Title: Every New Beginning (Part I)
Featuring: Clyde Walkins
Date: July 11th, 2012
Location: Somewhere not where you are, but also not where I am. No, not there. The other place. Yeah, there.

Guess who’s back. Back again. Forsaken’s back. Tell a friend.

That’s right, bitches. I’m back and about to rape your eyeballs with possibly the most offensive writing you’ve ever read. Not that I’m outrageous or edgy, just bad. If you have the balls to read ahead, do so at your own risk. If not, pretend you did and just be all like “lol The Forsaken are just as funny as I remember lololol” because, honestly, that’s the extent of any review I’ve ever received. I’m pretty much 80% convinced no one has ever read what I write, so I could literally just go on about pancakes and how capitalism is destroying our economy and everyone would just think it’s another roleplay with Clyde Walkins and James Farwell, copy it into Word to see how many…well, words…are in it, then judge it based on that. Hell, I won the Universal Title from Tchu just by out-wording him by typing “All work and no play makes me masturbate in a park” a hundred times over. You think Sebs checked that shit? Hell no. And there’s no way Lindz is about to read through everything she sees, either. And she’s infinitely more important in real life than he ever was. What’d he do, manage a Burger King or some shit? This chick has to juggle street-side prostitution and hospital visits for non-street-side prostitution-related eyeball injuries. I’m a fucking shoe-in for winning whatever the hell I want based on words alone, and I’m the only one who knows the secret. Well, until the rest of you read this and write more than me, in which case I’m fucked. But what are the chances of that happening?

Anyway, without further ado, here’s the final arc ever of The Forsaken. What a long, strange trip it’s been. I hate you all.

“Clyde! Are you done in there? You aren’t playing with yourself again, are you? It’ll make you go blind!”

Lukewarm water crashes down over a blonde head. A light fog of steam covers the bathroom mirror, revealing the fact that the shower must’ve been running for some time to create that misting with relatively tepid water, and because that’s the sort of thing you describe in roleplays. It’s also approximately 2:30pm, the temperature is a balmy 90 degrees, some scattered clouds but nothing that blocks out the sun at this moment, and the sky is still blue and the grass is still green. Somewhere in the distance, sirens can be heard. But it’s nothing sinister, don’t worry--just a false alarm. Just a false alarm.

Clyde: Shut up, Grandma! I told you I can’t do that anymore!

A flustered look crosses Clyde’s face as he reaches for a bottle of Axe body wash. Dropping a glob into his hand, he uses the other to deftly raise his apron of fat and…wait, did I mention he was fat now? I’m pretty sure I did. I just wrote like twenty words of description in that last paragraph, which is approximately nineteen more than the average FaceJoe roleplay but around forty-two-hundred less than Sean takes to describe a sneeze. So there’s no way I missed that.

But, yeah, he’s fat now. Not just a little fat, either. The kind of fat that, if a guy went to a bar and saw a girl that size, he’d immediately call up the person he hated most to be his wingman so he could score with her hot friend. And that guy would probably be like Matt or someone, because fuck him. So just imagine Bender from that episode of Futurama where he became human and went all hedonistic and got fat, and you’ve got a pretty accurate idea of what we’re talking about here. He looks like Adele, is what I’m saying.

So there’s Clyde, glob of bro-wash in one hand and more lard than a bakery in the other, in the midst of washing his junk. And just in case you’re wondering: no, it doesn’t get fatter when you do.

Clyde: Soaping up the peen, soaping up the peen, gotta get it nice and clean, soaping up the peen!

It starts innocently at first, but the seed has already been planted in his mind. By his grandmother, yes, but planted nonetheless. Like most males with the intellectual abilities of a 14 year old, his thoughts begin to wander, and he soon finds himself thinking “what the hell?” before shrugging his shoulders and giving in.

Clyde: Well, hello. Haven’t seen you in a while.

Suddenly, the bathroom door rips open and in comes a frail old woman with curly gray hair. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it is. Still, I’m surprised Clyde does.

Clyde: Grandma, no!

He frantically grabs at the shower curtain in a vain attempt to hide his shame, but ends up slipping in the tub and falling back, pulling the piece of plastic down over him, bar and all. His grandmother doesn’t scream or turn away, instead just appearing to be judging him in quiet disappointment. She stands stoic for a moment, then utters one sentence before walking back out of the bathroom, leaving the door wide open behind her.

Grandma: You’re coming with me to church again.

It’s now 3:05pm. The temperature has dropped to a frigid 89 degrees, likely due to a cloud partially obscuring the afternoon sun. Clyde and his grandma walk together along the sidewalk, moving at a snail’s pace, but it’s unclear if he’s slowing down for her or she’s slowing down for him. In fact, he looks pretty winded, and she seems to be fairly spry for a woman her age.

Grandma: Hurry up. We don’t want to be late for Mass.

Clyde grunts and pants as he struggles to heft his enormity another step, beads of sweat pouring down his face.

Clyde: What kind of church has Mass at 4 o’clock on a Tuesday, anyway?

Grandma: A good church.

He sighs, mouthing “a good church” behind her back in a mocking gesture.

Grandma: Jesus sees what you’re doing.

Kicking a stone along the ground in frustration, Clyde keeps his head down, when a pained cry catches his attention. He lifts his head in time to see the rock he just kicked bounce away from a gaunt, bearded homeless man sitting in front of a liquor store, rubbing his leg. Thinking he’s about to get raped, he instantly goes into damage control.

Clyde: Grandma! Don’t kick shit at homeless people!

His grandma instantly smacks him on the skull with her purse, as grandmothers are wont to do.

Grandma: No swearing!

Clyde: Then stop fucking hitting people! Jesus!

She hits him again, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that. Not when the hobo is starting to get up.

Clyde: Look, man. I’m really sorry. I didn’t see you there, and…hey, don’t I know you?

For the first time, the hobo gets a good look at Clyde.

Hobo: Oh, god, another fatty.

And then at Clyde’s grandmother.

Hobo: Look, I don’t do group stuff. Especially not…that…group stuff.

He motions half at Clyde’s grandmother and half at Clyde. But there’s something familiar about this hobo. Sure, he’s disheveled and everything, and the long gray beard makes it hard to recognize any distinguishing features, but there’s something about those eyes…

Clyde: James? Is that…it is! It is you!

James looks shocked, then backs away a little.

James: Do I owe you money? I can pay. I’m good for it, I promise. I’ll…I’ll suck your dick?

Clyde: It’s me! Clyde! I haven’t seen you in…wait, what?

James: No teeth or anything. See? I suck my lips over them and holy shit you got fat.

Clyde: I know.

James: No, you got really fat.

Clyde: I know!

James: You look like Adele.

Clyde: I KNOW!

By this point, Clyde’s grandmother has waited long enough, and interjects herself into the conversation.

Grandma: Clyde, dear, if we don’t get going soon, we’ll be late for Mass.

Clyde: Grandma, this is my bestest friend in the entire world, James! James, this is Grandma West.

Grandma: That’s nice. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m on my way to cleanse my grandchild of his foul ways, and acquaintances such as yourself will only lead him back on the path of sin and filth.

James: The hell? Surely you can’t be serious.

Grandma: I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley. Mrs. West will do just fine.

Grandma West is about to turn and walk away, but something in Clyde’s face makes her pause. Maybe it’s the pleading look his eyes give, or the quivering lip, or the mustard staining his left cheek. Whatever it is, her gaze softens.

Grandma: Well, I suppose there’s no harm in missing one service. Clyde, I’ll be at church if you need me. It was nice to meet you…?

James: James.

She nods, then turns to Clyde.

Grandma: Enjoy your playdate, dear.

And with that, she’s off. Clyde waves happily, ecstatic to not have to go back to church. James, meanwhile, appears understandably bewildered.

James: What the fuck did I just witness? And how old is she, anyway? My guess is 110. She looked like someone cut open a Stretch Armstrong doll and pulled it over Joan Rivers.

Clyde: She’s not that old. Anyway, she’s gone now so we can have some fun like the old days.

James: Ehhh…I dunno, Clyde. It’s…ugh…nice to see you again and everything, but I’ve got a long day of panhandling ahead of me, and there’s this other guy that keeps trying to steal my bed. If I stray too far from that alley, he’s gonna pee all over my stuff or something.

Clyde: He kinda sounds like a dick. I don’t know why you hang out with him.

James: You’re not really clear on how all this works, are you?

Clyde just responds with a vacant stare and slight smile.

James: I didn’t think so. Look, if you go into this store and buy me some booze, you can come back to my place and watch me huff old socks filled with paint thinner until I pass out.

Clyde: That doesn’t really sound like something I’d be comfortable doing.

James: No, it’s cool. Trust me. A group of us pass the ol’ paint sock around. It’s loads of fun for all ages. I’m pretty seasoned, so I usually outlast most of them, but sometimes I get bored and play with their bodies after they fall asleep.

Clyde: Dude…that’s rape.

James: Whatever. Are you gonna get me the alcohol or not? I’m going on two hours sober and it’s…it’s hell.

Clyde: Grandma says beer is the Devil’s nectar.

James: I bet Grandma says a lot of stupid things.

Clyde: Grandma said knock you out!

Swinging wildly, a red-faced Clyde hurls his body mass at James, who easily sidesteps the slow-as-fuck attack and lets Clyde collapse to the ground in a heap. On his knees, Clyde gasps for air as tears of rage(?)/frustration(?)/gravy(?) stream down his cheeks.

Clyde: Don’t…talk…about…Grammy…

Waiting for Clyde to finish gasping out his verbal onslaught, James looks around awkwardly.

Clyde: In…that…manner…

Clyde makes a last-ditch effort to get back up, but only succeeds in rolling himself over onto his back, kicking his legs lazily like a turtle accepting his sunbaked demise. For good measure, James gives him a swift kick to the ribs, adding injury to insult.

Clyde: From hell’s heart, you stab at me…

James: Heh, still got it.

But his…well, I was gonna say sympathetic nature, but that doesn’t really make sense. James is a dickhead. Hell, he just kicked his obese best friend while he was down. But something inside of him cracks a little, with a high likelihood of it being caused by his crippling sobriety, and he takes pity on Clyde.

James: Okay, Clyde, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your grandma or kick you that hard. Well, I did, but I feel bad for it now. Come on, get up.

James reaches down to help Clyde up, who resists at first, but finally gives in and accepts his help. As he tries to lift him, James comes to a horrifying realization.

James: I…uh…don’t know how to ask this, so I’m just gonna ask. Did you shit yourself when I kicked you?

Clyde: No…

James: Did you shit yourself before that?

Clyde looks away nervously and doesn’t respond. James sighs, then continues straining as he finally gets the fat bastard on his feet again.

James: Come on, let’s get you home and cleaned up.

James puts his arm around Clyde momentarily, then pulls back and distances himself as the two slowly walk along the sidewalk the way Clyde came from. Remembering something, James quickly turns and runs back to the alley beside the liquor store, only to find another hobo cackling maniacally as he urinates all over a cardboard box and some old socks.

James: My stuff!

Accepting defeat, James rejoins Clyde, and soon the two are back at Clyde’s grandmother’s house. The house is a spacious two-storey blahblahblah with Victorian yadayada and a whothefuckactuallyreadsthisstuff adorning the sides. In short, it’s nice. Nothing fancy, but definitely not slumming it, either. Classy, yet modest. Use your fucking imaginations. I know each and every one of you has one. You’re writers, for Christ’s sake. The moment you heard it was some old lady’s house, you probably already painted yourself a picture, and if there’s one thing you don’t fuck with, it’s other people’s art. So enjoy your visual masterpiece, untainted by me.

You’re welcome.

Anyway, as I was saying…so they both make it back to Clyde’s residence at around 5:00pm. The sun is still shining because it’s fucking summer and that’s literally the only scenery you’re gonna have unless you live in the Arctic or Australia. It’s winter there, right? I live in goddamn Canada and it’s still 100 degrees on average here, that’s all I know. But I digress. A lot. So they both make it back to the house, and while Clyde’s upstairs showering off (god, I hope that’s the only “off” he’s experiencing), James notices an auspicious letter addressed to his portly chum. Before he can open it, however, the water turns off and soon footsteps can be heard coming down the stairs.

James: Please don’t be naked, please don’t be naked…

Thankfully, a fully-clothed Clyde appears moments later, allowing James to lower his hand from his eyes.

James: Clyde, did you see this?

He holds up the letter for Clyde to see, which has the PRIME logo in place of a return address.

Clyde: Yeah, they’ve been sending me those things every few weeks. I think it’s some sort of reunion thing or something. I dunno.

James: And you didn’t think to mention it to me? Hey, why didn’t I get one?

Clyde: Because you’re fucking homeless. There, I just answered both your questions. You just off and Perry Saturned one day and I had no idea where you were. Nobody did. I thought you were dead, or at least in a coma waiting for someone to pull the plug on you so you could come back to life like in Dogma.

James: I think that last part really only applies to God.

Clyde: Thanks for telling me now. I’ve been going around to hospitals every day to test my theory. Also, I might be going to jail.

James: So, have you given any thought to doing the reunion tour? Could be exactly what you need to get back into shape, and - let’s be honest here - you need all the help you can get.

Clyde: My court date is on the 19th.

James, meanwhile, is too busy reading through the letter to pay him any mind.

James: I do find it a bit odd that they don’t mention me anywhere in here at all. It’s not like we were a tag team for the few decades preceding your one singles title run or anything.

Clyde: This is serious. My lawyer says I stand a good chance of getting the chair.

And so marks the end of the beginning of the end for The Forsaken. And in case you’re wondering if Clyde decides to return to PRIME for one last hurrah, you should probably ask your parents if they’re related and, if so, how related their parents are. Because if you have to ask at this point, there’s a really good possibility the answer is “very.”
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