Dave gets you a job as a waiter. soon enough, Dave also gets a katana press against your larynx. He was reciting how you must, yes you don’t have any other choice, die in order to reach eternal life. “To reach god tier,” as he states.

Now, you and Dave were best friends. Well, actually, you would like to believe you two still were. Many ask you, do you know about Dave Strider? Of course you do, who doesn’t?
The tip of the katana pools around your adam’s apple, it’s silent and cold. Not a single whisper would escape the blade as it slice your head onto the debris cover floor, unlike the gun pressing against your thigh. Surely, you had enough skill to mute a gun. Simply by drilling holes into certain vital points in the barrel. Thus making the exiting bullet just underneath the speed of sound, leaving it golden as ever. Though due to your lack of esteem and most all coordination, you will fuck up. Even with Dave’s help, you will fuck up. Fucking up means your scrawny ass wrist will explode faster than the building you and your best friend, Dave, is standing.
“Trust me bro, this ain’t death.” Dave reassures. “It’s eternal slumber, babe.”

Dave babies you, caters to you. Always calling you with sweet talk lingering off the tip of his tongue, those nicknames,” babe, sweety, honey, cupcake.” Always promising you the downfall of corporation so you can get out of that shitty accountant job at your dear nana’s baking empire. You accept the bittersweet lies knowing, acknowledging that Dave would rather love Karkat Vantas.

You would mock Karkat but right now, Dave is eyeing you from behind those damn shades. The very shades you got him.

You are John’s Infatuation for Dave.

Is this really an infatuation? You sat around listening to Dave’s rambles you gave him his first beating and he, he gave you meaning. Or so it seems.
Dave kept his katana press against your throat and you can only speak out in vowels without piercing skin. You admit, the homemade anime sword was in great quality. It doesn’t take much to make a shitty ass sword. Gulping hard, you begin to pan out the process.

Steal some fucking copper from an abandon house and some metal from a car. Whether that car belong to someone or not, that doesn’t concern you. You gotta act like those damn space trolls if you wanna climb this mountain. Let’s get to it, you have the metal, now supply the heat. Painstakingly melt the two together, beat the shit outta it with hammer and soak it in a bath tub filled water cold enough to make your Karkat’s heart look like a fireplace.

You know this because Dave knows this.

Nine minutes.

We as humans always kill what we love. Then again, that’s a double edge sword. Pun intended.

Dave leans towards you and with ease he guides the blade along your throat. You smell him. The musk mixed with Nitroglycerin but most of all, smuppets. Taken back, you allow your spine to curve along the back of the chair, trying to avoid Dave as much as you could. He knows you’re avoiding him, how? Because.

He is Dave Strider.

Eight minutes.

His shades strike a certain lighting where you could see the smolder glare. Your breath hike and instantly you were given a new scent, smoke.

41 stories up and 3 down from the roof, you only imagine the Mischief Committee of Project Scratch escaping the building just as the demolition team would run down the building The English building. Where, if they keep up this pace without single doubt in your mind, they will hit plush rump and sit off this domino.

Just as this place blows, the trolls would linger in the crowd enclosing the area. They join with the pointers and the awe’s, all but ignorant to fact that their leader is about to break your heart and get away with murder.

Seven minutes.

Tomorrow in the newspaper, photo’s would be taken at every angle and then be splash about. Poor Ms.Rose Lalonde’s front cover issue about her latest New York Time best seller would have to put on page two for your story, for your tragedy.

Five minutes.

Karkat would be the only eyewitness, the only reliable source to this mishap. Reporters would swarm him asking,” How did you know Dave Strider?”

“Because I fucked that asshole.”

He replied as he flick off the cameras and storm off to some thrift store and buy another suite of the best man.

Karkat is apart of this strange love triangle. You want Dave, Dave wants Karkat and Karkat wants you.

You had admit before Dave loses his cool and finally snaps your neck with metal, that the whole point of this operation was not to fuck with the man but Karkat Vantas. This circle circles back this man: the anarchy, the explosion, the excoriation of mind and soul was for this man.

Truthfully, you don’t want Karkat yet he wants you while he ignores the fact that Dave wants him. Sure enough, Dave doesn't want you, John. Dave doesn't want you and wants to get rid of you. Not because he doesn't like you. It has to do with the fact that you are getting in his way of getting his prize. That prize being Karkat. This sick triangle has nothing to do with love. This fuck up sex scandal has to do with ownership of property that rightfully belongs to what Dave belives is his.

Without Karkat Vantas, who is Dave Strider?

Four minutes.

You’re wasting time.

“We’ll become legend, don’t you want that?” He pushes the tip of his boot onto your groin, your needy, greedy groin.

Yes, you answer, you want to become a legend. Have your name spread across textbooks of he public education system. You swallow once more.

Dave, you croak, dude, don’t you? I’ll make you into a legend. Unlike those space trolls, I’ve been here since the beginning.

I remember everything.

Three minutes.