A/N: This chapter kinda sounds like I'm talking from experience, but I'm really not. Maybe a little but yeah lol

"Hey, yo, yo, yo! Please cut the noise, all right. This was just a flying clipper, nothing more." Brendan closed the door then bend towards Clyde, frantically fumbling the tears away that spilled from him but they just kept on coming!

He supposed it'd be a good idea to take him out of the seat and rock him but his arms were basically limp dicks so he figured that'd be a bad idea. Next moment he'd drop that thing and make him a vegetable or something.

"Yo, please. It hurts." Brendan scrunched his face up at the high cries that tore up his ears. He decided to cover one with his finger, with the other hand he tried calming him down by petting him like a good boy dog. No use. "Alright, lets go then. I'll get you something from the kitchen."

When Brendan had the carrier dangling from his hand and his ear pressed to his shoulder to somewhat mellow the piercing cries he almost dropped the damn carrier like the limp dicks of arms he possessed and the stupid boy he was.

All because there was a figure standing in the middle of the room which he mistook for a bulgair for a second time that day.

Holy shit Brendan needed some serious help to sort himself out, how could he mistake his father for danger not once but twice? After all his dad was very nice unless you messed with the wrong cords and got him flying after you in a fury.

"Dad?" Brendan said, placing the carrier back on the table before he turned to his dad, folding his arms defensively in front of his chest.

Damien Brown Smart, the brave man who was even braver now after presumably escaping prison to face his son respectively, squinted at Brendan like he had trouble seeing him then slowly staggered up to him, even slower he nodded.

"Yessum, boy." He put a giant hand on Bren's head like a claw machine gripping a teddy bear and pushed it back a little which used to feel like an affectionate gesture in the past but now more of like he was tryna reel up what they had and failed.

"Two dad's here now, huh?" He chuckled dryly, pointing a pale thumb to the baby. "Some crazed chick ran up the door that day, brought the message it's yours. Better take care of it, boy. The baby Momma's dead."

"She's dead? Who is she?"

Dad gave him a short look of disgust then chuckled again. This kinda reminded him of Dave for some odd reason, how he always laughed, at like everything crude, until he wasn't laughing anymore and hit him instead. "Sonja something."

"I never fucked a Sonja—I mean," He corrected himself awkwardly. "I don't know a Sonja, was it Simone maybe?" So it really was Simone after all. Well damn.

"Simone! Yeah! Rest easy, baby girl." Dad closed his eyes, kissed the tips of his fingers and pointed skyways with them. "Hand me a pint, will ya son? This sum heavy stuff, gotta drink it up."

"Didn't you just black out drinking all them bottles empty tho...?"

"Don't question it, son. That's adult stuff and you're still a kid. A baby don't change that fact, now get your sweet ass in the kitchen and fetch me some,"

"Sure..." He turned to go for the kitchen, then hesitated and looked back to his dad. "Um, the baby... did you–" He rubbed his nose. "You know, feed him?"

"Feed him, all right. Surprisingly not out of practice yet after sixteen years when I feed your brassy mouth. You were some evil child, always crying always hitting me. Loved ya anyway, all right, son. Now gimme the pint, love me too for once, will ya?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Hey!"

"Huh?"

"Say you love me to, son. Wanna hear them words coming out of your ungrateful mouth for once. Mouth I've feed all them years."

"I love you, dad."

"Yeah, sure you do, little fuck. Sure you do. Hey, whatcha be standing there for for hours? Get your bubble butt into the kitchen, and get me a goddamn pint. Your dad is depressed."

"You are?"

"What I tell you just now about not questioning stuff? Depression some adult stuff, might catch it too some day. Especially if you won't bring me that drink now and I'll get mad pissed atchu. Now go get it, B-ball, all right?"

Brendan turned to leave but then hesitated again. He looked back at his dad who was laboriously climbing down on the couch. "Dad? Can you watch him for a while? I'll get you the drink, all right. But I got some stuff to do."

"That's how you young daddy's are! Think you can still be out and about acting like irresponsible sociopaths."

"So, can you...?"

"Fuckin' hell, be here all day anyway. Do whatever the hell you want, B-ball boo. Just get me the damn drink already. This depression sure is spreadin' like a shroud."

. . .

His dad didn't let him leave the house until he changed little me's diapers. It was pretty gross but Brendan supposed that was just karma coming at him after he farted and spiked a storm of shit at his dad's face when he was that age.

Perhaps that's why he had a certain distaste towards Brendan, but thankfully that distaste never showed when Brendan was dealing drugs, beating some poor fuckers up, or did something wrong in general.

His dad didn't give a shit in particular unless he was being gay or a little bitch crying about stuff, and yeah he just didn't give a shit, that was the deal about his dad. He spent his two shits on his mom and grandpa already, so there wasn't much left for Brendan.

And it was kinda funny because his mom wasn't even that much of a looker, she had her fathers genes and looked rather masculine, acted so anyway.

Brendan always wondered what his dad saw in her, not that Brendan didn't love her, but if he was his dad he would've thought ten times before marrying that unbearable attitude. That's all.

Brendan on the other hand got his looks from his daddy-o who got his looks from his grandpa-o and they were what Frank mentioned when he was threatening Brendan with rape; feminine looking. His family got it all twisted in some way.

Once out of the house he didn't even stop to look wether his friends were out or not. He kept it going until he was standing in front of Dave's building, glaring up at the long stretch of windows.

Luckily for him Dave lived on the first floor so he didn't have to risk breaking his neck when he jumped a cinder block and hoisted himself up on the window ledge he, sitting on it in the next moment. He let his legs dangle freely in the air, prying the window open as if he was breaking into his own house.

He couldn't see inside because the blinds were pulled down all the way so it was sort of a risk, but in the spur of the moment he didn't bother about that all too much.

He'd done this once when his dad didn't give him anything for Christmas because he did something stupid so Brendan decided to give himself some presents by breaking into Aaron's, Freddie's and Skinny-Dave's house to get himself little somethings. Dave's window was the same as theirs so in a matter of seconds he had the window open and barrelled inside.

Dave's room was kinda depressing. When you walked in and took in the dullness of it you could just kinda understand why he's that crazy. It would make Brendan crazy too, he thought.

He plummet onto the mattress that was in the middle of the room and locked his hands under his knee, chewing the inside of his lip.

There was a fat, greyish TV staring right at him three feet away, and an open closet which looked like a drunk would stagger out from between the hangers any moment, hushing you out of the room, and while you made a run for it, he'd collapse onto the mattress and let go off a green-glass bottle which would clatter loudly on the hard cement floor. That's how that place looked like.

Brendan hadn't been here for the first time but he just never really bothered to think about this all until now.

After a while of taking in the sight he walked over to the closet. Being in Dave's room made him miss him way stronger than he had before. So he remembered what he did in prison whenever he missed Dave and did just the same thing; He buried his nose into the forest of hanged clothes and took in a giant breather.

But sadly the scent had already waned away and left was only the dusty smell of old clothing. Surprisingly though Dave's closet didn't offer a shortage of branded clothes tho, he had plenty of those.

Probably stolen or fakes but as he rummaged through them he found something nice. He stood on his tiptoes, sticking his tongue out as he pulled out a bucket hat from a pile of clothes all tossed together in the upper shelf.

He walked over with it to a mirror that was leaning against the wall, glass shattered like spiderweb lines. It was just a black hat like from those old gangster movies where the thugs in them went around spraying crummy walls with graffiti paint. It was black, had 'Raised in da Bronx' written all over it, and really damn ugly.

But Brendan could pull it off. No doubt would cops look twice when they looked his direction because it made him look way more sketchy but he could handle that.

He threw amateurish gang signs at the reflection and brought out a mischievous smirk which seemed way darker with the front of the hat covering half of his eyes, throwing shadows at the area underneath it.

At least he didn't have to embarrass himself with that ass-licking buzzcut.