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Tough Love	By : Zoisite84 Category: Casts RPF > Queer as Folk (2000) > Queer as Folk (2000) Views: 1962 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the celebrity I am writing about. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Tough Love
- 1
This is not an accurate portrayal of Randy Harrison - it is more a caricature than anything else, borne from rumors that he drinks absinthe, reads a lot, and occasionally dons a pair of very intellectual-looking glasses. Please don’t kill me, Randy; I only tease because I love. Apologies to Gale Harold, also, for making him seem so (adorably) dense.

Special thanks (or *something*) to Allison (darlingfreak) for the, ahem, “inspiration”; also, for not dying on the way to the Chinese restaurant.

Tough Love

An Evil!Randy 'Fic

By Zoisite84

-*-

1.

Gale remembered the first time he ever met Randy; it was on the advent of securing the role of Brian Kinney on the U.S. version of “Queer as Folk”. The newly-found cast was ushered into a room with a long oval table for a quick meet-and-greet and script read-through, and that’s where he first laid eyes on the slight blond who would soon become his co-star. Blue eyes, hair that would only need to be lightly touched up to make him the golden boy his character embodied, and luscious lips that parted to reveal two rows of pearly white teeth when he smiled or laughed or grimaced.

He was pretty; fading that, he was *hot*. Gale was a man of few words, and had never thought much of displaying his sexuality like a badge of honor; kids at school had occasionally thought him queer, and he’d never really cared one way or the other. But when he stared at Randy across the table in that too-airy conference room for the first time and squirmed in his seat to give his expanding crotch some extra space, he wondered if maybe he should think about noing ing so apathetic.

The only problem, other than Gale’s stunning lack of wit (which tended to override even the extreme hotness that had gotten him this job in the first place), was that Randy seemed to be fairly reclusive. Randy would breeze through scripts during cast read-throughs, making the collective crew sigh and gasp and grin at his portrayal of sunshiny Justin Taylor, and he was polite when the double-headed monster known only as Cowlip would make a suggestion or comment, but he didn’t go out of his way to strike up conversations or participate in discussions outside of filming. In fact, quite often during his breaks, Randy could be found swilling back a bottle of absinthe in his trailer, his feet prd upd up on a crate serving as a makeshift coffee table and surrounded by candles and incense, and a heavy tome filled with angsty, dark poetry in-hand.

It constantly surprised Gale how different Randy and his character really were. And yet, at the same time, he wondered if anybody noticed how un-Brian-like he was. The central focus of “Queer as Folk”, Brian exuded charm, grace, intelligence, a “ca “come-hither-and-fuck-me-while-you’re-at-it” attitude that drew all of the other characters to him. Gale knew he was pretty, but looks aside, he hoped people understood that he was also . . . well, okay, he was pretty.

It was on the third day of filming when Gale finally mustered up the courage to speak to Randy ide ide of their dialogue as Brian and Justin on-screen. He figured it would be a good idea to establish some sort of rapport before filming their first sex scene together that afternoon.

Randy did not make it easy, however, slinking off to a table in the corner of the set and propping up a dusty collection of Edgar Allen Poe stories so as to have an excuse to a eye eye contact. His glasses - Gale supposed he wore them both for reading, and also to look more intellectual; he wondered if people would respect him more if he tried that - caught the light every so often, making Randy’s eyes gleam. It was a little creepy.

“H-hullo,” Gale proposed, waving and grinning meekly at Randy as he approached the table. He stood awkwardly for a long, uncomfortable moment, smiling nervously down at the blond and waiting for an invitation to join him.

“Don’t just stand there, you’re blocking my artificial light,” Randy glowered. Gale quickly hunkered down in the seat across from him and drummed his fingertips anxiously on the table top until Randy’s eyebrows threatened to jump right off his forehead and smack Gale across the face. “Did you need something?” Randy barked.

“Er,” Gale said eloquently. “I, uh . . . how are you?” he finally replied, upping the wattage of his smile. It usually worked on potential employers and chicks he was trying to woo, so he wondered if the same would hold true for Randy.

“I’ve been on the same page for ten minutes because some shaggy-haired oaf keeps trying to initiate conversation with me,” Randy sniped, eyes doing that weird flashy-thing again. Gale gulped; he hadn’t expected his co-star to be so, well, honest.

“What are you reading?” Gale asked, plowing ahead so as not to dwell on Randy’s snark.

“I’m *trying* to read the collective works of Edgar Allen Poe,” Randy sniffed. “It’s a very bohemian thing to do these days.”

“Oh, like Bohemian Rhapsody!” Gale enthused, eyes lighting up. “Dude, I love that song!” He began a (to his credit, fairly accurate) rendition of the song’s infamous operetta section, voice rising and falling in a very Freddie Mercury-esque fashion as he mimed playing an air guitar for good measure. Randy stared at him like he had grown a second (or even third) head.

“What, don’t you like Queen?” Gale pouted, wondering if his soulful puppy-dog gaze would be what finally reeled his co-star in.

“You’re a fuckinron,ron, Gale,” Randy spat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m *trying* to read ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’.”

“Ha ha, hey, remember that song all the kids used to sing to the tune of the Wedding March?” Gale grinned, fully entrapped in the annals of nostalgia once again. “Here comes the bride, fair, fat and wide!” he sang. “Here comes to groom, skinny as a broom; here comes the usher, the old toilet flus-“

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Randy raged, finally slamming his book down open-faced on the table.

Gale choked back the joyful memories of childhood and sobered. “Well,” he said slowly, “I could always do . . . you.”

Randy seemed to consider this for a moment. “What’s in it for me?” he finally asked, gazing at Gale for the first time without malice or homicidal intent.

“Well, I give really good blow-jobs,” Gale lied, still shocked that his cheesy pick-up line had been what finally snagged Randy. “And I mean, I’m supposed to be eating your ass later on, anyway.”

“I guess there might be something useful that you can do with your mouth,” Randy agreed. He stood up abruptly and swaggered off to his trailer without a backwards glance. Gale supposed this was his invitation to follow, and hurried to catch up.

2.

Sex with Randy was . . . interesting, to say the least. Gale had never really debated with anybody about who would be on top - since he had only ever been with women, and since most of them had been small, ditzy, waif-like creatures, he’d always been the one in charge.

Randy, however, had other ideas. He stood with his arms crossed, glaring at Gale with anything but sexual attraction once they were inside the trailer. Gale considered trying to escape, but Randy was blocking the only exit. “Well,” Randy said pronouncedly. “What are you waiting for?” Hurriedly, Gale began removing his clothing. He was used to people oohing and aaahing and gasping at his leanly rippled abs and slenderly muscled physique, so when Randy didn’t say anything, he started to worry.

Completely nude, Gale shivered under Randy's withering gaze. "Um," he said, licking his lips. "Aren't you going to get undressed?"

"When I'm good and ready," Randy snapped. He did, however, unzip his pants and push them down just far enough, underwear included, so that his cock was exposed. Gale blinked, impressed; his co-star was rather well-endowed. He felt his own dick jerk and whimpered. "Down on your knees," Randy ordered, and Gale complied, wondering when he had become the bitch in this scenario. However, he quickly pushed the thought aside as Randy waved his engorged member in his face. "You said you give good blow-jobs," the smaller man reminded him, eyes flashing dangerously. "Now prove it."

And so Gale did; truth be told, all he had ever learned about fellatio was that it had felt good when a chick had wrapped her lips around his cock, and even though he readily admitted that he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, he was confident that sucking dick wasn't rocket science. He figured he was doing a passable job, too, judging by the appreciative grunts and other interesting noises that Randy made, and the fact that the other man's fingers were twisted tightly enough around Gale's messy dark mane to rip whole chunks of hair out by the roots.

Inspired, and kind of in pain, Gale decided to go for the gold; he had always prided himself on his lack of a gag reflex (he'd first found out that he had this gift when one of his mother's friend's children had dared him to stick an entire hot dog into his mouth -- needless to say, he had stunned and amazed the tot, whose mother had unfortunately thrown the kid into a convent as soon as they were old enough, so Gale had moskeptkept this to himself). What he hadn't counted on were the added dynamics anmplimplications of deep-throating - making sure his teeth weren't subconsciously bared when he strained his neck to take it all in his mouth, for one thing. "Ow," Randy hissed, yowling and ripping his dick from Gale's mouth with a 'pop' sound. "What the fuck?" the smaller man continued, "were you trying to bite it off or something?"

"I'm sorry," Gale gasped, feeling like the tool that he was. He glanced up guiltily at Randy's face, taking in the furious expression and wondering, vaguely, if Randy could shoot lasers out of his eyes. He probably could.

Randy's hands stayed ted ied in Gale's hair, keeping his head immobile and tilted upwards; he could have ripped it right off of Gale's neck, and the dark-haired man probably couldn't have done anything about it. "I should have known that you were useless," he muttered. "How many cocks have you sucked before?"

"Um," Gale stuttered. "I - that is . . ."

"Figures," Randy sd. Hd. His gaze softened only minimally, but Gale bit his lip and put on his most pitiful puppy-face anyways, hoping to appeal to the small iota of mercy within Randy. His heart fluttered when Randy stroked his cheek with some semblance of tenderness; maybe it had worked. "Have you done anything with another guy before?" he queried.

"Not really," Gale admitted. 'Puppy-face, puppy-face, puppy-face . . .'

"So you lied to me," Randy stated flatly, eyes narrowing as he frowned. Gale opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, not sure whether he should combat this or just admit the truth. "Stop gaping like a fish," Randy commanded; Gale did. "Do you want to know what it's like?" he continued, hands still clutching at the sides of Gale's head like it was the root of some particularly irritating weed.

"Y-yes," Gale stuttered. He never really meant to stutter, but most people seemed to find it unabashedly adorable. Of course, Randy wasn't exactly most people, and he *had* practically bitten his dick off already . . .

"Fine," Randy said decidedly, as if he'd been asked to choose between cutting his toes off or being dunked into a septic tank head-first. He pointed to an ornate chair near the trailer's vanity table; "bend over that."

"Um, do you have, you know, lubricant and whatnot?" Gale squeaked, moving apprehensively into position. He hadn't even been aware that his voice could hit that octave, but scant moments later with Randy's lubed fingers shoved into his ass, he produced a similar sound. From above, Randy smiled wickedly.

"Does that answer your question?"

"Oooh," Gale grunted, fingers curling around the back of the chair as if it were a life-preserver. Eventually, Randy replaced his hand with his cock, pounding mercilessly into Gale's ass without so much as a 'please'. Gale did not particularly mind, since he was rather incoherent at this point (even though, arguably, it was a phase in which he spent a good portion of his life), and a few well-placed thrusts later sent him over the edge, jizz spattering messily on the floor, much to Randy's disgust.

"You're going to clean that up, you know," he said with great chagrin, the chastising somewhat marred by the fact that he was still pumping his dick into his co-star's backside and huffing like a pregnant woman. "Who's your daddy?" he groaned, fisting thick patches of Gale's hair as he approached orgasm.

"M-my daddy?" Gale asked cluelessly, wincing as his head was snapped back and arching his back to try to compensate for it.

"WHO'S YOUR DADDY, BITCH?" Randy shrieked. Gale remembered hearing something about male praying mantises -- mantii, he supposed, and then wondered when he had ever learned how to grammaticize properly -- being beheaded by their mates after a particularly rousing session. Randy wasn't female, but he wondered if the same rules might apply.

"You are!" Gale gasped out, life flashing before his squinted eyes. That was all it took; seconds later, Randy came with a Tarzan-esque groan, spending himself in the depths of his co-star's tightly virginal ass. Gale hoped he would stick around to cuddle, but as soon as he'd been milked dry, Randy pulled out of Gale and skimmed the condom off of his now-flaccid cock, disposing of it hastily in a nearby trash can. "That was amazing," Gale ventured, still breathing heavily.

Randy pulled up his underwear and pants, zipping them quickly and acting as if he hadn't heard. "This never happened," he said finally, crossing briskly to the door. "If you tell anyone anything different, I'll deny it." He paused, gazing at the still-bared ass he'd just finished riding; "but come back tomorrow and maybe you can blow me again, without teeth, this time. Dipshit."

The door closed with a 'bang', and Gale knew he was in love.

3.

The next couple of years passed in a blur for Gale. He and Randy had never made their relationship public -- rather, Randy vehemently denied their explorations of each of Freud's psychosexual stages on a daily basis, and Gale didn't figure it was important enough to seem monogamous to a bunch of people he would never have deep meaningful connections with in the first place to incur Randy's wrath. They did, however, have lots and lots of sex, most of it rather fulfilling and enjoyable, despite Randy's occasional alcoholic rage (he'd gotten to be quite the lush for absinthe), or the subsequent alcoholic blackout. Waking up in the bathtub in Gale's trailer with a motherfucker of a hangover and the world's sexiest-but-dumbest man on the planet hovering over him generally did not bode well for either party in the long run.

Randy hated publicity, though; something about a room full of fans made him more homicidal than a bull being teased with a red flag. Gale vaguely remembered hearing about a news reporter being viciously attacked by a rabid, jet-lagged Bjork at an airport, and wondered if she’d frothed at the mouth the way Randy did when he got in one of his moods. Gale wasn’t a big fan of his fans, either, but at least they appreciated his work, and at best, they fawned over how pretty he was.

What Randy hated the most about stardom, however, was all tasuaasual chatter about his personal life. He knew that he fucked Gale regularly, and Gale knew this as well because he often had a difficult time sitting down once Randy was finished with him, but having this leak out to the press was more than his angsty co-star could stand. “They have no fucking right to know what I’m doing behind closed doors,” Randy fumed, puffing on a cigar for good measure. He had read somewhere that cigars were very bohemian.

“We’ve done it with the door open before, too,” Gale said, not realizing that he wasn’t helping. Randy back-handed him across the face and he blinked; sometimes, the truth hurt, in more ways than one.

To combat nasty rumors and (not-so-)false pretenses that Randy was having an illicit affair with Gale, Randy began dating on the side. He found men in New York, where he lived when he wasn’t fucking Gale’s brains out, explained the situation, supplied them with enough information so they could throw the press off the scent of his and Gale’s rough-housing, and kept the ruse up for a couple of years at a time, at which point he would melodramatically whing about the loss of his One True Love for a few weeks before falling in with somebody new.

Gale tried to pretend that he wasn’t jealous, but he couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit betrayed when Randy made mention of Simon or Daniel or Raoul; even though he knew that Randy had never even had phone sex with any of them, whereas his sore ass was indicative of the fact that he and Randy fucked liberally several times a week during filming, he wondered if things were really and truly equal in their “relationship”.

Thus, Gale decided to import a beard of his own. Since most people assumed he was straight, and since women were primarily who he’d been with before Randy had captured his heart in a plexiglass jar without air holes, his public persona embodied the image of Gale Harold: Straight Man. Jenny and Darla and Kim and Stevie (who he’d realized was a pre-op transsexual kind of by accident, but thought “she” was nice enough anyways), the names became numerous and varied. The press couldn’t keep up with the litany, and quite honestly, neither could he.

Most people assumed that Gale’s love-‘em-and-leave-‘em attitude was all par for the course with him playing Brian Kinney. But in all actuality, Gale would have preferred a long-term beard to the series of one-nightthatthatthat categorized his tabloid-centric dating life. It was just that, after one night or so, all of his potential two-year affairs seemed to disappear into obscurity. “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Gale asked Randy one day, feeling particularly brave because Randy was dressed in a fuzzy turtleneck sweater, and the cuteness overshadowed the fact that he could probably kill somebody just by looking at them.

“What are you babbling about this time?” Randy grumbled, turning the page of the latest book he was reading.

“All of my dates disappear mysteriously after we spend one evening together,” Gale whined. “I don’t think I’ll ever find somebody to fake-love me the way you always do.”

“Maybe they’re smart and realize what a fuckshit you are after a couple of hours,” Randy suggested; it was about as helpful as he got, and Gale had come to appreciate whatever his smaller (secret) lover would throw him.

“Maybe.”

Later on, Gale meandered over to Randy’s trailer, surprised to find the door handle unyielding when he reached for it. “Randy?” he called, a bit concerned. “Are you in there?”

There was a long pause. “Of course I am, dumbfuck,” Randy growled finally. Gale could hear scrambling sounds, as if Randy were quickly trying to straighten things up; when the door opened, Randy’s face was flushed and he was breathing heavily.

“Are you . . . busy?” Gale asked; he started to feel hurt, thinking maybe Randy was not-so-fake-fucking somebody besides him, but it quickly turned back to concern when he noticed a spot of blood in the corner of his co-star’s mouth. “What happened?” Gale gasped, reaching out a hand to touch Randy’s shoulder; the smaller man flinched away.

“It’s nothing,” Randy snapped. “I cut my lip on an absinthe bottle, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Gale murmured. “Well . . . want me to kiss it all better?” He grinned goofily, but made no move to do so when met with one of Randy’s furious stares. Gale looked around the trailer, wondering idly what his co-star had been frantically putting away. “Hey, what’s under the sheet?” he asked curiously, pointing to a lengthy lump underneath a black blanket.

“None of your goddamned business,” Randy growled. “Did you want something, or are you just going out of your way to be a fucking nuisance today?”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” Gale insisted. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the book Randy had been reading earlier sitting on his vanity table. “How’s ‘Hannibal’?” Gale asked pleasantly. “I’ve heard that the book’s a lot better than the movie.”

“It is,” Randy responded curtly. “Are we going to fuck or not?” he demanded. “Because if not, I have just enough time to jerk off before I’m due on-set again.”

“Sure, Randy,” Gale said graciously, taking it as a cue to drop his pants. He laughed a little as he recalled a conversation he’d had with his latest onght ght date the previous weekend. “Man, you wouldn’t have caught Megan saying that,” he grinned. “She actually said, ‘I want to get to know you better before we make love’.” He sobered; “I wonder why she never returned my calls, then.”

“Poor Clarice,” Randy murmured softly in response. He wiggled his fingers; “how disillusioned she was.”

“Megan, her name was – is – Megan,” Gale said uneasily. “And . . .why do you say she’s disillusioned?”

“Oh, I have my reasons,” Randy whispered darkly, fingers unconsciously going to his mouth to wipe at the dried spot of blood. He unzipped his fly and gazed at Gale, eyes blazing. “I mean, I know what an asshat you are and all.” He swiveled his hips in a way that made Gale’s mouth water – it was very Pavlovian. “Now, will you get over here and suck me off, already? My cock is getting cold.”

4.

One day, Randy Harrison went apeshit.

It was really a long time coming; anybody who had even vaguely noticed the signs could have foretold the afternoon when Randy would finally snap: the homicidal expressions whenever somebody even mentioned a premiere party or an interview; the way his eyes flashed behind his glasses whenever somebody cracked a joke about needing more of Justin’s ass in a particular scene or episode; and even more tell-tale signs, like Hal catching him in the act of stirring arsenic into the Cowlip monster’s coffee cup. Fortunately, it was dumped down the drain before any real damage could be done.

It was during a late-afternoon all-cast break when Randy’s simmering anger finally bubbled over. Trouncing out of his trailer, dressed curiously in one of Gale’s black long-sleeved button-ups, plain white boxer briefs, and no pants, and hauling “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” under his arm, Randy clutched a shard of broken glass from one of the many absinthe bottles littering his trailer in his free hand and shouted, “everyone sit down and shut up. This is important.”

The cast looked at one another: Bobby and Peter, sitting side-by-side in folding chairs, glanced up from their discussion of Johnny Depp’s considered fagocity in “Pirates of the Caribbean”; Sharon, who had been chatting with the two-headed Cowlip, smiled maternally at Randy in his half-dressed state; Hal had stopped miming samurai moves for the moment, while Scott looked up momentarily from his game of solitaire. “Randy, honey,” Gale whispered, smiling soothingly at his frazzled co-star. “How are you?”

“Don’t fucking call me ‘honey’,” Randy spat, shaking the pointy bit in Gale’s general direction. “Now, listen up. There’s going to be a few changes around here,” he enunciated, smirking darkly. “We’re not going to have any more ‘Justin ass’ in this scene. We’re not going to perform like trained circus monkeys everytime some crap-ass tabloid wants us to speak. And we are most certainly *not* going to leave used condoms floating in the goddamned fucking shitty-ass toilet!”

Everyone blinked; they’d known that Randy had been stressed out for a while, but they hadn’t expected their young co-star to take it out on them. Well, everyone but Gale; “baby, why don’t you come back to your trailer and I can give you a nice sponge bath?” he murmured, trying to sound seductive.

“Don’t you fucking get it?” Randy raged. “There aren’t going to be any more sponge baths or snuggle fests or ‘oh, isn’t Randy just so cute’-isms. I’m evil! I’m bad, I’m naughty, I’m going to fuck your shit up!” He walked over and backhanded Gale for good – or bad, depending on one’s point of view – measure. From his trailer, the strained chords of Voltaire’s “When You’re Evil” wafted out; apparently, Randy had been making mix CDs again.

“I have cherry fruit snacks,” Gale whispered, eyes watering with unshed tears. “Your favorite.” He dug them out of his pocket and held them up meekly for Randy’s approval; the smaller, disgruntled man stared at the offering for a long moment, then snatched them up and stalked back to the center of the room.

“Now,” he segued smugly, staring at his slack-jawed co-stars smugly. “Who’s going to get over here and worship my cock?” He glanced over at Gale’s eagerly raised hand and screeched, “*not* you.”

The cast collectively bit their lips; Thea and Michelle, who had been cooing over the actor who played Gus, gathered up the youth and made a run for the back door. Harris, whose fierce battle with Bowser on his Game Boy had been interrupted by Randy’s latest alcoholic rage, stared after them pleadingly. “What about me?” he mouthed. “Women and children first, and all.”

“Sorry, kid, we can’t carry you,” Michelle shrugged as they disappeared. Harris pouted for a moment and then, while Randy was engaged in starting something on fire by shooting lasers out of his eyes, he dialed up his band-mates.

“I think I’m going to die today,” Harris said by way of introduction. “So let me tell you what to write for the dedication on oext ext album.” He made a mental note to make them promise to put the picture of him dressed in angel wings from Halloween the previous year on the CD cover. It would be very Kurt Cobain.

“Sweetie, you’re not evil,” Sharon cooed, appealing to Randy’s “listen to me, I’m practically your fucking surrogate mother while you live in Toronto” sensibility. She plucked a muffin out of her purse – Sharon always seemed to have just the right words or snacks with her – and offered it to the pantless boy, who just shook his head. Realizing that Randy wasn’t going to be assuaged any other way, Peter and Bobby divulged into a fierce game of rock-paper-scissors to determine who would bravely attempt to suck him off. “Best two out of three” turned into “best six out of ten”, however, and Randy grew impatient.

“You!” he thundered, jagged glass thrust at the double-headed Cowlip. “You’re the worst perpetrators of all, what with your sex-per-episode quota and that stupid fucking go-go boy arc.” He thrust his underwear-clad crotch outwards challengingly. “On your knees,” he ordered, in much the same way as he did with Gale. “And be quick about it.”

Cowlip complied, realizing that Randy could be very persuasive when he wanted to, and also not having any automatic weapons on them. Peter and Bobby sighed almost inaudibly with relief, and Harris had hung up his cell and un-paused his Game Boy. “Hey, Todd, how’s it going?” he greeted the show’s most famous extra; nobody seemed to know his real name, but that was fine, because it was more amusing this way.

“Fine,” ‘Todd’ replied, plopping down on the couch next to Harris. He would have said more, but an angry red blast shot out of Randy’s eyes at that moment and hit him square in the forehead. Todd fell over heavily onto Harris, who grimaced in disgust.

“Hey, watch it asshole,” he yelled. He pushed the other man of hif him and noted his now prone form with a horrified gasp. “You bastard, you killed him!” Harris screeched at Randy, who merely smirked.

“That was the point, nitwit,” Randy cackled, hands keeping Cowlip’s head angled in place as they sucked his cock. “Do you see, now? I’m the baddest mofo around; I can huff and puff and make you blow me and fucking *like* it. I can do whatever I want, and you can’t stop me!” He let fly another laser blast, which seared the table Scott was sitting at and neatly sliced three piles of cards in half.

“Hey,” Scott grunted. “Come on.”

“Sorry,” Randy muttered. He shot his load as unromantically as possible in one of Cowlip’s mouths and groaned. “Evil makes me so horny,” he grinned. “Now, who’s next?” Again, Gale began to move towards Randy, but sighed and slunk back down into his seat when his sullen lover sent one of his patented glares his way.

“Man, you’re a few beans short of a burrito,” Hal quipped. He stood up and drew the samurai sword that was almost bigger than he was that he’d creatively holstered around his waist, and fell into a fighting stance. “But I can’t let you hurt anymore innocent bystanders,” he announced, with such bravado that there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that he was equipped to play the comic book-obsessed Michael on the show. “So if that’s what you’re planning, you’re gonna have to go through me.”

“Christ, Hal, why the fuck did you bring that to the set?” Bobby complained, rolling his eyes. Hal ignored him.

“Think you can stop me, funny-man?” Randy sneered. He brandished the shard of glass like a dagger; “go ahead and try.”

Hal did; “this is what I call the double-headed dragon,” he declared, performing a series of rather complex foot movements before taking an experimental jab at Randy, who dodged it easily, eyes narrowed.

“Looks like it could use some work,” Randy snickered. He concentrated for a moment until the makeshift dagger floated out of his hand and levitated in the air – Randy, like all good baby Goths, had been practicing his Witchcraft. “Now, it’s my turn. This is what *I* call, ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Faggot’!” The bottle shard moved towards Hal, who tried to bat it away ineffectually with his sword, only to have that telepathically wrenched from his hands. Randy laughed darkly and proceeded to slice off each of Hal’s limbs.

“Aaaaaaauuugggghhh,” Hal screamed in agony.

“There’s something ironic about this,” Randy said in a sickeningly conversational tone. “I mean, here you are, lying on the ground bleeding to death after I cut your arms and legs off with your own sword.” He commenced cackling, a frighteningly well-practiced endeavor that involved him throwing his head back and screeching at the top of his lungs.

Gale felt his throat tighten as he stared down at the now-quadraplegic Hal. His fictional best friend was dying, and his not-so-fictional lover was the cause of it. Infused with energy, resolve, and testosterone, Gale stood up and snatched the spray bottle up from underneath his chair. “No, Randy, that’s a bad, bad boy,” he said firmly, spritzing the smaller man in the face a timetimes.

Randy sputtered. “I hate water,” he choked, painstakingly rubbing his face. Keeping the bottle trained on his lover like a gun, Gale managed to pry the pointy bit and book out of Randy’s hands. “I’m a bad boy,” he echoed, jutting his chin out proudly.

“Yes, you are,” Gale intoned severely. “And now I’m going to have to give you a spanking.” He picked his co-star up and slung the smaller man over his shoulder, who looked debauched with his ass in the air and bare legs hanging down over Gale’s chest, then marched tds hds his trailer, stopping only to gingerly step over Hal along the way.

“No, stop, let me go, me me down, now!” Randy screeched, pounding his fists against Gale’s back for good measure. He secretly loved it when Gale forcefully took charge like this, though; it went straight to his dick – and Gale knew it.

Out of sight for a good number of hours, now, but certainly not out of hearing range, the remaining cast members heaved a collective sigh of relief as Gale’s trailer door slammed, the lock clicking firmly into place. “Well, that went better than the last time it happened,” Peter finally rationalized cheerfully. “I mean, at least Randy didn’t make us watch straight porn again.”

“But Hal’s dead!” Bobby gasped, cradling his fictional lover’s limbless torso in his arms.

“So is Todd,” Harris called. Seeing how the worst was over, however, he re-dialed his bandmates. “Change of plans,” he said introductarily. “I’m not dying; and I don’t thmy mmy mom’ll like it very much if we do the Nirvana parody cover where I’m swimming naked in the pool, so what do you say I fake my own death instead?”
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Tough Love