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The studio was quiet and still, lights off and crew long gone. Rhett fidgeted in his seat at the Round Table, laptop open and mouse poised over the “play” button. He’d been sitting there for fifteen minutes, waiting for the tightness in his chest to ease. Nothing was going to sooth the ache. Not when the chair beside him remained empty.
Rhett cleared his throat, pulling his headphones into place and leaning toward the microphone. “Welcome to Ear Biscuits,” he started, shining eyes glued to the tabletop. “I’m Rhett, and this… this is the last biscuit that’ll ever be served.”
He leaned back and rattled out a deep breath. “Some of you may remember the time capsule episode and how out of hand the conversation got at the beginning. It started out as a joke, the idea of a self-eulogy, but you—you know us.” His fingers curled around the lip of the table, gripping until his knuckles turned white. “Can’t always tell when we’ve taken something too far.”
He let his eyes slide to the computer screen, to the cursor waiting to be used. “What you’re about to hear is the eulogy of Link Neal.” His throat constricted, trying to cut off the words even though not saying them didn’t make them any less real. “It may be hard for you to listen to, so maybe it’ll help to know we’re all experiencing this together. No one else has heard this, not even me.”
Rhett’s finger hovered over the touchpad, refusing to go any lower. Terror and longing warred through him, ripping open his chest and clawing through his veins. He wanted to hear his best friend’s voice with violent desperation and simultaneously knew something inside would break when he did. There would be no going back for him; there would be no going forward.
Though it made his stomach churn, he tapped the touchpad and the audio file rasped to life. The sound of movement, of fabric shifting, and then the sweetest voice Rhett had ever heard filled the studio.
“Hello, mythical beasts,” Link greeted them from within the computer. “I died: let’s talk about that.”
Rhett sucked in a breath, knowing it would be audible to listeners and not caring.
“Sorry,” Link said after a beat. “This is serious, but c’mon. You know you want to hear a few more of daddy’s stupid jokes while you can.”
Tears sprang to Rhett’s eyes as he let out an unsteady chuckle. He leaned forward, staring at the little bar that measured just how long he’d be suspended between bliss and agony. It was slipping forward too fast.
“Mythical beasts, please forgive me for whatever asinine thing I did that lead to this. Whatever it was, I guarantee I was trying to make someone laugh. That’s the only way I’ve ever wanted to go.” His inappropriately lighthearted tone softened, growing sincere. “No matter what it was, know that I don’t regret anything. Not one second. I hope you don’t either.”
A sob racked Rhett’s body and he covered his mouth with a clammy hand. Panic fluttered in his gut as the silence stretched, making him wonder if something had gone wrong with the recording. The bar at the bottom was still moving, though, so he tried to stem his fear.
“I made a separate recording for Christy and the kids, so don’t worry: I’m not being a jerk by not addressing them. If any of you reach out to her after listening to this, be kind.”
Link paused again and Rhett navigated to the folder where the recording lived. There was one other file, as promised, but the sight of it made an alarm bell in the back of his head start ringing.
“To the crew, I just wanna say one more thank you. You guys really enhanced our show and helped make it into something worth watching every day. I hope you keep making your own videos and developing your own fan base—but don’t call ‘em beasts. That’s ours.”
It was a joke but Rhett’s heart hammered at the word ours, at the acknowledgment that the foundation of their business had been irrevocably cracked in his absence. This was it. He braced himself for the turn in direction, torn in half at the thought of hearing his name on Link’s lips for the last time.
“Thanks to Mini Wheats for making my mornings so delicious. Thanks to peanut butter for always bein’ there when I needed it.” His voice lifted at the end and Rhett knew he’d been smiling. “Make sure you visit the store for one last tube of Peculiarly Perfect Peanut Butter and Peppermint Lip Balm. I don’t think they’ll keep making ‘em now.”
Rhett’s mouth pulled down at the corners, caught between anger and gut-wrenching horror. How dare Link make a joke out of this. He knew what this was, what fragile opportunity he was destroying. If Rhett wasn’t so desperate to hear his own goodbye, he’d have shut the recording off prematurely and apologized to everyone.
“Don’t hate me too much for this, okay?” Link shifted again, the audio taking on a scratchy, static quality. “I’m sure you’re all mad right now, but wait ten years and see if it comes back around to being funny. Go ahead and set a reminder on your phone. I’ll wait.”
Rhett reached for the computer, clammy and chilly and thoroughly broken. He didn’t want this for the fans and he didn’t want this for himself. Losing Link was one thing; being tortured by him was almost worse. Before he could hit ‘stop’, Link’s voice rang out louder than before, like he’d gotten closer to the mic to make sure they could hear him.
“I—I’ll miss you all.” There was a sniffle that made Rhett freeze. “Good mythical night, bo.”
Rhett clutched his leg, fingers digging painfully into his thigh. Why hadn’t Link said—why wasn’t he—
The recording ended.
Rhett stared at Link’s computer, at the full bar that had stopped moving. That was it. After a lifetime of weaving themselves around each other, of building businesses and families, Link had spared only one word for his best friend. For the man who had stood by him since first grade, defending him from bullies and his own recklessness. Just one word, one childhood nickname, and Link was gone.
The shaking started in the tips of Rhett’s fingers and up his arms, seeping through his whole body and possessing him. He flung his arm out with a yell and snapped the laptop shut. He ripped off his headphones, throwing them against the table, and stormed out without ending the session. Let the tape roll forever without either of them. There was no point to it anymore.
Without conscious thought, he barreled down the hall and into the office they’d shared. He hadn’t been inside in weeks, too much of a coward to even go in to retrieve the laptop. He’d sent Stevie in, apologizing profusely when she’d emerged with tear-stained cheeks, but it had been a line he couldn’t cross.
Rhett did now, throwing open the door and reveling in the sound of it slamming against the wall. His chest heaved and his limbs shook and he wanted to destroy everything: the side-by-side desks, a juxtaposition of neat and messy; the couch, pillows still meticulously arranged by nimble hands; the shelves on the wall, displaying their accolades and trinkets and self-indulgent copies of the Book of Mythicality.
Link had started the crumbling, so why not finish it? Why not burn down the house they’d built with blood and sweat and love? He wanted to strike a match and destroy it all, even as he railed against his own rage from deep within. It wasn’t rational thought powering him now, but an impulse to protect himself from Link’s wild nature one last time. Link had burned them both, had constantly stood too close to the dancing flames and forced Rhett to pull him back. This time, there was no recovering from it; they would both spiral together.
Rhett stomped to the coffee table. With one sweep of his hand, he cleared away the vase and coasters. They skidded along the floor like stones on a pond, smacking into the wall. His chest swelled with another scream but he kept it inside, the pressure making tears roll down his cheeks. It was too much. It wasn’t enough.
When he went to the desks, not sure if he could destroy Link’s even in his anger, he pulled up short. There was a hard drive balanced on his own laptop and he knew instantly how it had gotten there. His rage guttered, hands shaking for a whole new reason as he reached for it, cradling the little chunk of plastic in his palms.
Rhett dropped down into his chair and woke the computer up. When the desktop blinked to life, a blank expanse waiting to be filled, he closed his eyes and put the drive in. A folder with a single audio file opened. Rhett didn’t hesitate this time to press play.
“Rhett McLaughlin.” Link’s voice was strong, clear, filling the office as it had almost every day for years. Rhett couldn’t stop the tears that began to flow in earnest, didn’t even want to.
“I know how upset you are right now, so let me say sorry again. Recording that was mean, I’ll own to it. But I refuse to go out on a sad note—not with the beasts and especially not with you, brother.” A door opened on the recording, so crystal clear Rhett looked over at the office door just in case. He was startled to hear his own voice. The two of them muttered, too low for him to hear, then the door shut and Link let out a small laugh.
“Not my best idea, doing this on a lunch break. I just couldn’t do it at home. Christy would start asking questions, and I’d break down and tell her I made a recording for her, too. I don’t want her to know about it ‘til she has to. It’s my last little surprise.” There was a pause, Link’s breathing barely audible, and then Sing Me Back Home by Merle started playing.
Rhett shook his head, tears spilling onto his jeans. “You keep lying to me,” he whispered to the empty room.
Let my guitar-playin’ friend do my request
“I know I’ve asked a lot of you over the last thirty-five years, but there’s one more thing I want you to do for me, Rhett.”
Let him sing me back home with a song I used to hear
“This is silly and dramatic, but bear with me, okay?”
Make my old memories come alive
“You’re in the office right now, so go to the bottom left drawer of my desk and take out the envelope in the back.”
Take me away and turn back the years
Rhett did as told, finding the unmarked blue envelope easily. Link had even gone so far as to write his name over the seal. The sight of it, of those scrawled letters that had gone next to his own on every GMM poster and fan picture and studio lease, gutted him.
Sing me back home before I die
“Open it. Open it for me and Merle.” Link joined in on the next verse, a low and even soundtrack to the painful beating of Rhett’s heart.
He sat back down before ripping it open on the side, unable to ruin Link’s signature. A miniature baggie fell out onto his desk and he took out a folded piece of paper. Not sure what to focus on first, Rhett’s gaze danced between the two before he unfolded the paper and read.
Rhett James McLaughlin and Charles Lincoln Neal III both recognize that their blood oath has been fulfilled. They did indeed go on to do great things together. They became Internetainers, finding their way into the homes of people all around the world. They created a company, a legacy, and two amazing families (but let’s face it; they’re really all one big family.)
They won’t have any more adventures together on this Earth, but that doesn’t mean it’s over. If Rhett’s to be believed, Link is still alive in another universe. He’s also a ballerina in another universe, but if he is, Rhett is, too.
The blood oath of high school is dissolved, so now they start a new one: I, , will continue to do great things in the memory of my best friend and brother, Link Neal . I will not give up on entertaining because it’s what I’m best at, and it makes me happy. I am strong enough to stand on my own and smart enough to know what the next step will be.
In return, I, Link Neal , will support you from wherever I am right now. And I’ll see you again—just not anytime soon.
Signed,
Charles Lincoln Neal III and
He’d signed his name in blood. Rhett set the contract down and folded in on himself, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, wet sobs tearing his lips on their way out.
“Have you read it yet?” Link asked softly. The song faded away in the background, forgotten by both of them.
Rhett nodded, unable to speak. It didn’t matter anyway; words never had.
“You and me, buddyroll. I only had to wait six years for you the first time, but I had three decades with you. I can wait a little longer.”
“I miss you,” Rhett choked out, staring at the audio player as if he could see those big blue eyes looking back, see that mouth part in a knowing smile one more time.
“I’m sure you forgot all about the baggie, so let me spoil the surprise: it’s stuff to help you sign. Try not to pass out on me, okay?”
He was right, Rhett had forgotten. He opened the baggie and found a sterile needle, similar to the one they’d used in the blood-typing episode, and the head of a calligraphy pen. Rhett wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands, flattening the paper and gingerly taking out the bag’s contents. Pricking his skin was nothing. He didn’t feel it, not even when he dipped the fountainhead into the little pool balanced on his fingertip.
“I love you, Rhett. I have our whole lives. Now go make me proud.”
Rhett gasped and looked up at the screen, terrified it was over, but the recording kept playing. He could hear Link’s breath, patient and even, as if he’d known Rhett would still need him to get through this. Some of the tightness in his chest abated, grief’s fist releasing some of its hold.
“Love you too, Link.”
Rhett James McLaughlin