs. Needer, who smelled like burnt parchment paper, and Bill was introduced to every young lady around his age during formal events, which often took hours. After that, Bill hardly hung around the mansion while 8-Ball visited, and when he did, glared nastily under the hood of his brow.

8-Ball and Ronnie's friendship eventually fizzled out, as was life. The men sat, speaking and gesturing plainly, when the words suddenly became void. Something unlatched itself, whatever it had been, to estrange the two men- less like opposite sides of the couch, and more like the vastness of space, drifting infinitely apart. They disregarded staying in touch, and when Ronald's death was formally announced, 8-Ball felt maybe the passing of a ghost of sadness, but nothing more.

Come one year later, Bill Cipher- freshly 18- knocked on his door with a clean smile to his face and an accountant at his side.

Ronald hadn't minded spreading his wealth, though it was hard mocking that up to virtue or generosity when he'd been drowning in it. If 8-Ball happened to drop that he was late on rent, or side-glanced something in a catalogue, or just flat-out griped about being poor, Ronald had always forwarded something into his account. They had been handouts; gifts, 8-Ball explained, sputtering and sweating under his collared shirt.

Cipher just shook his head then, tutting his tongue, and tapped the paper which insisted in red ink that 8-Ball's "donations" had in fact been loans. Which, Bill marked slyly, he'd be needing back.

What could he say to the face of an empire?

Bill made a point of nailing the paper to his front door. He was all grins and bowties (both of which Ronnie found in poor taste) before sauntering off. The man was quiet in his dimly-lit home; 30,000 was a lot of anything. He'd had $30,000? Impossible. 8-Ball only even liked beers, trucks, and trout.

It didn't rightfully matter what he thought he'd had, and what he'd actually had. Not when a different number was coming out of a much wealthier, more influential man's mouth, and 8-Ball was no fool to think otherwise.

He'd known people who tangled themselves up with The Mafia before; went from friendly guys you met in passing at a gas station, to heavy-drinking bible-thumpers over the course of a few months. "Takes the hair right off yer chest, and puts the fear o' god in ya," as an old buddy put it, just weeks before they'd found his body anchored in cement at the bottom of Martin Lake; he'd owed $5,000.

8-Ball was no fool. At least, he wasn't fool enough to sit around, accumulating unemployment checks in hopes of wrangling up even a morsel of cash. He got his things together- all his Dolly Parton posters, a few pots and a fist-full of clean underpants. Cleared house right away. He'd planned on fleeing the country.

He got side-tracked at a bar.

Soft, orange lights overhead. The stink of tobacco. The scratch of stools over hardwood. 8-Ball drummed his fingers to live music, head tilted to shield his features, hoping to ease away the sharp rock in his gut. He drank two, then eight, then "ten-teen" as he'd put it. By midnight he thought "Hell," and fancied taking a piss. He tilted out of his stool, catching himself along the bar's aisle before making his way into the stalls, where he came in contact with a peculiar man with green, ragged hair and a lip-ring.

8-Ball took a half-cocked stance in front of one of the urinals, and the man with a lip ring, instead of taking residence in the stall one over, made rest beside the bathroom door. He peered outside slyly, before turning away and making small-talk with the drunk man; asked 8-Ball if he knew Josie, which he didn't. Then, if he liked Ice-hockey, or if he was from New Zealand. The man with a lip ring said he looked like a good friend of his, which he doubted. He had a lot to say, and talked so casually, it came out forced. 8-Ball pretended not to hear him after a while, shaking himself dry. He began to leave, only for the man with a lip-ring to stop him; he was uppity. Having failed to break the ice, let out a strained huff before asking head-on if he liked younger women. That got 8-Ball's attention.

The man with a lip-ring started his spiel slowly, giving a vague lay-out of his pitch. He put an arm around a drunk, intrigued 8-Ball, before fishing out what looked to be a battered envelope. Something about price ranges, he'd assumed. The man opened the envelope's flap, and handed it over to 8-Ball. "Pick your poison," the man with a lip-ring said. And, what kind of poison was it?

Young girls.

Very young girls. Girls with braids still in their hair. Girls hardly out of middle school. Girls hardly out of diapers. Very, very young girls. 8-Ball lifted his eyes, a confused look scrawled over his features, but the man seemed to think he'd found himself one of those people. 8-Ball, had he been an ounce more sober, would've knocked him straight on his ass, but was all too distracted by the pricing.

Some of those girls went for as much as a new car, despite being hardly out of their car seats. Hell, maybe even because. There were ten-year-olds going for 4k. A dizzying thought.

8-Ball could use 4k.

Hey.

8-Ball could use 4k.

It hadn't started as much. Merely a thought. He went home that night, forgetful of his own daunting loans, longing for his bed and weaving between lanes. In the morning, he went out with a hangover and shades for Ibuprofen, having pushed the lip-ringed man and his photos to the back of his mind. 8-Ball was in an isle at the drug store- he couldn't recall which- when, remnants of last night coming to life, a boy no more than twelve roamed around unsupervised, and he thought plainly:

4k.

That was three years ago.

In that span of time, 8-Ball learned the patterns of a child. He understood where to look, and where not to, and how to read one, and to pursue without pursuing. He knew when to let one go, and when to push a little harder if the odds were in his favor. The man was like a creeping tiger in a nursery, prowling for soft flesh, hoping to reap the benefits. It was all a learning curve.

Discerning the sleep-deprived from the pent up, sexually depraved. Discovered the magic of selling someone's virginity, and selling it four more times; that's half-a-grand for first-timers, and two-hundred for regulars. Two-to-three kids occupying a basement at once. Six loyal customers, and nineteen wishy-washy-thrice-a-year-ers.

It should've been enough. It would've been enough, if 8-Ball hadn't been so happy to see all that money come in. There was always something to celebrate. For his first grand, he bought an expensive bottle of fancy, diamond-shaped scotch. His third, the man splurged on a new mattress (his old one had lumps and bumps all over.) Once, he had 9k in his back-pocket, all to himself: blew it on alligator boots with the heads mounted at the toes.

8-Ball assumed it was one of life's greatest mysteries, where all his hard-earned cash had gone.

Bill, who loved to watch him struggle, had only intended on giving him a year to scrounge up the money, knowing full well he couldn't. Though, seeing 8-Ball fail, and fail so completely- even after striking gold in the black market- was just too entertaining. He let the man stretch himself thin over the years, finding new ways of begging, new ways of grovelling, completely unaware the system was rigged against him, regardless.

Three years was a long time coming, though. Bill was a busy man, having filled his late father's shoes, and a dozen other pairs. He didn't have the schedule to set aside time for a measly 30k. Which was why, today of all days, he'd planned on finally bringing down the hatchet.

"I just need a little more time." 8-Ball switched ears, tapping tightly over his chin. There was a sigh over the line as Bill leaned back in his large, leather chair, filling his lunges with satisfaction at 8-Ball's tone. A grin he couldn't stand to wipe away, and dress-shoes kicked over his arm-rest. It was sunny outside; he pulled at the curtains behind his desk, letting light spill over him.

"You know? I'm starting to think you've mistaken my kindness for weakness." Bill drew easily, unable to mask his amusement. He threw his head back, giving himself an eye-full of the seven-foot portrait looming overhead; his had been the first in the family-line with a smile. "Haven't I given you all the time in the world?"

8-Ball shifted his weight from one foot to the other, grinning terribly, sweating profusely- it was a miracle their meeting was being held over the phone. Bill saw right through him, face-to-face; he was a world-class gambler. "We've had a few set-backs this year, with the economy and such." 8-Ball tried, running a hand under his armpit, dampen in sweat rolling down the side of his torso.

Bill tutted his tongue, while at the same time pulling open one of his desk's drawers.

"Don't play that card, Turner. I've got my people watching you, and they've been telling me some very bad things." He explained, reaching down to retrieve a vial of spirits and a small tumbler claimed by his ring-finger. "Looks to me you've been spending all that money that's supposed to be in my pockets."

His tone was unmistakably coy. When Bill sat up, shifting the phone in his grip to free his right hand- poured himself a glass- it was all he could do to pretend the decision hadn't already been made. 8-Ball's head-shot had been crossed out for weeks; his existence was only a chore he'd yet to do.

"I've, uh-." 8-Ball paused, rubbing a wet hand over his chest. There was his partner Teeth, just a seat away, propped at the kitchen table with an empty bowl and a spoon, staring intently; he couldn't even pretend to hide his ease-dropping. Trailing off, 8-Ball stretched the rotary phone's cord all the way to the far corner's window, where he lifted a moth-eaten curtain and peered out at the driveway. "J-just little stuff. You know my old truck still makes that weird-. That squeaking noise. Can't figure out what the hell's wrong with it. I took it in for a check under the hood just last month, and the guy told me it might be in need of a tune-up, and I don't know about cars, so I let him have at it, and he told me I'd have to put down-."

"$750, right?" Bill cut in. The color drained from 8-Ball's face; he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but didn't care to look. He was frozen in place. "God, did you finally run out of excuses? Have I really heard it all? Hmm?" Bill stretched himself out, a preen smearing his features. He raised an arm over his head, chest arched, before flopping back in his chair. "I should've sent them after you when I caught a whiff of it; you're full of shit, Turner. What do you say to that?"

8-Ball gulped.

"I-... I just need a little more-."

"Heard it a thousand times; you're a one-trick pony." The garden over-seen by Bill's office was well-maintained with roses, pads of fresh grass, spurts of yellow and blue trimming the green-house. "What more do you want from me? You're already tearing me to pieces with this 30k. I can hardly sleep, just thinking about it." He tasted the spirit in his glass, and thought to call for some ice.

His ears were intensely trained on the man over the line. Every breath. Every creak of his crummy floorboards. He wondered how much it might cost to see the expression on 8-Ball's disfigured face. After a moment, he hummed. "But, you know what? I'll be generous with you; consider it a gift from my father beyond the grave." Bill fixed the phone against his ear, perched between head and shoulder. His fingernails were crusted in blood. "Six months."

8-Ball broke from his trance at his stomach promptly dropping into his ass. "Six months?!" He gaped, causing his partner Teeth to jerk out of his seat, occupying a room over.

"Too much?" Bill rolled the glass in his hand tiredly, catching bright lines of white and crystal. 8-Ball tried composing himself, even with his lower jaw trembling out of rhythm with the rest of his body.

"Uh- no. No, no. It's just-. These things take so much time, you see, and-."

"Oh, I get it." Bill assured with a hum. He set his tumbler down. "You're exploiting me."

"No! Not at all!" 8-Ball gasped, combing a hand through his hair, forgetful of the hair not on his head. "It's just such short notice." He chortled nervously, wobbling on his knees.

He did the math; that's nine customers on average, each month. With the new kid, he could probably squeeze out three or four more "firsts" for $500, before dropping the price to $200 like the rest of them. Nine customers a month- that's fifty-four in six, times two-hundred, plus the added "virgin" tax.

That's-.

Not even half.

"Those last three years must've been my imagination." Bill's tone went cold, fingers drumming the smooth surface of his desk when he finished off his drink. "I don't like being unappreciated, Turner."

"I appreciate you. I do, it's just-." 8-Ball tugged at the strap of his wife-beater, swallowing away the lump in his throat. He laughed again, uneven when his voice tipped. "I'm sure we can work something out."

Bill leaned up where he'd been seated. He straightened his back with a roll of his shoulders, folding his hands over the desk, neck craning to keep the phone against his ear.

"We can?" Bill whistled. "Color me intrigued. I'd love to hear it. Go on, then. Sweeten the pot."

8-Ball's stomach clenched with a turn. "Well, uh-." His eyes darted around for inspiration, overlooking his beaten-down couch, his box television, his porn-catalogues.

He was a simple man. Well, when his pockets were empty. Upstairs was a mattress too big and luxurious for its frame, worn alligator boots he kept clean with an old toothbrush, and vintage records with the artist's signature on the covers.

Down in the living room, just left of the kitchen, he was a simple man.

8-Ball steadied himself, working up the nerve to bargen. It was Summer-break's end, after all. The children's schedules would be far more predictable, going to and from school at reasonable hours. If Bill gave him maybe three more months, it could mean an added six-to-eight hundred to the equation. If he spread the word- maybe dissolved a few safe-gaurds to entice new customers-.

He could spend the last nine months of his life working himself to the bone, knowing damn-well $30,000 was still about as close as royalty. But, maybe if he begged-.

"Oh! I know!" 8-Ball jumped from his thoughts at the shrill, cricketty voice; Teeth stood with his arms raised, jumping up and down, making the fat of his belly waggle grossly. He wore an eagure grin with eyes the size of saucers. "I know, I know! Oh, gimme-gimme, please! I've got it!" He cheered, making grabby hands at the phone like a child, and not at all a man in his mid-forties.

Any other day, 8-Ball would've dug his fists into Teeth's skull just for interrupting. Today, the man nearly wept at an excuse to get off the line. He put up an act, weighting his partner with scrutiny and distrust, before passing the phone over.

"If you fuck this up-." 8-Ball tried, but the slope of his shoulders gave him away at Teeth's easy demenor; Bill found him unreasonably amusing, like a monkey on a tricycle.

"Mr. Cipher?" Teeth called into the receiver.

Bill let out an incredulous laugh. "Is that Teeth?" He leaned back in his chair, demeanor shifting as he cradled his cheek in his palm. "Well, how're you, buddy? How's the business? Booming as ever?" Bill asked with a chirp.

"It's good. Really, really good." Teeth nodded, giving his partner a grin and a thump on his hip. "8-Ball scored big with his last trip; a real dream-boat. Just your type." 8-Ball made a disgusted face at the man's long, drawn-out voice; if he pulled Teeth's collar, smoke would've billowed out. "A slim one, with hair that does that little..."

"Fluff, you mean?" Bill hummed, part-listening, part-watching the bird perched outside his window. Teeth was an easy-talker. There wasn't a need for focus.

"Yeah, yeah! Right up your alley!" Teeth cheered.

"Well, that's good to hear. Shouldn't be hard for you two to wrangle up my $30,000, then?"

"Not at all! Never, never, Mr. Cipher!" Teeth turned to his partner, who had moved to make rest against the kitchen aisle, thumb-nail tipped between his teeth. 8-Ball met his gaze under looming, dreaded pressure, even as Teeth shot him the world's biggest thumbs-up. "Except... you see, we aren't as close as we'd like right now." Teeth gave 8-Ball a wink; a kind of "watch this," to which the man raised his brow.

There was a pause over the line, then a sigh.

"Hmm... Shame." Bill clapped his hands together, effectively wiping the self-congratulatory smirk off Teeth's face. "Welp, that's show biz!"

Teeth stammered. Apparently, he wasn't charming enough to just ask for more time, even though he definitely was.

"Wait, wait-!" He quickly back-tracked, throwing his partner a sheepish smile, who returned the expression with one of slight horror. Teeth was either getting 8-Ball out of one giant pickle, or turning his shallow grave into a nice, cozy spot at the stakes. Teeth thought for a moment. "Uh-. Well. We don't usually get such fresh material, is what I meant to say; not like what 8-Ball brought back from his last catch. In fact, it would be an honor if you'd-."

Bill intervened. "I'm tempted, Teeth. Really, I am. From what I've heard, you two're doing a real bang-up job; a real five-star establishment you've got going on." Bill straightened the bow around his neck, letting it breathe. "The meat down there's just a little... rare for my pallet."

"Rare" was an understatement. Who was Bill to judge? He had basements with his own little prisoners. Holding cells for interrogations, rooms without windows or light, drains for blood, and buckets for fingernails. The human-race was overrun with monsters. He was over the initial shock; over that moral-grey of dealing with dirty people.

Teeth took no more than a breath to counter Bill's concerns. The words bubbled up in a panic.

"Oh, Mr. Cipher, you misunderstand! Those kids- those men- well, they're-" The back of his neck was scorching from 8-Ball's gaze, dragging razor-blades across his nape. His partner's eyes shot open at Teeth's reply. "They've been here a while-long time. Why, the youngest one just turned 18."

8-Ball choked.

"Teeth-."

"Is that so?" Bill's smile dropped before returning with an added curl of his lips. He cocked his head, twisting the family-ring on his thumb with his index. "Last I heard, your business was more day-care than traffick-ring; whatever happened to that?" Teeth only laughed at the question, fighting tooth and nail not to swallow the fat ball in his throat.

"Kids are so hard to manage, Mr. Cipher. And, so expensive." He led on playfully. "We get a lot more business for the cheap stuff."

8-Ball's nails rode white lines down the countertop. "Teeth-!"

"What're you proposing, then?" Bill questioned in mild interest. The bird outside his window flew away. He took a stand, leaning himself against his desk corner.

Teeth threw a cautionary glance over his shoulder at 8-Ball, caught between the living room and the kitchen, held back only by the phone and who was on the other end of it. Their eyes met. Something like killer instinct. Teeth felt it through his soul: If he didn't close this deal, Cipher would become the least of his troubles. The muscles of his thumb began to ache under pressure.

"We've got three boys downstairs. Just your pace. All pretty and young-. But- but, not too young! Regular-young. Early 20's-style." Teeth stammered- belly twisted- not daring to meet his partner's gaze a moment more.

Bill, with fingers coiling the line of his cord, drew a hard expression. His voice curled like silk, slapping like leather.

"I wanna see my money." He stated firmly. He was no stranger to loopholes. If he didn't state, chival-and-stone, exactly what was to be expected, people took his deals like interpretive art. Worms always found a way of wriggling through the cracks.

"Always. Always, always." Teeth assured quickly. Bill narrowed his eyes at that tilted, wet voice. "Just give us six months, and we'll have half-." A cackle bubbled up Bill's throat like being propelled by springs.

"Are you trying to hustle me out of fifteen grand?" He gaped. Bill settled himself on one arm, leaning palm against his desk, smiling and shaking his head. Teeth was even funnier and stupider if he thought 15k was gonna fly below his radar. He would've been insulted if the man hadn't already proved to be half a brain and some peanuts.

The back of Teeth's throat itched when he swallowed, and knew for certain Bill had picked up on the sound.

"We just need a year. We- we'll meet in six months with your 15k; you can keep our boys, free of charge. All we ask of you is six more months to grab the other half."

"Stop talking-." 8-Ball was two feet away- one- before Bill vibrated a hum of contemplation, making him take six steps back; 8-Ball was forward, but not so forward as to go around making deals with the very man who had his soul pinched like a tick between some tweevers. That was just plain-stupid. He didn't deal with the devil.

"Interesting offer... How old did you say these boys were again?" Bill asked with a rub of his chin.

"Oh, you know." Teeth coughed. "18, 19, 20-. The numbers aren't important. What's important is you get the most out of this deal! I know how much you like deals."

"Too much, Teeth. Too much!" He confirmed. Teeth's posture eased. "God, I can't remember the last time."

"Then this is the perfect opportunity!" He quivered.

"You're really laying it on thick here, pal." Bill sighed, casting the view of his window one final glance before throwing skepticism to the wind. He was a compulsive buyer, after all. The man picked at his nails, feeling particularly eccentric with the spirit in his glass all gone, and the grandfather clock of his office in need of a few twists. "Hell, I'll bite. Six more months? All yours. Have at it."

Teeth's blood rushed to his brain before dispelling like fireworks, the skin of his bones tingling in relief at his words.

"Really?! Thank you, Mr. Cipher! You won't regret this!"

"I already do; pass my condolences onto 8-Ball." There was a sinister remark between his words, like spider legs crawling up his spine. He hung up, smug and self-congratulatory, pouring himself a second spirit, this time with ice.

By the time Teeth replied, the line had gone silent. His face dropped only an inch before resurrecting itself with a little jig, elbows tucked in with a shuffle of his feet. He shot his head around excitedly, ready to deliver the good news.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the cold-front of his partner's demeanor; 8-Ball wasn't moving. He stood, fingers dug into the entryway of the living room's wooden framing, wearing a ten-mile stare. His gaze tracked the space just behind Teeth, piercing through his eyes like he was thin, transparent glass.

"What," 8-Ball's tone oozed rage. "In the Sam-Hill did you get me into?"

The smile on Teeth's face melted away.

"Well, I-." He started, only to round on himself, slamming the phone down a bit harder than he'd intended. "Hey, wait; what's with that look? I just did you a favor, 8-Ball. Talked him down to 15k-."

"With our money-makers?!" 8-Ball erupted, throwing his hands out. "We're hardly making a thousand with the three of them!"

Teeth jumped. The floorboards creaked below him. He tried to sound rational.

"We can always get-." 8-Ball silenced his partner, baring his teeth like a wild boar, his lower jaw curled out.

"We can't get shit, Teeth! You think I can just wave a magic wand, and three new kids'll come dancing their way into that basement?! Do you know how much time it takes?!" He tossed a hand over his eyes, pulling down 'til his face stuck to the skin. "And, fifteen grand?! Jesus fuck!" 8-Ball cawed, his arm slamming into the wall, making the little porcelain plates and wooden plaques framed by nails shudder. Teeth startled, looking behind him, then ahead. He set his hands low, at his waist, meeting 8-Ball's eyes under the hesitation of his forehead.

"Hey, hey! It's gonna be alright, see? If we save up- maybe sell a few things- we can reach the mark in no time." His voice was level, thank God, even if his hands shook where they extended at the fingertips.

Teeth knew his partner well. Well enough to know 8-Ball saw things in figures of black-and-white. Fact and fiction. 15k was a few month's rent, right there. It wasn't a means of scrounging everything together, though; it was a means of how much 8-Ball was willing to sacrifice. The man talked like he lived off fields and rivers, while kicking up dust with his 9 grand boots.

8-Ball paused in his rage, weighing Teeth's suggestion. The corner of his mouth twitched, perhaps wired with some kind of retort, but all his words suddenly felt plain and hollow. He heaved a sigh, sitting down at the kitchen table and smoothing his palms over the bare scalp of his head like a cat. He started mumbling to himself. Teeth eased up just a bit; he was doing the math. So-and-so for the TV. This-and-that for the posters. Here-and-there for the record player. The man grunted, making a pained expression, before relaxing again. Those alligator boots would make a pretty penny-.

His eyes shot open.

"Oh my god." 8-Ball cracked. Teeth stepped away, that small speck of peace dispelling like sugar in water.

"...what?" He asked, and 8-Ball's head rolled up eerily, hands shaken and balled into tight, pale-green fists.

"They're fucking kids." 8-Ball spat. Teeth seemed perplexed, right up until his partner opened his mouth again, and all at once his body became faint. "You told him they were goddamn adults, but they're fucking kids!" He rose from his seat. "Do you have any idea what he'll do when he realises you were talking out of your ass?! What he'll do to me?!"

"Whoa, 8-. 8-Ball, hey-! It's gonna be-. This is all-. Well-." Teeth swallowed his tongue. "Maybe he won't notice?"

The ridge of 8-Ball's back made like the scales of a lizard, jagged and high and rough. His eyes became needle-holes, distorted by the years on his forehead.

"Goddamn it, Teeth!" 8-Ball kicked over his chair. "If there's one thing Ciphers can't stand, it's being lied to!" The chair found its way into his hands; he twisted his torso before sling-shotting his body around in an effort of launching the stool at Teeth, who just barely dodged it. The back legs busted into the TV, caving the screen with a crunch and a crack. 8-Ball was shaking with rage; shaking in fear of his life. "This is all your doing."

8-Ball had always been a tall man. In any family photo, just the top of his head was cropped out if he forgot to crouch. His arms swung like an orangutan's. He had legs like trees. When he stood from his seat, or came up an escalator, or rose from tying his shoe, it was like watching Godzilla emerge from the waters. He was a tall man.

Teeth was short.

"H-hey, 8-Ball. Buddy, come on. You don't mean that." 8-Ball loomed only a moment, hand across the table, before making slow, calculated steps toward Teeth, who could've sworn his heartbeat was throbbing through his tongue. He retreated farther into the living room, just as 8-Ball crossed the border. "Sit down. Let's be rational about this. Let's be-."

8-Ball's face was a collage of tired, desperate lines, and perhaps underneath, self-conviction. Men like him always got their just-dessert; he fed pigs for a living. Perhaps he was always meant to go out before his time; his body would eventually re-emerge in a hotel's water-filter, or a back-alley dumpster, or years down the road, discovered in the foundation of a condemned building, submerged in cement. On-lookers would wonder the horrors of his final moments, and he'd be no more than another accident.

"I should've never let you in on the cut; I knew you were more trouble than you were worth." 8-Ball rumbled at the back of his throat. His head hung low, making the bones of his spine spike through his wife-beater. The curtains were all shut. They were miles away from anyone, and anything.

"Maybe if we-. If we just call Cipher back, explain the situation, he'll-." Teeth tripped over himself, scrambling to his feet just as 8-Ball hauled up a spidery leg; a Jack Skellington figure that overstepped the chair caught in the television.

"He'll what?" 8-Ball spat, almost playful, a laugh tripping into his tone. "Take pity? Do you have any idea who that man is? What he's capable of?" He waged Teeth with a naked expression; backed into a corner, both figuratively and literally, his hands placed palms-flat against the wall, burrowed in the fat of his neck. 8-Ball took in every feature, only to shake his head. "No." He tisked. "No, you don't."

"What-. What're you doing?" Teeth couldn't help but ask as 8-Ball crept closer. It gave the man pause. He looked off to the side, hands clenching and unclenching, almost uncertain of their purpose. His eyes flicked back on Teeth with something far-removed.

"You remember Kryptos?" 8-Ball asked.

Teeth let out a gutted sound, pressing himself farther into the wall.

Kryptos hadn't been much bigger than him.

"8-Ball..." He tried, but the wobble of his legs rang up his throat. It was all he could do to keep from dissolving. "Put-. Put your fists down."

8-Ball didn't seem to hear him, or even notice his hands had curled as they did, but once he realized, a sort of resolve washed over him. His face felt less stiff. More lax. The drumming in his ears was even and conscious of itself. He breathed easily. His legs carried him the distance.

"I'll bet you do. You met him that one time, down at the lake." 8-Ball recalled casually. He hummed with a nod, feeling a twitch in his ring-finger. "Yeah... Good man. Weak-link." Teeth tried puffing out his chest, only for it to deflate with each step of 8-Ball's pencil-legs. "You remember what I did to him?"

"I-. You-. Don't get any closer!"

8-Ball met him head-on. The scene played itself out before his eyes; Christmas eve. Kryptos was a good man. Good men couldn't survive in this kind of environment, not when they trusted the law; he had to go.

"It happened right in this room." His arms spread like he was giving a house tour, though the low, simmering moan of his gaze licked at metaphorical fangs. Teeth's nails dug into wallpaper as 8-Ball became no more than seven feet away. "Buried him outback with all those kids. You remember." He came up on Teeth.

"I'm warning you, 8-Ball; I mean it!" Teeth cried.

"Yeah." 8-Ball's breath ghosted overhead. "You remember."

8-Ball was a man of resolve, as he'd always been. When his fists locked into place, the muscles froze, and they wouldn't dare uncurl until Teeth's face was only a smear on his knuckles after. When he stepped towards his partner, a cowering, pathetic sight, 8-Ball didn't have the slightest nerve to feel sorry. His body spread to enclose him, caught like a fly in his web, but he hadn't thought to consider just how short Teeth was.

He'd only meant to center himself on his soles- making himself like a brick wall- but the second those gangly legs parted beneath him, Teeth was quick to shoot out from in between. Suddenly, he was in-chase. His partner was a hysterical show of "8-Ball!" and "Please!" and "Oh, Dear god, oh Christ, oh Fuck!" scrambling into the kitchen. Teeth hadn't half the wit to game-plan an escape route. If he did, he'd have taken a left instead of a right, barrolled down the hallway, and ran right out that door. His brain was scrambled eggs with a side of bacon, sizzling in his skull when he rushed behind the wooden-carved dining table and flipped it on its side, effectively gaining himself 0.5 extra seconds to figure himself out.

Which he didn't.

"8-Ball-! 8-Ball, NO!" He clambered atop the aisle, and just when it looked 8-Ball might crowd him in again, Teeth reached behind himself, fisting the cord of an old, silver toaster, and swung it like a hammer-throw. It thonked his assaulter square in the forehead, who stumbled back like a zombie shot in the chest. 8-Ball let out a hiss, swearing as he clutched where the dial had busted across his skull. As he did, Teeth once again made a break for it, scampering away, a blank, mindless man.

Teeth burst through the entry-way of the living area, rounding himself until he was turned toward the hallway. He made a break for it, cursing and crying, dripping snot on the dent of his giant gut, burning skid-marks across wooden flooring. His body shrieked at the exertion, his lungs gasping for air, his legs tight, his arms heavy. A cry left his throat at the sight of that golden, polished doorknob, just within his reach. At the halt of his feet, he slammed into the wooden frame, colliding like a crash test dummy.

He let out a shaken, ragged laugh at the doorknob in his hands, only to nearly shit his pants at the sight of 8-Ball barrelling down the hallway, hot on his trail. Teeth jerked the knob, then twisted and jerked the knob, then twisted and jerked the knob the other way, yanking the door open.

It halted at about three inches.

Teeth shot his eyes up, sudden horror masking his features at the chain-lock on the door, just out of his reach. He shouted, extending himself to climb the frame's splintered walls- spikes under his nails and needles through his palms- working in vain to access it. To no avail. 8-Ball was only two hairs away. Teeth bolted for the garage just as his partner swiped a lumbering arm at him, just short of catching.

Now he was on all fours, turning corners like a rodent let loose. His heart was in his throat, coursing through two separate rooms before winding himself up once again in a hallway which led to his escape. He let out a wet guffaw, doubling down on his jets at the skittery stomp of 8-Ball, nine steps behind. The garage exit was only a corner left of the basement's door, which was a straight shot ahead, though Teeth had intended on bringing himself to a stop way before.

The soles of his feet were hot irons, picking up mounds of inertia with each stride. His heart pumped gallons of blood throughout the system. He was a gulping, frantic fish with a shark on his tail, and no matter what he told himself, his body kept chanting "RUN RUN RUN" until he was leaving red-hot footprints behind him. He came up on the garage door, trying to put on the brakes, only to shriek, barrel right past and shoot shoulder-first into the basement door by accident, effectively blowing it off its hinges.

The staircase leading down was a long, dreaded journey, especially for fresh captures, and even more-so for Teeth, who all but launched himself down the ladder of wooden planks, and was now in a free-fall. 8-Ball, who caught him by the collar just as it happened, and was now tangled in their tumbling mess, wasn't fairing much better. A step popped the front of his throat. Another cut the corner of his nose. Several more served as a hard surface beneath his head, captured awkwardly below Teeth's knee or elbow.

The worst though, was the landing. There was a cry of panic from the three prisoners, all of whom had been sleeping soundly just moments before. Well, "soundly." Now they were anxious, cawing in the black of their cages, shielding themselves from the light which spilled down the steps, huddled and disoriented. It all happened so quickly, 8-Ball had half a mind to tell them off for it, until Teeth's body came tumbling down after his.

Teeth was a small, short man, but he'd always been heavy. Someone like him had to be, if he was to be of use to anyone. Before, it had always been one of the few things 8-Ball could depend on as his partner, and one of the even fewer things he admired about Teeth. A well-set man of muscle under all that fat; must've been hard lugging it around. It was. 8-Ball, the thin, gangly man, knew for sure.

His head pressed flat into the basement floor, and just above him, the entirety of Teeth. It captured him by the shoulders and back, pinning him like a nail where, riding up, Teeth's gut surrounded his head on all sides. The musk was foul, like rotten milk and sour feet, making the man struggle to escape the stench, but his partner was so heavy. He barked a nasty order for him to roll his fat, stinking ass off of him, but Teeth didn't reply, having fallen unconscious from his excessive blood-pressure and the outright ferocity of that day.

When 8-Ball hunched to lift his back, his muscles strained, trembled, before giving out against his will. He cursed. When he did, the stink entered his lungs, and he couldn't help but retch. Teeth's crotch was just against the back of his neck. His stomach was practically slime. With the crushing weight to his torso, and the fat surrounding him all around, it became harder to breathe. This time, 8-Ball shrieked.

He lifted his right arm, clawing and ripping at Teeth's flesh, just as oxygen went from limited to near non-existent. There was a hot, seering pulse banging behind his eyes which flared up the most wicked headache. Steaming bile gurgled in his throat, working himself endlessly, like the littlest ant pressed under a fingertip. 8-Ball felt the pulsing burn rip through his brain, his esophagus clenching up, eyes bulging with the pressure, and something so tight it could practically collapse his skull. Maybe it was just Teeth's lard body, but to him, 8-Ball felt nothing but the weight of the years.

He howled out in suffering just as the bile in his stomach rushed his system, and whatever room he'd had left to breath was quickly stolen away. 8-Ball breathed vomit, an acid sting to the system, flopping and jerking like a fish without water. His nails pierced the mounds surrounding him, legs kicking out, flailing and struggling, slowly suffocating away. By the time his rage turned to desperation, his shouting to whimpering, bile was sludging his nostrils eight inches in.

Through darkness, 8-Ball met Dipper's eyes from between the bars of his cage, stricken in horror. Silently, painfully, he gurgled a cry of anguish- struggled- and died.