I wonder what flying on ecstasy is like.
Or bungee-jumping. Or base-jumping? I still want to go base-jumping. It annoys me that my body is too wretchedly fucked to let me do that.
Usefuls
why_me_why_not has put together an epic Writer's Resource Metapost. Bookmark the FUCK out of it. And comment and tell Tabby thank you.
Am trawling iconomicon again, and came across this:
LICKY LICKY YES FUCKING PLEASEEEEE.
It's a cheap motel. They always are.
Well, not always. Sometimes Pete decrees that they're worthy of a palace and Patrick doesn't actually argue him out of it. But tonight it's a cheap motel, and duffel bags like dead bodies lurking in the shadowy corners of the room. Dan can't help making the comparisons; Dan can't help looking at the places the light doesn't quite reach.
"Joe--"
Joe passes him a book of matches like he read Dan's mind. Dan's pretty sure he can't read his mind, he just knows the number one thing Dan's asking for at any given time; soft green embrace of smoke.
"Thanks, man".
They're alone, because it's a new suite of rooms and that means Mommy and Daddy (it's okay to call Patrick that inside your own head, he definitely can't hear you there) have to go christen their beds. Slurp slurp slam crash. Dan's not sure what it says about him that he kind of wishes he were there too. Not sure if he means part of the action or just watching it going down, but he's not about to discuss that. He looks like a freak (Pete tells him often enough), he doesn't want to sound like one too.
It's good shit. It's always good shit (no exceptions), because Joe, well, Joe's got a good nose for good shit, and Pete might not smoke but he's a princess about things like that, and he knows people. Just how many and how many of them apparently don't want to kill him yet continues to amaze Dan. Puff, puff, pass the pot along.
Joe accepts the bowl with stoner gravity. Their own little ceremony, the touch of fingers to fingers. Dan returns his nod with the same silly not-quite-smirk.
"Maybe I should cut this," Joe is saying, his corkscrew hair stretched out like a defunct slinky between his finger and thumb, bong between his thighs, time sticky and the thumps from next door stilled.
"If you do," Dan takes the bong from him, "I win. By default. If you cut your hair, it's proof that mine is better."
Joe freezes and peers sideways at Dan like he said something deeply offensive about pork. "Is not."
Dan stretches a hunk of his own lank and limp hair - darker than Patrick's but about as excitable - out like a windsock and says, "Look at that beautiful bitch. Your stupid-ass tangles will never be as amazing and sexy as that. It's straighter than your dick."
There's a trail of smoke lying in the air between them like a landing strip. Dan's never been on a plane. He kind of regrets that he's probably never going to go on a plane either, but on the other hand he is currently pretty fucking high. Joe bounces the springy string of curls at Dan so it dances. "Look at that motherfucker bounce," Joe says sternly, spoiling it a little by snickering to himself. "It is bouncing like a teenie at an N*Sync show. Bounce, hair. Bounce. Your hair doesn't bounce."
"My hair has better taste in music," Dan points out. "My hair is cool."
"I don't know why you keep fighting about your hair," Pete is leaning in the doorway like the still from some cheesy romance novel, naked to the waist (and then a hideous jumble of red silk boxers - who let him buy those? - and one sock that matches the one still dangling from the doorhandle like a used condom), his eyeliner in streaks and his own hair in deranged spikes.
It's best not to ask, even yourself, what Pete's doing when he's not in the room. Dan was already good at blotting out the sound of sobbing when he ran into them, but then that's prison for you. Doing the federal facility hokey-pokey (in, out, in, out) already taught him to be deaf to other people's misery; Pete's eyeliner tracks are not his business.
"You're just battling for second place Dan I need to borrow you."
Usefuls
why_me_why_not has put together an epic Writer's Resource Metapost. Bookmark the FUCK out of it. And comment and tell Tabby thank you.
Am trawling iconomicon again, and came across this:
LICKY LICKY YES FUCKING PLEASEEEEE.
It's a cheap motel. They always are.
Well, not always. Sometimes Pete decrees that they're worthy of a palace and Patrick doesn't actually argue him out of it. But tonight it's a cheap motel, and duffel bags like dead bodies lurking in the shadowy corners of the room. Dan can't help making the comparisons; Dan can't help looking at the places the light doesn't quite reach.
"Joe--"
Joe passes him a book of matches like he read Dan's mind. Dan's pretty sure he can't read his mind, he just knows the number one thing Dan's asking for at any given time; soft green embrace of smoke.
"Thanks, man".
They're alone, because it's a new suite of rooms and that means Mommy and Daddy (it's okay to call Patrick that inside your own head, he definitely can't hear you there) have to go christen their beds. Slurp slurp slam crash. Dan's not sure what it says about him that he kind of wishes he were there too. Not sure if he means part of the action or just watching it going down, but he's not about to discuss that. He looks like a freak (Pete tells him often enough), he doesn't want to sound like one too.
It's good shit. It's always good shit (no exceptions), because Joe, well, Joe's got a good nose for good shit, and Pete might not smoke but he's a princess about things like that, and he knows people. Just how many and how many of them apparently don't want to kill him yet continues to amaze Dan. Puff, puff, pass the pot along.
Joe accepts the bowl with stoner gravity. Their own little ceremony, the touch of fingers to fingers. Dan returns his nod with the same silly not-quite-smirk.
"Maybe I should cut this," Joe is saying, his corkscrew hair stretched out like a defunct slinky between his finger and thumb, bong between his thighs, time sticky and the thumps from next door stilled.
"If you do," Dan takes the bong from him, "I win. By default. If you cut your hair, it's proof that mine is better."
Joe freezes and peers sideways at Dan like he said something deeply offensive about pork. "Is not."
Dan stretches a hunk of his own lank and limp hair - darker than Patrick's but about as excitable - out like a windsock and says, "Look at that beautiful bitch. Your stupid-ass tangles will never be as amazing and sexy as that. It's straighter than your dick."
There's a trail of smoke lying in the air between them like a landing strip. Dan's never been on a plane. He kind of regrets that he's probably never going to go on a plane either, but on the other hand he is currently pretty fucking high. Joe bounces the springy string of curls at Dan so it dances. "Look at that motherfucker bounce," Joe says sternly, spoiling it a little by snickering to himself. "It is bouncing like a teenie at an N*Sync show. Bounce, hair. Bounce. Your hair doesn't bounce."
"My hair has better taste in music," Dan points out. "My hair is cool."
"I don't know why you keep fighting about your hair," Pete is leaning in the doorway like the still from some cheesy romance novel, naked to the waist (and then a hideous jumble of red silk boxers - who let him buy those? - and one sock that matches the one still dangling from the doorhandle like a used condom), his eyeliner in streaks and his own hair in deranged spikes.
It's best not to ask, even yourself, what Pete's doing when he's not in the room. Dan was already good at blotting out the sound of sobbing when he ran into them, but then that's prison for you. Doing the federal facility hokey-pokey (in, out, in, out) already taught him to be deaf to other people's misery; Pete's eyeliner tracks are not his business.
"You're just battling for second place Dan I need to borrow you."