Chapter Text
The tragedy ground into motion with two freshmen buying dangerous contraband from a mechanic with assualt and battery convictions.
The players were as follows: Beavis, a skinnymalink with improbable blond hair, an underbite, and the voice of a grumpy baby boomer; and his accomplice/only friend, Butt-Head, who possessed teeth people winced at and a habit of stating information in a little-girl-crawling-out-of-your-TV monotone. Oh, and Todd, the violent mechanic. He just looked tough. And he didn't own any jackets with sleeves.
A lot of people thought Beavis and Butthead were stupid to the point of non-sentience. It was much worse than that: they were children, and like all children they thought they would live forever. This is what led them to the abandoned construction site, where Todd was waiting with a single roman candle....
"Huh huh huh. Fireworks rule!"
"Heh heh heh. Fire! Heh heh heh."
"You girls know how to light one these things?" Todd drawled, turning the candle around in his hands.
"Uhh, yeah?" Butt-Head figured they'd just make it up as they went along, like they did when they were assembling furniture. Or cooking. Or doing math.
Todd smirked. "No, you don't. Of course you don't. You're idiots."
"Whatever you say, Todd," Beavis agreed. His face was frozen in a pinball-eyed grin. He couldn't wait to get the firework into the desert and light that sucker. His hands were shaking with excitement. He hoped Butt-Head would let him set it off himself.
"Here's the deal," Todd said. The boys' eager faces were reflected in his sunglasses "You chicks give me fifty dollars, right now, and I'mma let you have this. It's the best deal you'll get. The guy I stole this from paid like one hundred and fifty for it, so I'm actually selling it to you at a loss."
"That's, uh, very generous of you," Butt-Head replied, lost in all the advanced economics. He dug around in his pocket and withdrew their food budget for the month. "Here. We worked overtime for this - the firework better be, like, really cool."
Todd took it and stuffed it into his billfold. "You better be careful with this thing," he warned, unloading the firework into Butt-Head's skinny arms. "I don't wanna get busted by the cops because your stupid asses couldn't light a roman candle without getting your tickets punched."
"Oh, we'll be careful all right," Beavis giggled. His eyes were joyous blue pinballs. "Fire! FIRE! Heheheheheheheheh."
"Settle down, Beavis," Butt-Head snorted, clouting him across the back of his head. "Thanks, Todd. We'll see ya around." He settled the candle into the backpack he'd brought with him and slung himself onto his bike. Beavis followed suit, muttering like an animal gone rabid.
They cycled against a breeze that cooled their ruddied faces and turned their blood to grasshoppers. The smells - smoke from a bonfire somewhere, fresh-shorn grass, the waxy sweetness of honeysuckle-ran through them like water, like light. They were fourteen years old on a summer evening, about to shoot colour and noise into the desert sky. In that moment, they thought themselves immortal.
This is a common delusion in children.
Out in the desert now, wearing their flip-flops, but unafraid of snakes and spiders. Why would they be bitten? They had always been lucky.
Butt-Head haphazardly skewered the stick of the firework into the hard-packed sand and yanked the fuse out of its casing. He wound it away to a length of about three feet.
"The firework is ready, Beavis," he intoned.
Beavis leaped around him, as frisky as a kid goat. "This is so cool it's gonna be awesome the whole town is gonna see this oh boy oh boy!"
Butt-Head grinned at him. He felt soppy all of a sudden. This maniac, this friend of his heart since they were babies, had taken years of shit from him without a word of complaint. He handed him the lighter.
"Why don't you do the fuse?"
"You mean it?!" Beavis looked fit to die right there and go to Heaven.
Butt-Head shrugged. "Just do it, okay? Don't get all gay about it."
"Heheheheh, wouldn't dream of it. Heheheheheh. Fire!! Heh heh."
Beavis flicked a flame with his trembling thumb. He fell to his knees before the snake-body of the fuse and touched the violent, brilliant flicker to its tip. The fuse began to crisp; a thin plume of smoke drifted with the breeze. The flame crept up to the candle like necrosis.
Beavis hopped away to where Butt-Head was standing. The lighter was clenched in his bony fist hard enough to leave the logo bruised on his palm. "F-fire!" he jittered through clenched teeth. "FIRE!!! We're gonna be so cool! Todd'll let us join his gang for sure! Chicks'll want us like crazy! Even the guys will wanna score with us! It's like-like-"
"Settle down, Beavis," Butt-Head muttered. Something didn't feel right. He didn't know why, but his intestines were cramping the way they did before a final, or when adults cried. The sense of oncoming doom took him by the neck and strangled him.
The fuse burnt up to the firework.
"Beavis, we-"
The candle fell on its side and exploded with a scream, the scream that Beavis matched as it tore into him. Butt-Head got knocked off his feet; lying there in the sandy dirt, tasting grit and soot, he strained to hear Beavis above the ratcheting chorus of sparks and heard nothing.
How long he lay there, he couldn't say. Time seemed to have fallen apart; it dripped as slow as honey, then slithered forward in great globs of minutes. He felt around himself for broken bones, but found none. He coughed, twice, and pushed himself upright with a groan.
There-that bright shape leaping twenty yards away-that was the firework. But what was the lump it threw light on? What was that?
"Aw, fuck," he croaked. He crawled across the scrub and rocks to it. "Aw, no. No."
Beavis's body lay slumped across a rock. Fire danced on his shirt, casting a wavering glow on his face that made it look like it was moving. The firework had punched him square in the stomach, harder than even Todd could dream of, and smashed his organs to soup. But it was the fall that had killed him; his neck was all twisted, his head thrown back at a funny angle. His eyes were half-open, the pupils blown and unmoving.
"Oh, Christ Jesus," Butt-Head whispered. "Beavis, I'm so sorry."
The desert is a place of extremes. The daytime will roast you; the night-time will freeze your very bones.
Butt-Head spent seven hours in vigil, knelt next to the corpse. Coyotes came within feet of him, but smelled no fear and left him alone. A scorpion came out of the earth next to Beavis's head; Butt-Head picked it up and threw it away.
He talked, to keep himself warm.
"I'm gonna stay right here, Beavis," he promised. "Just like I did when you were really sick that time. I'm gonna stay here until you wake up. C'mon, man, I know you're not dead. You can't be dead. You're pranking me, or-or your body is fixing itself. I won't be mad, dude, I mean it. I'm holding out for you."
Later, with a murderous weight settling in on his shoulders, he spoke again: "Uhh, I know you're just playing, but....if you're not....then I just want you to know that that was the coolest thing you've ever done. And....um....I'm gonna kick Todd's ass, for real. You're the best friend I ever had, and....and it's not fair. I dunno how, but I know for sure that none of this is fair.
"Beavis, remember that time you told me about Rick the grief counsellor and I didn't do nothing? I never said it at the time, but that shit was so totally not your fault. Rick was a pervert, and if I ever find him, I'll kill him for you, dude, I mean it. You're a really sweet kid and he, uh, he did it. All of it. You just wanted some spaghetti. And, and I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first." He swallowed. "I don't think I've ever been that good a friend to you, even though we've known each other since we were in diapers, and you were the only kid in first grade who liked me. I'm sorry, man. Please wake up."
Mr. Van Driessen knew something was up the moment Butt-Head sloped into class without Beavis trailing behind him.
He'd been their homeroom and English teacher for eight months, and had known of them since they were kindergartners. The joke in the staffroom went, "Where your Beavis is, there your Butt-Head will be also." If Beavis happened to be stuffed headfirst into a toilet bowl by Todd, one could bet on Earl doing the same thing to Butt-Head the next stall over. If Beavis was too sick to leave the house, Butt-Head would starve indoors until he felt better. It was one of those immutable facts of life. The sun rises; the moon orbits the Earth; Beavis and Butt-Head are connected on a spiritual level.
Van Driessen watched Butt-Head out of the corner of his eye. The kid looked wrecked. His hair had settled in lank, sad clumps upon his head; his shoulders slumped; his feet seemed too heavy to lift all the way off the ground. And he kept glancing behind him, eyes wide, as though hoping against hope that his absent partner-in-crime was hiding beneath a desk.
Roll call was first; at the mention of Beavis's name, Butt-Head rocked in his seat, face twisted in some mental agony. Van Driessen decided to cut him some slack, and didn't ask him where the boy was. But he had that dragging sensation in his chest that signalled trouble. All there was left to do now was finding out what had happened. He didn't relish the prospect.
They were doing "Wuthering Heights" in English; Beavis and Butt-Head had, for the past week, seen fit to offer criticism on every single character and plot point. It was like having a pair of drunk Cliffnotes guides at the back of the class. But today, Van Driessen got through Cathy's passionate confession, Heathcliff's running away, and the fleeting happiness at Thrushcross Grange without rousing so much as a chuckle. Butt-Head only chewed on his knuckles and stared out the window.
"Let's break down the symbolism here," Van Driessen announced, moving to the blackboard. "Cathy makes her love confession just before the storm breaks. Heathcliff runs away, and then the storm begins. Who can tell me what this represents? Hands up, people."
A forest of hands sprouted. Van Driessen looked past them, and pointed.
"Butt-Head, maybe you'd like to give us your views. I have to say, the discourse feels lacking without your....insights."
Butt-Head didn't move for a moment; his ears seemed to be on a time delay. When he did answer, his voice was muted by his fingers. "Uhhhhh....like, it's because somebody's sad? Or angry. I dunno, sir...."
Conceding defeat, Van Driessen put down the chalk. "Butt-Head, where's Beavis?"
He'd been teaching for ten years, in every kind of school there was. He knew the ways of children; he could read anger and distress from the twitch of a mouth. But until now, he'd never seen such cataclysmic sadness on a fourteen-year-old face.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhh...." the boy droned. "Uhh, he couldn't make it into school today."
"Why? Is he sick?" Head shake. "Hurt?" Wild-eyed glare. "Butt-Head tell me what's wrong with him. I won't be mad."
Butt-Head slithered down in his chair until his eyes were level with the little table attached.
A broken murmur emerged: "He's in the desert."
Van Driessen peered though the dusty windshield. "Are we nearly there, Butt-Head?"
His passenger nodded. "Yeah, almost. I recognise those rocks."
They were bouncing through the desert in Van Driessen's dented old minibus, heading for the site of whatever had happened. All Butt-Head was saying was that there'd been an accident. Every time he repeated it, a muscle in his jaw stood out.
A lump appeared on the horizon.
"Oh, man, that's him."
"It is?" Van Driessen cut the engine. "What's that other thing?"
"The firework."
"The-oh my God." Out of the bus, feet thudding on the baked soil. Running. He stopped at a distance of five feet and knelt down.
"Beavis? Beavis, can you hear me?" No reply. Van Driessen reached out and tapped one outstretched hand, felt the cool, molding skin, and drew back.
"Don't come any closer!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Just go back to the bus, get my cellphone, and dial 911."
"Is he dead?" Butt-Head roared back, straining to see.
Van Driessen edged around the body to glance at the face. Nothing could have looked more empty. A fly crawled out of the mouth, rubbed its forelegs together, and took flight.
He took off his glasses and knuckled his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said, and it sounded so weak. He didn't even know what he was apologising for. "I'm so sorry, Butt-Head. Don't go near it. Please."
you are my friend
and what we're doing's too important for our lives to end quite yet
- "Anthrax", by Kimya Dawson.