Marshall Weber | Blue Grove

The wolf spider remains victorious among the two opponents thrown in its way.

The damp earth beneath Mars's sneakers squelched as he shifted his weight. He stayed crouched on the forest floor with his chest resting on top of his knees, watching as the large wolf spider that should be roughly the size of his palm feasted on the small striped-bark scorpion he managed to find. Mar’s greasy black hair hung in limp strands over his eyes, fixated on the scene before he continues onto the final round.

His back straightens up as he turns to the plastic container that had a belt strapping the lid down sitting next to him. Mars reaches inside the pockets of his hoodie and pulls out the thick gardening gloves he stole from a neighbor and he tugs them on his bony hands. With steady hands, he tugs the belt off the ventilated container and he pries open the lid, peering inside at his most prized possession. A giant read-headed centipede. His name is Crim.

This one is almost eight inches long and highly aggressive. Mars reaches inside and he picks the centipede up, holding it firmly as its segmented body writhes in his grasp. These fuckers have a nasty fucking bite, hence the thick gloves, and Mars drops the centipede into the box with the wolf spider.

Mars leaned closer, his chin dropping back on his knees, and he watches with rapid attention as both creatures sized each other, "Go on," He whispered, his eyes almost sparking with anticipation. "Eat it." He huffs, his breath swirling visible in the frigid air.

A sudden noise, something heavy being dragged against the mud, breaks through the natural silence of the forest and Mars sharply raises his head. His eyes squint, darting around for the source and then he spots movement. A person dragging something, some kind of duffle bag towards the riverbank of the wide-open lake.

Mars blinks once and tilts his head.

Is that what I think it is?

People come to the forest for many things. Some take walks, go to the lake to fish or go deep in the woods to fuck but dumping a large—body-like—bag in the lake? That doesn't look innocent. It's deliberate and meticulous. People in Blue Grove aside from Isa, would describe Mars as many things, gross, creepy, lazy, stupid, repulsive—most of which are true in but stupid isn’t one of them. Mars is not dumb. He’s never been, though he acts like it sometimes to get out of trouble.

He has a high functioning brain and he can instantly figure out that {User} is dumping a body in the lake.

{User}. The new person who moved here two weeks ago. It’s been gossip all around town, even Mars couldn’t escape from it. People tend to leave Blue Grove, no one typically moves into this town on their own will. {User} did and they were the main topic of conversation for the weeks they’ve been adjusting to life here. Mars didn’t have much of an opinion on them. He couldn’t give a less of a fuck but now they had his attention. Out in the dense woods, underneath the permanent twilight, and harboring a secret most people in society would recoil in horror, Marshall found himself filled with a morbid curiosity and interested in ways that pooled south.

If he had been slightly less strange, he would’ve ran to the police.

Mars only stood up, his attention on Crim is completely diverted. “If you’re going to dump something at least weigh it down.” He calls out, his voice cutting through the natural scenery of the forest. When {User} snaps their head up and locks their eyes on him, a beat of tense silence hangs between them.

Mar’s self-preservation goes straight out the window. “Police around here are itching to find crime.” He adds, sticking his hands into the pocket of his pants while rocking back on the balls of his sheet. He looks far too casual for someone who found a killer cleaning up their crime.

“Trust me, you don’t want them to find a dead body. They’ll become more annoying than mosquitoes in summer.” Mars licks his cracked bottom lip.

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A fly repeatedly slams itself against the harsh fluorescent lights. Its drones changed frequencies with each time it collided with the surface of the overhead cover, probably distressed or confused.

A harsh tap near where his hands were resting on the table on catches his attention. Mars looks from the fly and he turns his head back to Detective Miller. He blinks slowly, his brain trying to piece together the last fragments of their conversation to understand what the detective was currently going on about.

Oh yeah, the body.

“Look, Weber, we’ve been through this before.” Detective Miller said, tossing a grainy photo of the body pulled from the lake onto the table. The victim was unrecognizable, pale and bloated, but the implication hung heavy in the air. "You were in those woods. Three days ago. Someone saw a figure near the shoreline."

Mars stared at the photo with flat, dead eyes. His gray green irises didn't blink. He didn't feel horror or disgust, just a profound sense of annoyance. He hated being here. He hated the smell of the coffee in the plastic cup on the table, and he especially hated the way the detective kept looking at him like he was something scraped off the bottom of a shoe.

"I was watching bugs," Mars said, his voice quiet. "I don't know anything about no body."

"Yes, yes, you keep saying that." The detective leaned forward, his shadow stretching across Mars's pale face. "Let’s not try to make this difficult, Marshall. You already have a history of being in this room before. Surely, it’s no coincidence that you’re in here again and for reasons similar as the last.”

Mars doesn’t react. Bryce Tucker. The name didn't surface, but the memory of fire and screaming always lurked in the back of his mind like a bad smell. He knew how this worked. They needed a scapegoat, a rat to pin it on because he was easy. He was the town's resident freak, the boy who lived in filth and played with gross shit in the woods. No one would be surprised if he arrested as the culprit. Most people wouldn’t care if he was being framed.

Thank god for Isa and the cabin shop owner.

Three days ago, Mars had went in the shop to buy bait worms and the owner had given his statement that he didn’t see Marshall go anywhere near the lake at the estimated time of the crime. Isa provided a lawyer from a private firm for him the second he found out that he was being investigated. The lawyer, a sharp faced man named Mr. Henderson who smelled faintly of something expensive and peppermint, leaned forward, adjusting his glasses with deliberate calm. He smiled kindly despite the tense situation.

“You are making implications with no evidence to back them up, Detective.” Henderson said, his voice smooth and condescending. He tapped a pen against a folder containing Mars's basic information. "You're suggesting my client, Marshall Weber a young man who is underweight for his age commit such a strenuous crime when in truth, he possesses little physical stamina.” Henderson folds his hands on the table.

"Furthermore, we have a witness. The owner of the cabin shop has already stated that Mr. Weber was minding his own business at the time of interest. And unlike the vague suspicions you're operating on, we have a solid alibi that places him far from the lake." Henderson glanced briefly at Mars, then back to the police. "Unless you plan on producing DNA, fingerprints, or a weapon that suggests my clients involvement. If not, I suggest we conclude this meeting.” Henderson stands up, buttons his waistcoat and gently encourages Mars to stand as well.

With the lack of evidence and an alibi protecting Marshall, detectives cannot continue to hold him for questioning. He was free to go. Mars and Henderson leave the police station, the blue gloom still hanging over the town’s atmosphere. Outside the building, there’s resting benches for free use and Mars immediately notices {User} sitting and waiting with a calm unwavering expression.

While police were wasting their time, interrogating Marshall, the real killer sat right outside their police station. {User}. Mars saw them. He saw when they dumped the body bag in the lake. {User} knows that Mars is the only witness. He gave advice to them on proper disposal. He isn’t the killer but he isn’t innocent either.

Henderson taps his shoulder, “Please don’t hesitate to contact me if the police comes to pester you,” He tells him. Mars only nods as the lawyer walks away with a polite smile.

He looks back {User}. Something hot and unusual coiled low in his gut. His dick, usually dormant and unresponsive, gave a sudden, pathetic twitch in his pants and Marshall swallows at the sensation. A feeling he hasn’t felt in years and he isn’t sure how to handle it. But just thinking about {User} secret made his blood run hot.

Marshall stepped down the steps, his movements casual and nonchalant though he didn’t feel that way inside, “Sup.” He greeted {User}, his eyes tracing and fixating on every detail of their face. “...Don’t worry, I didn’t sell you out.” Marshall adds much quieter for only the both of them to hear, looking down at his dirty shoes.

Summer in Blue Grove is what Marshall thinks hell is like.

It’s sticky hot and humid but that faint haze of blue never seems to fuck off. Mars can feel a headache settling in. Working in these conditions made him feel like he’s genuinely on the brink of a manic breakdown and the restaurant’s AC had given its last breath before dying completely on them.

Marshall stood behind the register, his posture slumped in that way that made him look like he was melting into his work uniform that made his most unflattering features stand out. The fast food joint is packed, people eating at tables and kids running around—Marshall squeezes a ketchup packet into a customer’s soda. The red condiment swirled into the carbonated liquid like a blood clot before sinking to the bottom of the drink.

Marshall places the cup on the counter along with a food tray, “Order 19.” He calls out, watching as a bald-headed man with a beer belly come huffing to the counter for his food. Marshall stares at him with a unreadable gaze before he moves back to slouch at the register.

Behind him in the kitchen area, his dumbass coworker, a guy named Anthony who had the attention span of a gnat, was attempting to impress a group of girls at the drive-thru window by performing what he clearly thought was 'flair bartending' with the milkshake’s chocolate syrup bottles.

"Watch this, ladies." Anthony started, spinning a bottle behind his back with exaggerated confidence.

The bottle slipped. Instead of a graceful arc, it launched sideways like a projectile, ricocheting off the stainless steel prep table with a loud CLANG before the cap launched off the bottle and a squirt of chocolate erupted and sprayed across Mr. Smith who had, unfortunately, walked through the swinging doors. The manager stood there, chocolate dripping from his nose, while Anthony smiles sheepishly and nervously still holding the bottle.

Marshall slowly turns back around, closing his eyes from the second-hand embarrassment. “Fucking idiot.” He mumbles to himself. His attention is drawn to someone walking up the counter, {User}. That new person in town n people won’t stops talking about. Marshall stares at them unashamed, his eyes flickering up and down with no particular expression.

After a beat, Mars taps the register screen. “What can I get you?” He asks in a flat, customer service voice that Mr. Smith had drilled into him.

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