Runny dared Too Bad to kiss him, in front of everyone who'd stuck around to kill off the keg after the Imperial Coronaries had finished their set inside his dad's freezing pole barn. Too Bad did it, her lips straddling the mole on his cheek kids used to tell him looked like a shit crumb. Easy enough. Then Too Bad dared Runny to huff paint thinner, and he did, one big whiff from the can in his dad's work trailer that hadn't moved in weeks, because it was January, famine time for a handyman in Illinois, and Runny's big whiff made him smile goofy and go wobbly, but he didn't pass out.

Runny dared Too Bad to kiss him again, this time on the lips, and she did, a quick peck that tasted of paint thinner, not like the cherry Coke he tasted of when they were nine and he appeared at her doorstep squeezing a bouquet of black-eyed Susans and pencil-drawn portraits featuring her face transposed on Jessica Rabbit's shoulders, and she'd keep them for maybe an hour before her mother swept into her room to toss Runny's filthy gifts in the trash where she said they belonged, just like his loser dad.

Too Bad dared Runny to use his dad's nail gun to shoot a nail through the webbing of his fingers, ring and middle, all the way through and into the floorboards where Johnny Ventricle had puked earlier that night. He did, and they both expected more blood. The slim trim nail punctured cleanly. A dozen party punks watched and winced when the nail shot through, but Runny kept a grin. A lot had hurt worse in his life. Hell, he'd used other tools from his dad's trailer to hurt himself much more: mallet, needle-nose pliers, trowel, that goddamned vise.

Runny dared Too Bad to let him lick her neck, to lick his. She told him that was two dares. Only one per turn allowed. So, Runny licked her neck unreciprocated, and her skin tasted like salt, but also a slight stinging bitter of some perfume she must have been wearing. That tough-ass Too Bad, bass player for The Imperial Coronaries, applied perfume before a show seemed like discovering a new species of golden, radiant insect in the rafters of his dad's pole barn.

Too Bad dared Runny to throw his dad's Skilsaw from the roof onto a concrete slab. He did, and it exploded into shards. The party punks cheered and kissed their plastic cup rims together. Runny would never be able to find all the pieces. Best just to face his dad, who would yell, What the fuck is wrong with you? and Runny would say nothing. Would say nothing while his dad stomped out the front door and drove to the refinery where he'd smoke meth under the halo of hundreds of sparkling tower lights. At least Too Bad hadn't dared him to toss the paint sprayer from the roof. She'd eyed it but knew that was much more expensive. She'd offered mercy, though she'd never admit it. What she didn't know was that if Runny had smashed the paint sprayer, his dad would've smoked so much that he'd wrap his truck around a pine tree. Too Bad would've felt bad enough that she'd invite Runny to live in the back seat of her car. So, what is mercy?

Runny dared Too Bad to flash him in the closet. She would've done it in front of everyone, even knowing they'd snap pictures on their phones, turn her breasts into an immortalized meme. Still, the closet was always worse. She did it, and Runny's goofy smile finally dropped, and his eyes turned soft, but he didn't try to touch her, didn't even comment on her nipples' barbell piercings. He looked like he wanted to cry, like he'd kicked a kitten and immediately regretted it, but fuck that. These were her tits. They were both adults. She didn't need protection or pity, and that's how she'd felt for the last two years, since she packed all her shit in the trunk of her Corsica sedan and started sleeping in her car and working at the pontoon factory. Her parents had called twenty-seven times to offer her money to go to college, to move out of town because people talked about her blue dreadlocks and shredded shirts and her car parked behind Walmart. They begged to let them help. It was embarrassing. Take the money and be done with this phase.

Too Bad dared Runny to shut the fuck up, because they'd exited the closet to a bunch of party punks hooting, and Runny had grabbed her hand, gazed into her eyes, and told her he loved her, told her he wanted to protect her forever. So, shut the fuck up was the dare, complete with three stitches through his lips using his dad's sewing needle. He did it. Or, rather, she did it. Too Bad ran the needle over a lighter's flame to sanitize. She laced the eye with black thread. She stabbed the needle into his upper lip, pulled it through the wet bottom, and again and again. This time, the dare bled more than they thought it would, but that didn't stop Too Bad. She kept going. She'd always been good at follow through, committed to closing doors. And this time the needle alone did the talking, not Runny, not the silenced party punks. Game over. Too Bad had won and it had been easy when Runny's brain was drowning in adoration. Black stitched Xs through pink lips meant no more dares.

Until Runny took up a notepad and scrawled one more. I dare you to let me be your man. And that fast, Too Bad had lost.
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