nonsense

Title: The Making Of
Author: Kasha
Rating: PG-13ish
Summary: “Tell me again why anyone would pick up a hooker outside a port-a-potty.”
Author’s Notes: First: So fake. Second: This will make no sense if you’ve never seen “Bedussey” or don’t know there is to be a sequel called “Bad Twin.” Third: I think Patrick is cuter than bunnies—the description is his view. Fourth: Since I am sadly lacking an icon, if anyone were nice enough to make me one, (s)he would be met with love and gratitude and possibly fic-on-demand.



“Tell me again,” Patrick said as he shifted uncomfortably in his polyester dress shirt and tried in vain not to breathe through his nose, “why anyone would pick up a hooker outside a port-a-potty.”

Pete gave him a dirty look and reapplied his lipstick—a truly heinous orange-red that did nothing for his olive skin—for the fourth time that night.

“Actually, come to think of it, why the hell would there even be a hooker waiting around outside a port-a-potty to be picked up? It’s not like there’d be that much business to be had, you know? Can’t imagine there’re many guys who are so turned on by the smell of, of fucking feces and hot plastic that they just have to get some right then and there.”

“Okay.” Joe set the video camera down on the grass beside him and walked over to Patrick, throwing a friendly arm over his shoulders. “Two things. First: Bad Twin needs no explanation for his actions save that he’s Bad Twin. Picking up a whore by a port-a-john is just the kind of thing Bad Twin does, all right? Second: Look at Pete. Just look at him.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation as both men turned to look at their companion. Pete, noticing their scrutiny, stopped combing out his wig long enough to flash a blinding smile in their direction. (He had lipstick on his teeth.) He also gave a decidedly lewd wink and flashed rather a lot of thigh. (He—thank the Almighty—had no lipstick on his leg. He did, however, have body hair that, although sparse, was just dark enough to be noticeable. It was quite disconcerting next to the pink vinyl of his micromini.)

Joe blinked a few times and physically shook the image out of his mind before continuing. “If you looked like that, out in front of one of these babies would be the best place for you to strut your stuff. Because, really, the kind of people who would pay money to hit that would be the kind of people sketch enough to. You know.”

“Hang around port-a-potties at night looking for some ass?”

“Exactly. And third: It’s Pete’s stupid movie. It doesn’t have to make sense. And this is the best set we have to work with right now, so shut up and get into position. We don’t have all night, and it fucking reeks out here.”

* * *

“Hey there, big boy, what brings you out here at this time of ni—you know, I don’t think that line’s really working. There’s just no way that anyone could ever conceivably call Patrick ‘big boy.’ Ever.”

* * *

The reason Pete had no qualms about dressing up like an idiot and filming himself doing horribly unflattering things, Patrick had always thought, was because, through it all, no matter what, Pete still looked good. Pete had the natural, easy confidence possessed by only the very attractive, for, despite his modest denials in the face of fans and the occasional less than professional reporter, Pete was slender and tan and lovely and had a brilliant smile—and knew it. When Pete put on ugly clothing, he just looked like a very pretty boy who happened to be very poorly dressed.

Patrick, on the other hand, was short and chubby and balding and pale—and he knew it. He hated to take part in Pete’s little projects because, when he put on ugly clothing, he just looked ugly.

Which was why he was so uncomfortable now, standing in front of a port-a-potty at two in the morning pretending to proposition Pete for the sake of art. Well, Pete’s version of it, at least. And it was also why, even though Pete had, by far, the worst of the deal in his terrible red Lady Godiva wig and clashing neon fishnets, Patrick was the one who wanted nothing more than to shrink into the foul-smelling ground and disappear.

* * *

“Heya, stud, looking for a good time? Hmm? Dammit, Trick, stop laughing!”

* * *

“Bedussey” had not had a script, as such. What little direction its “actors” had received had come from a slightly used Pizza Hut napkin Pete and Patrick had taken turns scrawling on in eyeliner and purple Sharpie one night during a spectacularly failed song-writing session.

The napkin read as follows:

“Snow job? BLOW JOB!!! (This was underlined. Twice.) Pounds and POUNDS of sweet, sweet nose kandddy. Fucking wire—HIGH SPEED CHASE! Peterpanda is one sexiful blonde, until Ric Stump kills. him. dead.”

At the bottom, underneath a particularly noticeable grease stain, there was, for no apparent reason, a picture of platypus. It was a very inaccurate drawing and was identifiable only by its helpful label: “PLATYPUS.”

* * *

“That’s a good looking shirt, stranger, but I bet it’d look better on the floor of my. Uh. Do I even have a house? Or am I one of those, like, homeless vagrant prostitute types?”

* * *

“Bad Twin,” in comparison, was carefully charted out. In blue crayon, to be precise, on graph paper specially purchased for the occasion. And that, even more than the fact that his shirt was unflatteringly tight and that Pete had insisted he take off his hat and put on the turtle-rimmed glasses he had worn in seventh grade, was why Patrick had been praying for a swift death since filming had begun three hours ago. Because constantly looming in the back of Patrick’s mind as he listened to Pete’s increasingly cheesy come-ons was the section of paper near the bottom left corner of the sheet (directly below the words “Pleather so out—need pink vinyl”) whereupon were scribbled the most terrifying words in the English language:

“SUPERHOT & STEAMY BAD TWIN/SKANKY HOOKER MAKEOUT SESSION.”

It wasn’t that Patrick didn’t want to engage in a superhot & steamy makeout session with Pete—because, as he’d long ago resigned himself after one too many excruciatingly detailed dreams and embarrassing awakenings, oh God, did he ever. It was just that twenty-one years of living in the real world had taught Patrick that, despite what movies promised, boys like Pete—who was leaning against a portable toilet in the least convincing drag ever practicing pick up lines with Joe and still managed to make Patrick’s stomach clench with want and something that felt dangerously like love—did not fall for boys like Patrick—who was crouching a few feet away trying to stave off hyperventilation and almost certainly not inspiring lustful thoughts in anyone.

* * *

“Looking for a good time, sailor? That’s a pretty impressive mast you’ve got there…wanna bring it into port? Eh? He’s—he’s fucking laughing again!”

* * *

At exactly 2:37 a.m., they had finally succeeded in getting the setup down on film (the winning opening line: “Hey there, baby, you spend a lot of time around toilets? Yeah? Well then, how about you check my plumbing for me?”), and Patrick was as ready as he was ever going to be to humiliate himself by getting really obviously turned on while kissing Pete-the-hooker. In front of all his friends. And on film, for posterity.

Pete repeated his line so they could edit it cleanly, running a hand through his fake, fake hair and batting ridiculously over-mascaraed eyelashes. Patrick’s eyes followed that hand—somewhat blurrily, since his vision had gotten worse since middle school—as it moved from Pete’s wig to his chest, and he was momentarily pleased to note that the ugly yellow of his button-down didn’t do anything for Pete’s complexion either. That thought didn’t last long, however, as his whole existence was suddenly reduced to Pete’s mouth against his, Pete’s hands fisted in his shirt, and Pete’s knee pressing in between his legs.

The kiss was sloppy, self-conscious and gummy with too much drug-store lipstick, and Patrick could taste the pizza they’d all been snacking on throughout the night, but at that moment Patrick felt more exhilarated than he ever had in his entire life. Pete’s lips crashing against his was like the best show they’d ever played only a thousand times more intense, and Pete’s hands, now drifting dangerously close to Patrick’s ass, burned him through his clothes worse than any sunburn he’d ever gotten on tour. So caught up was Patrick in the sensation that he forgot to worry about his audience or how Pete would react to his over-exuberance—though, if Patrick had been capable of rational thought, he would have noticed his friend was being similarly, if not even more, enthusiastic.

The two finally broke apart only when Pete tripped over his ludicrously high heels—against which Patrick had protested violently since Pete already had a good two inches on him anyway—and fell onto Patrick with enough force to send them both tumbling against the port-a-potty behind them. Thankfully, their combined weight wasn’t quite sufficient to knock the structure over, but rebounding off the plastic caused Patrick to lose his balance, and he wound up in the grass, breathless, confused, and unbelievably aroused, with a lapful of a best friend, who, if the panting and glassy eyes were anything to go by, was in much the same state.

Patrick stared at Pete. Pete stared back. Patrick unconsciously licked his lips. Pete inhaled sharply and tugged on his vinyl (not pleather!) skirt. Patrick opened his mouth to say something and then promptly closed it again when he realized he had no idea what to say. Pete managed to stutter out a few unintelligible syllables before giving up and chewing his bottom lip nervously.

From his vantage point a few yards away, Joe, by this point utterly forgotten to his friends, lowered the camera to his side and loudly cleared his throat.

“You know, with some of the fans out there these days, we’d probably make more money with just a straight-up porno.”

Pete threw a shoe at him.