"The Art of Persuasive Speaking"

###1994

“You don’t *need* to see my identification,” I pleaded in a voice devoid of hope, slumping down on the vinyl bench seat of my hatchback, ears ringing, and stealing a pitiful glance at the state trooper who had pulled me over somewhere amidst the central Iowa cornfields. Reflected in the wide lenses of his sunglasses was a disheveled, strung-out version of myself I barely recognized: bloodshot eyes and weeks-old stubble, and below that, an intertwined web of angry, fresh and purplish scars snaking their way down the neck of my threadbare t-shirt and over both exposed pale arms. The trooper’s eyes never left mine as I brought one hand up to adjust my filthy and smudged glasses, and I was sure he was taking in my overall pathetic appearance and passing silent judgement on the hard life I must have led, at least until the moment he spoke.

This was it. Despite the miraculous second chance Henry had given me a month before, for good old Clyde Miller it was all about to end here in the middle of nowhere, when my plate and driver’s license would be traced back to a guy who was missing and presumed dead. If anyone had even noticed and reported me missing, I grimly reminded myself. I wasn’t counting on anything; my abrupt departure from my old life hadn’t been likely to attract any more attention than the quiet existence I’d led for years before fate had forced my hand.

“You’re right, I don’t need to see your license,” the officer agreed jovially, and gave a forced chuckle as though he was questioning whether he actually found his own remarks humorous. “And these aren’t the droids I’m looking for. You can go about your business....*leadfoot.”* Stepping back like we were fast friends united by a shared love of science fiction, he flashed me a Vulcan salute with one hand, ushering me off with the other. Scarcely believing my luck, I started the car with trembling hands.

“Uh, that’s Star Trek, but yeah, live long and prosper, and may the Force be with you.” The words tumbled awkwardly out of my mouth, and as I pulled away I bit my lower lip until it went numb, just waiting for the moment when he’d abruptly end the ruse and hit the red and blue lights. Once the squad car was a mere speck on the horizon in my rearview mirror, I slammed the gas pedal to the floor, eager to get the hell out of Dodge lest the local boys in blue converge on the scrappy, down-on-his-luck out-of-towner for a good old-fashioned beat-down.

*How even…*

***

Later that night and still overwhelmed with incredulousness, I glumly swirled my finger in my beer mug at the Candle-Lite Lounge, trying to catch up a speck of grit that had landed on the foam. The cheap motel I’d crashed at was barely a step up from sleeping out in my hatchback as I’d done most nights, but at least it was next-door to the only watering hole in town. I should have been celebrating my near-miss from one of Iowa’s finest, but instead I was hung up on the likelihood that I’d come across as so pitiful that he’d cut me an ill-deserved break.

All around me, the locals mingled with the cross-country truckers, laughing and sharing a sense of camaraderie. Keeping to myself, I nonetheless had to break into a grin when several of them began scuffling playfully, ignoring the bartender’s exasperated plea to knock off their antics. I let out a snicker when one of the combatants, a burly guy easily twice my size, hit the floor against the legs of my bar stool, sending his drink splashing over his leather jacket. Just as suddenly I was biting my lower lip as he scrambled to his feet with astonishing agility for a guy that stocky. Before I could take evasive action, he’d seized two handfuls of my t-shirt and was glowering at me from about two inches away.

“You… you wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses!” I yelped in desperation, gesturing up to my eyewear. It was a dopey thing to say, since it immediately dawned on me that I’d practically dared him to do just that, but he was already looking overcome by the same confused expression that had struck the state trooper earlier that day.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said dully in an abrupt change of heart, releasing me and then grabbing up my beer mug and unceremoniously emptying its contents over my head. Well, at least it was better than getting my sorry ass kicked, but *what was going on here?* I’d narrowly escaped disaster twice already, and I can’t say I was used to life cutting me too many breaks.

“Oh-okay, you got me good,” I said with a forced laugh as I tugged at my drenched shirt. Behind Leather Jacket Guy, his friends erupted in jeers at my predicament. “Guess we’re even now, only you owe me another drink.” The bartender sighed and threw a grubby towel my way.

“You brought that on yourself, chum, so *you* clean it up.” Obediently I sopped at the spilled booze on the counter, then wiped my dripping glasses with the towel, stunned when a fresh beer mug was slid my way.

“Huh?” I glanced over at my aggressor, who flashed me a sneaky but good-natured little wave and mouthed the words, *I owed you a drink.* Raising the glass to my mouth shakily, it was at that moment that I finally realized that Henry had given me a lot more than a second chance at life, his remnant injection must have left me with the freakish ability to persuade others to abide by my advice. As outlandish as that sounded, as a lifelong fan of comic books I found it a lot easier to believe I’d acquired superpowers than to assume I was the butt of an extensive prank that the state police and barflies alike were in on. And even if that was the moment I realized my life had changed forever, it wasn’t hard to stay humble about it when I was still drenched with sour-smelling beer and sitting all by myself.

“Leave the poor guy alone, Harold.” Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned toward a kind face, a real sight for sore eyes on a night when everything was confusing and nothing seemed to be going my way. “You’re new in town, I take it? I’m Curt, and come over and keep us company.” Allowing myself to be led over to a small cluster of guys populating the tables and booths off to the side by the pool tables, I soon discovered the town did have its share of friendly denizens after all, and we were soon talking animatedly as though I’d been a lifelong resident. I began feeling a little better, and perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, I finally asked the question that had been on my mind.

“I hope I’m not asking this the wrong way, but don’t you have your own local bar?” I looked around at the empty tables separating us from the larger crowd at the counter. “It’s just that this is unusual from what I’ve seen, everyone hanging out under the same roof.” It was true; most bars I’d frequented in the past tended to be one type or the other. Not that I had particularly cared; I was never there for the pickup scene.

Curt regarded me incredulously and most of the others fell silent. “Well, this is the Nineties and times are changing, but they’re a little more tolerant than most other places, I guess you could say.” Taking a sip of his beer, he hastily added, “they want us safe, you know, since somebody’s targeting our kind.”

“How so?” My mind raced to make sense of his words, and I received a hushed explanation of a growing number of missing men from the surrounding communities, nearly all of whom fell into the same demographic. My head began swimming with the gravity of it all, and when I rose to leave, Curt grabbed my sleeve.

“If you’re not just passing through and you plan to stay a while, just whatever you do, don’t go out alone. It’s been two months of quiet, but you can’t ever be too cautious.”

***

Still slightly hungover in the morning, I don’t recall exactly why I chose to put down roots in that little town settled in the shade of its huge, rusted water tower, but that afternoon, freshened up and dressed in the one nice shirt and tie I had, I found myself seated for an interview at a used car sales lot. To be honest, I felt more elation than guilt when my future boss’s initial question was, “why should I hire you?”

That night after a few rounds at the Candle-Lite to celebrate my new job and new friends alike, I retired to my motel room and pierced my right ear, the old-fashioned, unsafe way with an ice cube and a sewing needle. Falling asleep staring at the ceiling, a handkerchief wadded up behind my head to keep from staining the pillowcase, I questioned whether I had any business even attempting the crazy scheme in my mind.

***

When I found him, or perhaps I should say when he found me, I just *knew.* He was easily six feet tall, robust, confident, and effortlessly outgoing, which made it all the more interesting that he brushed off the more experienced salesmen who greeted him as he made his way casually along the rows of late-model used cars, and eventually wound up in “Clunker Alley,” the term my coworkers had given to my God-forsaken crop of not-so-late-model jalopies that weren’t such easy sells.

“I’m looking to drive off this lot for less than a thou,” he explained when I asked what he might be looking for, and when I intentionally brushed my winged hair from my face, I caught that unmistakable gleam in his eye when he caught sight of my earring.

“Say, this Chevette right here?” he asked, kicking the tire of what any fool would recognize as a Chevy Citation. “I used to have one of these, great car!” I winced at the way his voice audibly hitched, only imagining what he was already thinking, but it was my job to play along.

“Would you like to take ‘er on a test drive, sir?” By the time I jangled the keys he was doing a pretty good imitation of Pavlov’s dog, and I doubted he was just *that* much of a four-cylinder Chevy enthusiast.

***

“I’m already sold on its city driving, but let’s see how it handles the open road,” he said, more a command than a suggestion. In the passenger seat, I nodded, one arm slung over the open window.

“There’s a nice open stretch of road up ahead,” I offered helpfully as we passed what looked like an abandoned rock quarry and into a sparsely wooded area. He obliged by accelerating, and my heart was pounding so hard my polyester tie was pulsating like some snake draped around my neck, even more so when, a few miles along, he made an exaggerated show of appearing confused as the car slowed on the gravel shoulder.

“Oh no, did we run out of gas? It must be those damn fuel thieves striking again. They siphoned the tanks of half our fleet earlier this week.” I knelt next to the fuel hatch as though I was peering inside, at least until he seemed satisfied we were on a suitably desolate roadside and ordered me to my feet.

“Over the guardrail,” he said gruffly, and with my hands raised defensively in a gesture of surrender, I obeyed, allowing him to lead me to a stand of pines. Freezing at the sight of the disturbed earth in a semicircle around me, I felt bile rise up in my throat. He took advantage of my distraction to strike out with the crowbar he’d slid from his jacket, catching me across the ribs I’d previously broken on Night 4 and sending me sprawled on a bed of pine needles.

“Is this where you put *all* of them?” I asked pointedly, wiping my mouth with one hand and gesturing to the shallow graves around me with the other. “The guys you felt justified in taking out, because you had your own reasons?”

“Well, aren’t you a sly one,” he said coolly, since he still believed he had the upper hand. “Yeah, they’re all here, and conveniently enough, so are you. It didn’t take long for word of the fresh new gay guy in town to spread.”

“Yeah, well you make a really shitty Welcome Wagon, chum.” In agony I pulled myself up to a crouch, my eyes fixated on his and my ears ringing painfully. “So drop the damn crowbar and listen up. You ain’t gonna lay a hand on another of my friends or any other human being ever again, and once I drive off, you’re going to forget you ever met me and turn yourself in. Tell them *everything,* if you can even make sense of your own motives.”

The crowbar fell with a thump to the pine needles, but I was stunned to find myself laid out from a sharp kick to the face. Clutching my broken nose, it struck me that my newfound abilities worked only in the most literal sense of my own words; after all, he hadn’t exactly laid a *hand* on me, just as I’d demanded.

“Leave me alone!” I wailed, staggering to my feet and overcome with ire. “Gah, on second thought, you barely deserve any mercy...and, you’d save a lot of people a ton of grief if you just killed yourself.”

Deafened by tinnitus, I had taken maybe six gingerly steps away when I suddenly swallowed hard and turned, just in time to witness his protest-free compliance. With the same brutality he must have exacted on his victims, he mauled himself, cruelly and precisely, before falling to the forest floor alongside the crowbar, a loop of his entrails trailing from under his open jacket and steaming in the crisp winter air.

*I hadn’t expected him to have a knife as well…*

*You planned this.*

*You posed as his preferred target and drew him out of hiding.*

*This one’s on your hands, Miller.*

*He would have had a chance for redemption, had he made it to the cops.*

*Good. Now he’ll never hurt anyone again, just like you wanted.*

It hurt like hell, doubling over against broken ribs and puking as hard as I did with my fractured nasal bones, but by the time I had straightened up and spit a few times to rid my mouth of the foul taste and swiped the remorseful tears from my eyes, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. I returned the car to the dealership, telling them my potential customer had wanted something with more horsepower, and took the rest of the day off, suffering from a terrible headache and ringing ears that threatened to drive me to madness. I discovered then that using my influential ability was not only mentally but physically taxing, and proceeded to suffer through the most excruciating hangover imaginable, sweating heavily and shaking all through a mostly sleepless night.

***

In the dream, it *was* going to be bad and I had a snowball’s chance in Hades of holding out back there in the parts and service room behind the show stage at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. The spare suit the monsters had forced my battered body into had been equipped with the cruelest array of animatronic devices, which had driven into my flesh, my organs, my bones and left me pinned like an insect specimen fastened to a board. Graciously, the blood loss pulled me to unconsciousness, my head dipping forward into the wide neck of the costume before my aggressors could fit the headpiece over me.

“Clyde? Phew, for a moment I thought you’d checked out on me there.” Henry stood over me protectively, holding what I recognized as the broken halves of a vial of smelling salts. He frowned and emotionlessly held what looked like a small pistol just below my heart, and I vaguely registered the searing heat of five rapid bursts driving their way under my skin.

“There, I thought you’d need a second dose of remnant,” he remarked. “You didn’t know it, but I was patched in to your phone system this entire time, and I rushed over here when it became apparent what you’d gotten yourself into. And just in time, I recognize agonal respiration when I hear it. They really did a number on you, kid. Afton set this up; I should have known he’d never allow you to leave.” He grimaced at the carnage on the floor surrounding me, seeping from the suit.

“We’ve got to get you out of here; there’s already enough blood to convince him this was an unsurvivable accident. Let him guess your final resting place, because he’s got enough to worry about with this business circling the drain.” As he spoke, Henry was unlocking the clasps from the suit and tying off my limbs as he extricated each one. I managed a weak groan at the sight of my once-blue uniform shirt, now soaked through and changed to a dark purple hue. It astounded me that Henry had not disappeared forever as we’d all thought, and that he had been watching over me after all.

I reached out a pierced and trembling arm, seizing his familiar flannel shirt in gratitude and to give myself something *real* to hold onto. They don’t tell you that when you suffer severe blood loss, you are overcome with a feeling of absolute *cold.*

***
I awoke in the motel room, gripping the fitted sheet so tightly around me that I had torn it from the mattress. Fresh from my first nightmare of a flashback to the hellish near-death experience I had suffered, I dressed, popped a few aspirin and went in to work as though I had not inadvertently ordered a serial killer to turn his knife on himself the day before.

In due time they found his putrefying remains, and further investigation revealed those of his victims, bringing some measure of closure to the grieving families. I attended the funerals and never felt right removing the earring, sometimes bringing my hand up to it absentmindedly when I expounded on the good qualities of a solid used car to a potential customer. And thus I returned to a quiet and content existence, finding decent success persuading my clients to trust our honesty and reputation.

***

 

***

###2011

It was a good gig for a couple of years, but soon, I had grown restless, and with mixed emotions I left Rockwell City for the open road again. I was plagued by a persistent concern that I was somehow squandering a precious and invaluable gift that had been given to me, and eventually I was drawing in small groups in rented-out fire halls and social clubs for what I advertised as motivational speeches and self-improvement seminars.

I’ll admit I misled my audiences into believing they were undergoing hypnosis when there was something more supernatural at play, but beyond that I challenged myself to be honest. Admission was a modest ten dollars and I could sleep peacefully at night knowing I really had helped my new clients quit smoking or find the motivation they needed to follow their dreams.

I might have mistaken that modicum of success for my new life’s purpose had I not found myself waylaid in my hotel room one night after a seminar, flung forcefully onto the bed and cowering as two shadowy forms loomed over me, one distinctly rabbit-like and the other ursine.

It all started so subtly. I was returning to my room just thinking about the warm shower I would be having soon enough to wash off all that stress from today and perhaps have a good night's rest when I saw him. A thin, slovenly man with unkempt dark hair and a stubbly pencil mustache was sitting on the comfy chair, barely lit by the incandescent lighting. We simply stared at each other before I broke the silence.

"... Who are you?"

The young man smiled, green eyes twinkling in the shadows. "Well, wouldn't you like to know-" he turned to glance at one of my tacky promotional flyers "Mr… Joel Brown? Or should I call you Clyde? It gets confusing sometimes."

I didn't deign to confirm his guess. That ringing sensation in my ears I could never get used to flared up, like some kind of spidey-sense telling me that shit was about to go down. "You should leave," I instructed him in that frightening tone that would register whenever I was using my powers. But instead of hauling ass like most lowlifes would do, he just laughed at my face. "Wow, Clyde, I am impressed. That almost got me there. But that shit don't work on me."

I'm not sure how I would have reacted because before I could, he began this very creepy whistle that I would later often hear whenever he was around. That's when those… things… appeared, melting out of the walls like roiling tar. They were upon me in seconds, their slimy limbs pinning me down onto the bed for purposes that could only be described as nefarious.

"Ares, that's enough!" rang out an aged yet familiar voice. The man, presumably named Ares, glowered in that general direction and then barked out some words in this alien clicking tongue, causing the two beings to immediately retreat behind him like some twisted shoulder demons.

“Clyde,” Henry greeted me apologetically, though smirking at my flashy but cheap suit. “You’ve funneled your talents into quite the interesting little niche, here, but it’s time to call in a favor. You owe me one.” Beside him, Ares nodded in affirmation. The wispy forms seemed under his control.

"What the *fuck* was that???" I spat out at them. The ability to make someone your puppet just by mere words alone was one thing but this was a whole new league of reality. "And who's *this* motherfucker here?" I gestured wildy at the shadow creatures, which tensed up and growled in response. "Suffice it to say that Henry and I were not the only ones who conducted experiments of this nature, experiments that have gone on for decades." He pulled out a tattered brown expanding file labeled "[UMBRA](https://redd.it/7y83zu)" and tossed it on the table, before going into this spiel of how there was this organization at the heart of all this that was like the lovechild of Area 51 and Josef Mengele; truly some X-files shit. If I hadn't experienced all this firsthand, I would have instantly dismissed Henry as a madman. But now… now I knew how fucked I had been the very instant I set foot at Freddy Fazbear's.

“I owe you my very life,” I admitted humbly.

Thus, upon Henry’s orders, I found myself a nontraditional college student at Franklin University, sitting in large lecture halls and earning a law degree against all odds. Though that was my primary aim, Henry insisted that I also learn at least the basics of all sorts of sciences and political history to understand just how deep this whole conspiracy went. The coursework was beyond taxing, but now that I knew Henry had been keeping a loose eye on my whereabouts all along, I wasn’t even tempted to misuse my quirky talents to gain an academic edge.

***

###2017

“Dammit!” Infuriated, I wanted to throw my cell phone right through the framed diploma hanging on my wall. The spring of 2017 had dawned with the sad news that Henry had taken his own [life](https://redd.it/7r5pmx), but gradually, the horrific details of his final actions began to reach me. Not content with his existing knowledge of the mysterious remnant that had restored my life, he had sought out… children as his sacrificial subjects. Henry was no better than the terrible secret society he had lured me into infiltrating for his benefit, but my mentor’s death left his motives -- and his plans for me -- even less clear.

I was crushed, my faith in my former idol now a source of shame. He had supplied me with everything I thought I’d need, including the falsified documents needed to present myself as one [Milton Barrister](https://redd.it/7v56k8), attorney at law, while I had my own ideas. Perhaps I had been his -- and William Afton’s -- puppet on a string for far too long, and the time had come to stop playing their game...

***
###1982

Clad in a striped referee’s shirt befitting my entry-level position as a game technician at Freddy’s, I stood by a pinball table before we would open the doors to the public that afternoon, protectively watching the two young players I was coaching. [Charlie](https://redd.it/7w96s1) and [Kevin](https://redd.it/7qjykz), frustrated by their youthful lack of coordination, had insisted on “teaming up” to master the new Pink Panther game Henry had just added to the banks of pinball tables lining the game room at Freddy’s, which meant each child was balanced on an old metal milk crate and manning a single flipper button. I loved those two kids like they were my own, and had a special soft spot for Kevin, who seemed perennially lost in the shuffle as William, his father, went about the business of running a burgeoning children’s pizza palace.

“Okay, now you’re working like a team!” I praised them as the table lit up with twirling spinners and flashing diodes. Our heads turned as one as the silver ball rolled swiftly down a ramp and Kevin knocked it upward with a well-timed flipper hit. Just then my lesson was interrupted with a tap on the shoulder, and I turned to face Henry.

“You’re so good with them, Clyde. Have you given any more thought to helping William and me with our side research project?” he inquired. I urged the kids to continue their game and we strolled down the banks of machines.

“Yessir,” I replied earnestly. The offer had been made recently, and I knew William had once dabbled in biological engineering of some sort before finding his niche in electromechanical work. If he was really willing to pay me overtime to test some vitamin formula he’d whipped up in his spare time, I was not about to argue, and that night I endured the first of many series of injections, all administered clandestinely after hours.

***

I should have been less naive about the nature of the experiment, but later that week I was busily filling out a repair report on an arcade machine and eavesdropping on my employers’ hushed and excited conversation behind me.

“This is downright *incredible,* Henry,” came William’s jovial voice. “Do you see what he’s doing, after only a single round of injections?” My brow knitted as I tried to imagine what he found so remarkable and why he attributed it to his private research that I had agreed to take part in. When Henry failed to respond, William spelled it out for him, “he’s writing with his left hand, without even realizing it -- he’s now ambidextrous! It’s as though he’s absorbed muscle memory from the original source of the remnant.”

Shocked, I continued scrawling on the clipboard, hiding my reaction. What was “remnant,” and what was William going on about? He had assured me he was merely testing a health formula meant to enhance natural energy, coordination and alertness. To an awkward fellow like myself, the boost sounded promising, and getting paid an extra fifty dollars a week under the table for keeping it on the down-low sure stretched my minimum-wage earnings.

“By Jove, you’re right,” Henry gasped behind me, apparently assuming I couldn’t hear him over the electronic bleeps of the malfunctioning arcade game. “This is impressive, but I’m still wary about the ethics of a blinded experiment. Clyde’s a hard worker and loyal to a fault, and here he thinks he’s helping you test some vitamin mixture. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I already told you,” said William curtly, “I’ll suspend the project immediately should he show any adverse effects. But he won’t.”

A few weeks later, the series of injections had become more frequent, but I hardly cared. I was constantly awed by new abilities that manifested themselves, though they were parlor tricks at best rather than anything that would aid me in bettering myself or finding more meaningful employment. I won’t lie, I would have remained in the experiment even if William had cut the pay, because at that point I was hooked, and eager for more.

“Clyde, have you ever tried target practice, at a firing range maybe?” asked William abruptly one night. I shook my head sadly, not about to tell him that I’d fired a rifle exactly one time in my life. I was ten, the butt recoiled hard into my shoulder and I’d cried so piteously my grandfather had never taken me back to the range.

“Watch and be amazed,” he invited Henry, my cue that it was time to perform on command, like a trained chimp. Taking up the light gun from the *Killer Shark* cabinet, I flawlessly defeated an arcade game I had never so much as tried my hand at before. My hands were shaking when I finally quit on William’s orders.

I don’t know where the experiment would have gone next, but when little Charlie became the victim of a brutal murder by an unknown assailant right outside our pizzeria, we were all beyond devastated and the project fell by the wayside as William devoted his attention to helping Henry cope with each day full of fresh hurt.

 
***
 

*He brought me back from the brink, he groomed me into this new career, and for what?* Still smarting at the betrayal that night, I had made my decision. Shoving the empty 40-ounce bottle of King Drunk off my bed, I regarded my reflection in my dresser mirror without any regrets.

“Drop dead,” I muttered bitterly, closing my eyes and waiting for a release that never came. Nothing but a wave of blinding vertigo followed by a ringing deafness. *I should have known it wouldn’t work this way…*

I punched the mirror in a screaming fit of rage, not caring how the shards of glass cut into my knuckles. Why was I here in the first place… why did I even sign up for all this… why couldn't I JUST **FUCKING DIE ALREADY**

“Milton?” When the [phone](https://redd.it/7uoku2) rang, the voice of Henry’s widow on the other end was inquisitive, but so full of hurt. “I was instructed to contact you--”

“He never told me he was going after kids.” My voice was utterly flat.

“He hardly informed me either, Milton, or I’d have put that bullet through his brain myself. You know that, don’t you? Henry had an entire secret life he never let anyone else into, not even William. But I need your help to find out what he was up to. There was something, still a part of him, that *wanted* us to stop the force he was working for.”

I didn't respond, mulling over the words I was hearing. There was a tense silence before Alice spoke once more.

“Clyde.” Her use of my real name made me wince. “You’re not the only one who got the rug yanked out from under him with this news. But you’re not working for him anymore, now you’re on our team. And so is the very man you tried to save, in what you thought were your final moments.”

[“Mike…”](https://redd.it/7vy04i) I breathed the name more than I spoke it, remembering the sole time Henry had mentioned the guard who had succeeded me.

“I guess I’m in,” I told her.

I winced at the burst of static that came out as a reply, followed by that snake-like voice I had come to hate so much.

["Good luck."](https://www.reddit.com/r/26FrightsOfFreddy/)