An introduction... Why would you need an introduction? You already know who you are, you're pretty sure. Well, you know your name and what you look like, but if you really took a second to think about things that way you suppose that anybody could be you. Who doesn't know who you are anyway? Even Scandinavian grandmas stuck upon a mountain too have heard of the striking name "David Elizabeth Strider: best movie director to ever live!" You're that cool. It is you.
==> Introduce yourself.
Your name is D Strider, and you're possibly laying ass up in bed after a fruitful night of banging chicks and scoring Oscars. Your glasses are still on your face, albeit askew, and you're currently busy trying to remember what else you know about yourself. Actually, maybe you should hold that thought: you are in great need of an aspirin and some water.
==> D: get a drug and wash it down with water.
You could try; but it isn't like you could probably get out of bed right now, unless you want to hold onto every little thing you're close to and probably end up knocking your shelf of, uh, dead things off completely. You should get the fuck up. You'll have to eventually. Rolling over, and feeling the cover twist around your right side and trap you even further within it, you scowled slightly and clumsily pushed it off of your body but ended up just tangling your left hand in it and being way too lazy to push it off. God, damn, is this shit attached to you or what? Sighing, you finally muster up some of that energy you've been pretending you didn't have up until now and let the covers fall onto the floor dejectedly. Once you sat up and somehow pulled yourself to your feet, you took off your glasses and looked at the sad little cover on the floor. Look at it! It's about to cry.
You're clearly demented.
You shrug off the thought of a crying inanimate object and stumble to your drawer. Your bed had remained in the same left corner of the room as ever, however now you had a couple more shelves, and thicker window curtains to keep the shitty intruding Texas sunlight out. Some photographs of crows looking especially cool were pinned to your wall, and you would know they're wicked and cool because you can see them with how close you are to the wall. It's too dark in here, and you seriously do not understand why you don't hire someone to come clean for you sometime. (It could be because you always say you love your room however you leave it and, in the case in which someone suddenly decided to hire a hitman and the hitman comes to pull a hitman stunt on you. Then he'll step on the broken bricks and the family of electronic snakes that you decided to name the "S-team", even though they're really just cables and you don't know why you decided to name a bundle of cables that's all around your room that. "Snake team"? Of course. You softly muttering to yourself that that is the best name that there is for your little family occupying the floor.
==> Dave: flip the light switch on.
What are you, crazy? You don't have your shades on and you sure as fuck want to keep seeing.
==> Dave: just get the damn aspirin already.
You decide that that's a better idea than just turning that hell-bent inside-sun on. You slapped your hand against your mouth, aspirin literally shot into your mouth and dissolving slowly while you still haven't gotten the damn poor glass of toilet-sink water in right after it!
You're such a genius, it is you.
Either way, you decide not to blabber on much more and get to the somewhat pristine royal toilet room that we all know as a basic bathroom. Not that it really helped, the pill was already half dissolved in your mouth and it kind of made you gag a little bit.
==> Dave: introduce yourself.
Your name is D Strider. You're a tall, kind of lanky guy who has red plastered everywhere. Your eyes, suits, boxers and lube is red. Your STRIFE SPECIBUS is "Katana Kind" and you have a Katana on you at all times, no matter the situation. It's never bad to have a big, slim anime knife with you. You're currently thirty years of age, and you can already feel the old age hitting you in the face with all the white hair you're currently getting. No matter the plucking you do, it always comes back, and you used the only two brain cells in your brain to reason with yourself about the lack of logic over pulling all of your hair out. Would it really be that big of a change anyway? Your hair was, well half of it still is, platinum blond. You're sure the paparazzi will get on your dick about it though, and honestly you're pretty sure your subconscious was getting you bald because of the paparazzi in the first place. Your eyes are red, but you rarely see your eyes nowadays, not that you've ever really seen them, you half mumble to yourself.
You live in an apartment alone, with a lot of shitty old video game consoles you bought just for the shits and giggles, and a PC. The kitchen fridge is almost always empty, save for the ketchup and premium AJ bottles. It would be safe to assume that if you ever let this famous writer into your home, that she would make a pretty safe assumption to you only eating takeout. As if the boxes of Chinese ramen takeout didn't make it obvious enough in the first place. There are tons of different swords, mostly broken, everywhere thrown around on the living room floor.
And, that's about it! You think that's enough of an introduction. You've been staring at yourself, eyeing the eyebags you've gained and the way your unkempt stubble looked everytime you opened your mouth to sigh out at yourself in some level of shame. Good God: that was a good waste of time. You're still in your cummy boxers too, great. Way to set your priorities straight Dave! But you still decide to lean in and admire the amount of small little cuts you could find on your face. There are... A fucking lot of those. Wow, okay. No need to get worked up over your own face, Strider. There's always time to jerk your own ego off and you think you know you should take a shower and move on with your day before you decide to ironically jerk off your ego quite literally.
==> Dave: take a shower.
You then proceed to stop galavanting around and promptly wash your disgusting body and rid it of the bad bacteria. That is, to say, you consumed what was left of the warm water and had to get out the moment it was too cold. Wrapping a slightly damp towel (from your last little fiesta in the shower) around your waist after you try to dry yourself with it as much as possible and venture out to look through the piles of house clothes, trying to find a clean set of clothes. A clean set of very, very cool and ironic clothes if they are there. If not, that would be a good sign to visit a laundromat once again. Fame and power didn't really make you any less of a typical cheapskate, did it? You can conclude that it didn't change you at all. You just allowed yourself to be a greedy little shit and find even more incredibly horrendous ways to make famous movies.
Ah, at fucking last! Clean clothes!!!!!
... They're ugly. God, who got you these? There's just no style, no irony, my sub layer of anything at all painted on these clothes. No air of mystery. Bitter to your core (ironically), you put the clothes on, followed by the completely black shorts AND T-Shirt. Who makes such clothes in the 2040s anymore dude.
Whatever. You smell yourself for two seconds and decide you should get some deodorant in case you have to go out and do something other than your laundry outside. Your head is still being an ultimate pain in the ass. You should have taken even harder drugs for that fucking headache.
==> Dave: answer the phone.
What? You don't recall putting a phone anywhere, hold up. You can hear the thirty year old Minecraft theme lulling in and out of your empty head but you're not entirely sure where it's coming from.
==> Dave: find your phone after searching for it frantically in case it was someone important.
You were getting to that, God damn it! Or you would have, with the slight exception that you noticed a small, bright flash somehow happening. Maybe the earth just decided to chew and spit up a very blue flashy flash that lasted for one second. You saw it though, you're sure. Or you hope, you don't know if you're finally getting some dementia. Or your anxiety has spiked up once again to comfort the paranoia that loves creeping up on you from time to time. You don't know if it would be better or worse if you started developing some signs of some sort of mental illness, again.
Whatever, you have a sword, and the prayers to the sweet Juggalo Gods that you just made up on the spot, hopefully you're good to go and won't die. Hopefully, whatever is in that God damn room isn't going to rip you to comedic shreds. You hesitantly, after taking your anime sword out of your sylladex, edge near the door that you mindlessly left ajar and hear that the phone had abruptly stopped calling. Makes sense, since you didn't answer it automatically like the creep you usually are. You become extremely aware of yourself, and your surroundings the moment you decide someone could maybe try to take your neck and break it in two; and so, you become much more aware of what's around you. You realise this place probably reeks of shit since you haven't opened the window at all, and that the gentle breeze that you can feel making the tips of your hair flutter can't be from an open window. The grip you had tightens even more once you decide to slowly push the door open and cautiously look around.
What you see, instead, is a figure in blue pajamas, or that's what you actually think they really are anyway with how loose they seem around said person. They seem to be paying no mind to the hood slowly flowing from side to side, and floating up and down so gently that you wouldn't have really noticed had you not stared at it intently to make sure you're not fucking insane. Your eyes drift upwards at the hood until you see the top of this person(?)'s head slightly dominate the shelf of dead shit you've got, seemingly interested with the top shelf of your current dead shit. You see the barely transparent breeze fluttering around their arms and hands while they're busily stroking along the clear, polished glass; you raise your sword much higher than it was before and let out a low, loud sigh to make your presence very much clear. It seems the tall, slim person finally got the hint and abruptly turned around in just the split of a second to see you, dumbly pointing your pointy anime sword at him. God damn, you still like the work this Katana does, okay?
The face, blurry and unclear at first, finally settles down to a tight-lipped looking young man that was more than likely stabbing his buckteeth into his lower lip while his narrowed eyes (or you presumed they were narrow, the dramatic lighting and windy shit going on made it hard to see through his thin, rectangular-shaped glasses too well) analysed you just as you analysed him.
==> Dave: think about what this shit means.
Your lips part out of pure awe, and reflex, and whatever other adjective there is out there to currently explain your current predicament in which you are at a loss for words. You're not quite sure how to explain to whoever might be mind reading your mind right now, but you've seen this guy. This defined, derpy-looking concentrated face of what looks like a guy in his early twenties. Ah, the good old days. The absolute peak of your life was there (last you checked, anyway). Whenever... You don't have dreams about dying, about the ways you die, about someone you think you really know but only ever see a flash of within your dreams and torturing you, when you don't see yourself burning in an eternal inferno in which you constantly try to battle against one horrendous thing or another, it's all blue and gold. Sometimes you go to sleep hoping to somehow awake into a world in which you're light as air and have a guide to show you all around this vast, empty land full of pastel flowers and infinite clear skies over your head, and his. You've always barely gotten glimpses of his face, always saw one quarter of it but not the rest, or half and half not so much, and so on. But piecing all his face... Parts, together, you know it's him! You can feel it in the calmness he radiates, the friendly reassurance you remember so well.
It's sad to say you were closest with a shitty projection your subconscious made up for you. Or so you thought, anyway; considering it turned out that this, this literal God had not, in fact, just existed in your pretty little head all along. Or maybe you're just fucking retarded. You're not sure which one is the actual truth. But... You're kind of hopeful right now, so you'll just, desperately entertain yourself with the hopes that this man is real, that you can touch him, and keep feeling the allure he radiates with almost constantly.
He decides to open his mouth first, while still half a foot away from bumping the top of his head into your God damn roof, basically, and you decide to stop staring at him right in the eyes, and let them shoot up to his hair. Moving as slowly as time itself, along the natural breeze this fucker seemed to keep giving off like a God of free uncanned oxygen, beginning his conversation with such liberty that it really surprises you that you haven't just dropped dead in front of this man and stole all his fucking magnetic oxygen from him.
"Hello, Dave! I really missed you bro!"
God, how do you even respond to that? What would be the perfect response for this exponentially important little phrase. Considering you should make a really cool first impression on this Dream Flighty God of yours, more than anything else to be completely honest with yourself, maybe you should think with BOTH of your brain cells instead of just one this time, just for the sake of some of your dignity and Strider Pride staying afloat.
Magnificent, perfect, utterly surprising and yet again not even that surprising knowing who you really are deep down. A nervous wreck excited to meet your brain's celestial idol. You regard the hazy, warm feeling that's currently clouding the back of your head the very moment you try to think about this, stranger's name, and it seems that your brain is against your every thought today, because as you try harder to remember how you seemingly know his name, the pounding heat in the back of your head creeps up on the rest of it, and down your neck.
"Looks like you got some preeeetty sweet stuff here! You look older, too... Oh, hm."
He looks at you, then right through before moving his attention onto something else, slowly, very slowly letting himself or maybe just stopping the wind? You don't really understand how this guy can fly, honestly. Either way, he stops doing whatever he was doing before and focuses on looking around your dumb room. It looks like he's actually looking for something. You think you could hear him curse under his breath while you casually let your body slump in the middle of the room without so much as a second thought. He walks around, and you notice the little click clack of his shoes as he walks around, and you realise his plain ass sneakers are a bright, radiant yellow.
"So... Er, where am I Dave?"
You shrug almost automatically, but realise he probably and actually doesn't have another pair of eyes lodged in the back of his head.
"Texas. Wait, no, uh, 2035, welcome to this decade bro. You know, incase you aren't actually a "kid of this generation", and by that I mean Sea Hitler's dictatorship which has put a stop to my ironic Troll Tony Hawk YouTube video parodies."
You know you got somewhat personal with this random guy that popped up in your room and which you know the name of, but you really have been avoiding your writer's psychoanalytic episodes lately.
"Oh, I see! Well, I kind of don't have that much time, so-"
Pale Guy With Black Hair wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and smirked slightly, which made you avert your gaze from his awkward looking little smirk, with those horse teeth just jutting out there like they ain't anybody's business. You feel like he implied somethIng with this, honestly, but you have no idea what it was exactly.
"So you just popped in for a quick visit bro? Not cool, not cool, I didn't even get the ketchup out of the fridge."
"The, er, why- are you gonna go on one of your weird rants again about stupid stuff that isn't cool at all but you say it is?"
He doesn't need to know that ketchup is one of the two things you have that provide some sustenance right now, then. You stared at him blankly, trying to maintain your pocker face without your sunglasses, and cursed your past self for dumbly taking them off, thinking you'd be safe within your own home. Pfft. Upon realising that he wouldn't be getting a response, he cleared his throat and smiled with a pitiful air on his face, not that you really saw.
You were busy pocketing your phone and looking to see who exactly had called you-
"Sorry, Dave, we've gotta go!"
We have to do what now?
"We really need your help, so I'm sorry you're not really getting that much of a choice dude,"
He had yelled, over the noise that he was suddenly causing, along with the small lighting bolts(?) that were surrounding his hands and body. Why would you specify anything about his hands, though?
Because they're fucking grabbing you, is why.
You can't see shit. You can't feel any good shit. You have no shitting idea where you are, and you are just cursing yourself for having let this dream-pretty boy literally kid(man)nap you without a warning. All you can awknowledge now is that it's cold. Wherever you are is cold as shit.