The Suspension of Disbelief

Brian sat in a fog of sensation, still staring at the screen as the credits kept rolling. He had never really been one for fantasy or sci-fi or horror genres, either in movie or book form. Brian's literary and visual tastes ran more to the socio-philosophic and erotic, to westerns filled with outcasts, to social statements of rebellion and the search for personal redemption - or to a big dick and a luscious ass. Give him One-Eyed Jacks or Rebel Without a Cause or even Dirty Dancing, for chrissake! Of course, he would occasionally concede to Mikey and slog through some hard muscled guy dressed in Lycra, able to save the world against impossible odds (because he had been bitten by a spider wielding a magical Norse hammer, while passing through a magnetic field distortion after having been deported to safety by his oh-so-loving-but-now-long-dead parents.) Then again, big dick, luscious ass. Lycra did have its merits.

But this arcane and esoteric shit he had just watched? Well, that was more Justin's kind of thing - the kind of thing Brian sporadically endured grudgingly with the boy, knowing he would never really have to concentrate on the meat of the movie, since he was being informed all the while on the quality of the effects, the advances in CGI development and the hopes for an even more realistic digital tomorrow.

Gotta love those artists.

Tonight, though, he'd been tired and bored. Long days seeking gainful employment in the wake of the Stockwell brouhaha had a particular way of leaching the energy force right out of him. Thank you, Michael, for introducing that particular phrase into my personal lexicon. Justin and Michael were out, busily mocking up yet another sextastic adventure for their favorite embattled superhero, Ted was off trying to un-become his crystal queen-ness, and Emmett was most likely practicing a new and more efficient method of napkin origami.

So, left to his own devices, here he was. Sitting alone in the loft on a Thursday night watching a movie - one of the few remaining forms of entertainment they could logically still afford - on the for-shit boob box thrifted from Mother Taylor's storage. It was the video Justin had started to watch earlier, apparently - still in the DVD player. Giving a little ‘oh, what the fuck' grunt and roll of his eyes, Brian had clicked it on and sat back sipping his beer as majestic backgrounds rolled and hot elfin beings cavorted about in battle gear. He had planned to be amused, to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, to mock the impossible nature of Justin's much beloved film. But - and here was the painful clincher for Brian - he liked it. Sure there were a lot of pretty boys. A little eye candy didn't hurt, even without Lycra, but this kind of story just wasn't him. He was all about the moral driven cinema, the human condition, the... real. Not the fantastic. But - he had believed it for a while. He had been so involved in the tale that he subconsciously rooted for the protagonists, knowing - knowing - that the wished for outcome was a logical impossibility, yet hoping (merely for the sake of the story, of course) that victory would be a circumstantial probability.

He had bought it - hook, line and precious sinker.

What. The. Fuck?

Brian flipped off the television and propped his feet on the crap-ass piece of faux-wood that passed for their ‘new' coffee table. He had no idea where it came from and he was, in all honesty, a bit too afraid of the answer to delve deeply into finding out. He leaned over and pulled out the paper that had made a slight crunch beneath his heel. One of Justin's little doodles.

KINNETIC. Hmm.

Not bad. Stylistic yet simple. Memorable and clean, low on distracting elements and high on focus. Easily brandable.

He was sure the twat left it there on purpose.

Pffft... Kinnetik.

He was sure the twat was out of his mind if he thought starting his own company was in any way a doable enterprise at this low point in his life.

He was sure the twat was on something illicit that he hadn't shared with the class.

But... he was also pretty sure that the twat believed in him beyond any point of rational belief.

Justin believed in Brian when Brian didn't believe in himself, when pretty much no one believed in him. Perhaps it was time that Brian suspended his own disbelief in himself. He could do it for a fucking fantasy film, for chrissake. If the kid could trust him to that degree, perhaps he should really start trusting himself a little more.

Brian looked back at the not-so-doodlish little doodle and smirked. Kinnetik.

Fucking twat.

Precious.