MOAR DOLPHIN PLZ
Marshall is tuning his guitar when Cash saunters into the room looking flushed and smug.
“The fuck is with you?” Singer asks around a mouthful of french fries. “You were supposed to be here two hours ago. Paul and J already left.”
“I,” Cash starts, flopping down onto the couch next to Singer, “just got laid.”
“Ew,” Singer says, scooting away slightly. “Please don't come near me.”
“Gimme.” Cash grabs a few of Singer's fries.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Nope.”
Singer sighs and leaves the fries on the coffee table. “Now I can't eat them. Thanks, douche.”
Cash takes the fries off the tables and begins shoving them into his mouth. “Dude, she was so fucking awesome. College chick, I think.”
Marshall looks up from his guitar. “Chew with your mouth closed, animal.”
“You're just fucking jealous.”
Marshall rolls his eyes. He loves that everyone thinks he doesn't get any play. He gets play constantly. It's the non-threatening thing. All the sudden girls are like, his best friends and then they're undressing in front of him and then they're having sex. It's like a superpower, like, an awesome one that he got for having to deal with the goddamn dolphins all the time.
“If you're going to eat my fries, you at least have to give us the deets,” Singer says.
“You didn't just netspeak in real life, did you?” Marshall loves his band, he does, but some days, he's pretty sure that he needs to just bitchslap Singer. For the good of humanity. He doesn't need dolphins to tell him that.
“Hey, stoofu, alright?”
Marshall throws his pick at Singer because he really doesn't want to actually get up, walk across the room, and smack him. That's a lot of work, and Cash gets all butt hurt when people do that. Which Marshall has always found weird, considering that Cash used to hate Singer and plan ways to make him look like a jackass. Until he figured out that most days, Singer was quite capable of looking like a jackass all on his own.