Smiling Man

Smiling Man, oh Smiling Man, that wicked skull can grin. Have you met the Smiling Man? Mr. Jack.

Jack Skellington.

Fracture has a lot of theories on what exactly the smiling man is. New fears don't just sprout out of no where and the Smiling man is a very specific fear of a very specific set of usually appreciated social behaviors.

Fracture theorized that this fear of being treated well piggy backed on a fear of strangers, Father's territory, and as such the smiling man was potentially a very specific aspect of Father given new life through broad recognition of Father but in a way irreconcilable with what Father is at the very core of its being causing it to split off or be forcibly split off.

Fracture believed this to be the culprit.

Its just... sickening.

He even goes so far as to give them both flowers...

But that's just one mad man's theory, and fuck that asshole. Fuck you fuck face.

And fuck the fucking Smiling Man.

Nat's absolutely convinced it's not really him... that it's this guy from her past, 'Writer', pretending to be a Fear. But that doesn't seem to be as comforting as you'd think it would be.

I've caught her shaking, heard her wake up in the middle of the night breathing heavily, seen her frantically jump and look over he shoulders when ever she brushes something. She's absolutely freaked. It's heart wrenching to watch her make a complete 180 from her confident bold self to scared and panicked at the first sight of a flower.

We've been hulling ass since that last run in with him. Neither of us wants to risk another run in.

You don't realize how damning he is when you first meet him. He laughs. He smiles. He speaks in a charming french accent.

But for all my running around the room, I couldn't get away from him. For all our fighting we couldn't stop or kill him, not really at least. Fuck, he went so far as to lean into my shots to make sure I'd hit him so I could see how pointless it was. He fucking filled our car with flowers in the five minutes we were away from it. He LET us dig our way into the car to drive off. He LET us go.

For all that speed, ability, and those sharp fucking claws, he could have just ended us at any time.

But he just follows you. Talks to you. Informs you of how rude you are.

You can't even try to talk back at him. He ignores your counter points and just keeps picking away at you.

I hope to god we don't have another run in because one of these days he'll catch us while hes in a sour mood and that'll be the fucking end of us.

Quite frankly, given my history with the Smiling Man and assuming it really is him, I'm surprised I survived any visit from him...

Fucking Jackass

If it's not one fucking thing, it's another. Fucking Writer showed up again today. He'd dumped a bunch of flowers in our motel room, then snuck up behind us while we were getting our shit together to get the hell out. The sick son of a bitch was trying to play with us, jumping around and using his Loop bullshit to make sure we couldn't stop him. As satisfying as it was to stab and shoot him repeatedly, it lost it's charm when the motherfucker just kept getting up.

After a bit of that we decided to switch tactics and just get the fuck out-but the bastard had dumped a fuckload of flowers in the car, so we had to dig them out so the pedals and seats were accessible. There are still random flower petals everywhere and the whole car REEKS of perfume. Writer followed us out to try to taunt us while we tossed the flowers out of the car, and I'm pretty sure Sloth pissed himself at one point, but we managed to get out there without much further trouble.

YOU LOSE AGAIN YOU TWISTED JACKASS. BITE ME.