Chapter Text
Eugene doesn’t like Pugsley.
Which, honestly, is a bit sucky.
He'd hoped maybe Eugene would've liked him enough to hang out but apparently not
Not that Pugsley needs Eugene’s approval or anything.
Eugene’s the type who probably thinks flossing is a personality trait. Literally just a hive of buzzing...
Something?
He's not good at metaphors.
But still. It sucks a little. Because Eugene’s loud, and he’s got friends, and he’s the kind of guy who is almost embarrassingly awkward but in a way that makes people actually want to stand near him.
Pugsley, on the other hand?
Well, he’s got... less. Less everything, really. Less friends, less luck, less sense of direction. He’s been the neighborhood oddball for as long as he can remember. The kind of guy the other outcasts give a wide berth to not because he’s dangerous or anything, but because hanging around him feels like carrying around a live grenade that might just go off in your face.
Plus, there’s Wednesday.
Wednesday makes people nervous.
And Pugsley’s measels don’t help either.
Now hes really thinking about it maybe the measles is why people don't hang out with him.
Should've stuck with the chicken poxs.
But its fine.
It's not like he's standing on his own in a school hes been at for less than 2 months.
Totally fine.
Gosh his hand are cold.
He knew he shouldn't taken lurch's instead- they run warm.
He reaches into his pocket, and, oh snap, does he have a cockroach in there? That’s right. A wriggling, antenna-twitching cockroach.
Oh we are eating tonight boys!!
Gosh praise the dead. Except uncle urgh. He knows what he didn't did indeed not do. His finger reach for a creepy crawler but close around something different.
A bracelet.
Not just any bracelet. A friendship bracelet. The kind you make when you’re 12 and you want
someone to remember you .
Pugsley blinks.
Bracelet.
In his pocket.
Why is there a bracelet in his pocket.
And why does it say hyd-
Tyler.
The memory hits him like a brick wrapped in a wet sock.
He forgot to give Tyler the bracelet.
How does someone forget something that’s been burning a hole in their pocket for days?
He stops walking. Pulls the bracelet out, eyes tracing the faded colors. Blue, yellow, and a little messy splash of red where the thread frayed. It looks like a kid’s art project that went a little sideways, but to Pugsley, it’s a damn relic.
A promise.
A connection.
Only problem? Tyler’s in jail.
Yeah, jail.
Pugsley wrinkles his nose. Or was it a mental institution.
Uncle fester said those are basically house parties but it seemed pretty dull when pugsley went there.
And how's he even meant to go there? After the bus-explosion-which-he-thinks-he-might've-contributed-to-but-can't-quite-remember-thing, all the buse driver have been on strike. Good on them I guess.
Still, Pugsley’s got to get it to him.
And it’s not like Pugsley has a direct line to Tyler.
Nope. No phone calls, no smoke signals, no carrier pigeons.
Just a plan.
A plan that involves writing a letter.
Now, Pugsley’s never been much of a writer. His last attempt at a poem ended with the phrase “I am the king of the slugs” and a lot of confused looks. But this letter? It’s got to be different.
Because it’s for Tyler.
He stuffs the bracelet back in his pocket and keeps walking, the weight of it there like a secret he can’t wait to spill.
But first, he has to figure out how to get the damn letter to Tyler.
He scratches his head, glancing around. Maybe he can get Eugene to help. Nah, Eugene would probably just lecture him for trying to contact someone in jail. Maybe worse.
And he was way to weird about it the last time he mentioned Tyler.
No, he’ll need someone else.
Someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.
Someone a little... wild.
Yeah.
That’s it.
----------
Shit.
Where the hell am I?
Pugsley stops dead and looks around. The sun’s moving fast, shadows stretching like long, lazy cats. Trees everywhere. Dirt. Leaves. Somewhere a crow caws like it just heard the worst joke ever.
He scratches his head. The bracelet’s still in his pocket, a comforting weight. But this place? No clue.
“Well, that’s just great,” he mutters.
He spots a low wall nearby and decides to climb it like it’s some kind of escape ladder out of confusion city.
Double C.
Alliteration.
He's getting closer.
Halfway up, he gets a couple of dirty looks from a group of kids lounging on the other side.
Fuck they know.
“What?!” Pugsley yells, half-defensive, half-hysterical. “Allieration isn't a crime I'm innocent.”
No one says anything. They just stare harder, which is definitely worse.
One kid flinches away.
Ok well fuck you too I guess.
So Pugsley just jumps down and bolts. Fast as he can, with more adrenaline than direction. He darts through a tangle of bushes, trips over a root, and then—holy crap—is he back at his dorm?
Wierd.
Whatever.
He skids to a stop in front of the rickety old door, breathing hard, chest pounding like a drumline. He opens it and steps inside, slamming the door behind him.
Silence.
He looks down at the floor and freezes.
There, right under his bed, is a human foot.
No, wait. A fake foot. Some old Halloween prop someone left behind, all dusty and gross-looking.
“Okay,” Pugsley says, exhaling slowly, “normal weird.”
Ye doesn't have a foot fetish.
That's thing.
Pugsley more of a human head man.
Why is there a fake foot there anyway?
No keep focus - the letter.
He crouches down, fishing around the dusty floor and pulls out a crumpled pen. He holds it up like it’s a trophy.
“Alright. Let’s get this letter started.”
------------
I hate this job.
No, that’s not strong enough.
I despise this job.
Walking up to a prison with a sack full of letters feels less like delivering mail and more like volunteering to walk through a minefield wearing clown shoes.
Every step closer to those gates makes my stomach flip-flop like it’s trying to audition for Cirque du Soleil.
Why the hell did I even sign up for this? Oh right—because school is the absolute worst, and I wanted something that wasn’t just sitting at a desk pretending to care about algebra. “It’ll be good experience,” I told myself. “You’ll be tough, man.”
Spoiler alert: I’m anything but tough. I’m a walking, talking anxiety attack.
The prison looms ahead, all cold steel and concrete, like the world’s worst haunted house that also happens to be a fortress for scary people who’ve definitely seen too many horror movies and probably aren’t fans of the mail.
The guards barely glance my way, probably because terrified mailboys are a dime a dozen here but I’m pretty sure I’m radiating enough panic to set off the fire alarms.
I’m gripping this sack like it’s a life raft, and inside it is the most awkward package imaginable: a letter and a friendship bracelet.
Yeah. You read that right. A friendship bracelet.
Don’t ask.
I’m already rehearsing my escape plan. “Oh no, sorry, my shoes are untied.” “Actually, I think I left my letter back home.” “Can I please not come in today? I feel a sudden migraine.”
Nothing’s working.
Then I remember why I’m here. That damn letter from a freak named Pugsley.
The kid’s a total wildcard, and this time he decided it was a brilliant idea to have me deliver a note to Tyler,who, last I heard, is locked up for secretly being a monster and killing a shit tone of people.
Honestly it's disgusting how many outcast creeps there are in this town.
Oh and Pugsley’s idea of payment?
Threatening me with a tarantula.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Alright, Milo,” Pugsley said, leaning in like he was about to share the town’s best-kept secret. “You’re the best mailman in Nevermore. Nobody gets letters delivered like you do.”
I blinked, trying to figure out if he was being serious or just messing with me.
“So,” he continued, “I need you to deliver this letter and this.” He held up a ratty friendship bracelet like it was a priceless artifact. “It’s for a close friend of mine. Tyler.”
I frowned. Tyler? The guy who went psycho monster killer after dating a creepy outcast? “Uh, no thanks.”
Pugsley’s grin shifted into something more sinister. He pulled a small box from his pocket and flipped it open.
Inside, a tarantula scuttled around its cage, legs twitching.
“If you don’t deliver this,” Pugsley said, voice low and deadly serious, “I’ll replace your toothbrush with this—and it’s not dead.”
I swallowed hard, staring at those hairy legs and beady eyes.
"Are you threatening me freak?"
“No, I'm threatening your toothbrush, Milo. Imagine brushing your teeth and feeling those legs crawling. Not fun, right?”
“No way. You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious. You don’t want to know what happened last time someone tried to skip a delivery.”
I took a step back. “Fine. I’ll do it. But if I find a tarantula in my bathroom tomorrow, I’m moving out.”
Pugsley laughed. “Deal.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So here I am.
Heart hammering like a drumline, palms sweating enough to water a small garden, clutching this letter and bracelet like they’re some kind of cursed treasure.
Delivering mail to a murderer? Yeah, great life choices, Milo.
The gates clang open and I step inside, trying not to trip over my own feet. Every shadow looks like it’s hiding a grumpy inmate ready to yell at me for messing up his mail or worse asking questions I don’t want to answer. I keep reminding myself: It’s just a letter.
Just a bracelet. Nothing that’s going to get me killed... hopefully.
I shuffle forward, eyes darting to the sides, listening to the distant clanks and muffled shouts. This place smells like despair mixed with old coffee and regret. I’d almost prefer the tarantula crawling on my shoulder than this.
And that letter? I have no clue what’s in it. But something tells me that whatever Pugsley wrote, it’s gonna stir the pot. Why are all the rich customers crazy.
With a deep breath, I approach the cell block where Tyler is kept, wishing I could teleport out of here. No way out though. This is it.
Deliver the mail.
Pretend I’m brave.
--------------
Tyler sat on his narrow bunk, the hard edges pressing uncomfortably against his back.
The low buzz of lights hummed above him, mixing with the faint clang of distant doors locking and unlocking.
He glanced at the folded piece of paper peeking out from under his pillow. A letter. Who the hell sends letters in here?
How did he not notice?
He fished it out carefully, fingertips brushing the crease in the middle like it might snap if he pulled too hard. There was no return address, no stamp, no indication where it had come from— ust his name, written in messy, uneven handwriting, almost childish.
Tyler’s heart thudded. A letter. For him.
“Who?” he whispered to the empty room.
His eyes darted to the friendship bracelet lying on the bunk next to him. The thread was worn, faded from too many days in the sun and rain, but the colors ed, black, and a stripe of green still stood out. Someone had made it for him. Someone had thought about him enough to actually take the time to do that.
Tyler felt a hollow ache settle deep in his chest. He was supposed to be tough. But here he was, clutching a stupid little bracelet like it was a lifeline.
He turned the letter over slowly, his fingers
trembling just a little. His mind raced.
Is it from Dad?
That thought hit him harder than he expected. His father had never sent any letters before.
Or if he had, Tyler never got them. Maybe this was finally something from him? A chance to hear a word, a sign that he hadn’t been abandoned completely?
But how would it get in here?
Prison was strict.
Everything was checked, scanned, torn apart if needed. Letters were rare and usually came from lawyers or family. But the look on his Dad's face.
The disappointment.
As if it wasn't his fault.
Tyler’s eyes narrowed. Could it be Wednesday?
Or maybe it was just a joke. Or a trap.
He sat back on the bunk, staring at the letter and bracelet. His chest tightened. He felt a wave of loneliness crash over him, sharper than the ache from the cold steel bars outside his window.
“Why me?” he muttered. “Why now?”
His voice echoed off the bare walls, swallowed by the stale air.
Tyler folded his arms and pressed the letter against his chest, as if holding it close might keep the loneliness at bay. The bracelet felt heavy in his hand, more than just a piece of string. It was a connection.
A whisper that someone out there still cared, even if he wasn’t sure who or why.
He sighed and glanced around the cell. The shadows seemed to creep closer, like they wanted to swallow him whole.
he other inmates were either asleep or keeping to themselves. No one was coming to ask questions. No one was going to explain this.
Tyler’s fingers traced the edges of the bracelet again, pulling at one of the threads absentmindedly.
Do I open it?
His mind fought itself. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe it’s a threat.
But maybe it’s not.
With a heavy sigh, he opened the letter.
----------
Tyler,
This is from pugsley.
You know me.
Sorry for not visiting in a while.
I've been busy.
I killed a few people
Thought you'd want to know.
I'll try visit you when the bus drivers stop striking.
Also I hope you like the friendship bracelet.
I don't have any friends, But you're in jail
You have to be my friend.
Because no one else likes you.
But you killed a ton of people
So I like you.
Which is why I made the bracelet
The shape of this letter
Is the same shape
As the iceberg
Which sunk the Titianic
Love, Pugsley
(Ps. This letter is edible.)
------------
Tyler blinked.
The letter is paper. Does pugsley eat paper?
And who did he kill?