I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...
Who: ☣ Heine Rammsteiner, Badou Nails, and the local dogcatchers... (Ie: OPEN HAUS!!)
When: ☣ Early morning. Who likes sunlight, anyway?
Where: ☣ Right on Badou's doorstep. Ginger needs to learn a thing or two about partnership.
Summary: ☣ Why is he ALWAYS the muscle, anyway? Doesn't anyone know you can build muscle, or you can lose it until it disintegrates?
Warnings: ☣ It's going to be great. Just saying. (This is DOGS. Some swearing, most likely, and depressed Heine, being...erm...Heine.)
Too long without sleep and anyone goes nuts.
He knows that. He thinks he probably went nuts a long time ago.
So much for that. You can't stay crazy for long, especially when you have to wake up to deal with the consequences of letting something else take over and wear your skin for a while.
He thinks he's been up for about three days straight now, playing something ridiculously violent on his fizzing, half-broken television set, and trying not to jump at small noises.
No calls.
Somehow it bothers him more when there are no calls, but then he gets irritated, telling himself it's not his job to get worried about calls or lack of calls in the first place. He shouldn't stoop to this. He should know better. It's not like he wants to get close to anyone. It's always just a big. FUCKING. Mess.
He's been wandering most of the night, after the white walls of his apartment seemed too close, and he'd finished his military shooter game for the third time.
It's not the same. It's never the same. Too quiet. Not enough smoke. Safe little pixel corpses don't help much. And he found himself here.
It irritated him, as if the place wasn't enough of a depressing eyesore as it was.
(Just how expensive was a cigarette habit, anyway? He'd start, himself, except who needs that kind of dependence just for a slow death? His lungs would probably just regenerate, anyway... Depressing on top of everything.)
He breathes in an irritable sigh.
There's no mistaking the stink of Badou, everywhere. Still. Maybe it'd help keep the ghosts away. And it'd almost be better to get tripped over, and vented at. Badou was reassuringly...fucked-up, and needy, and whiny.
Badou at least wasn't a ghost.
Badou was real.
(Shit. If he gets tripped over and shouted at, he'll just kick that Goddamned partner of his into a wall.)
He curls up on the smoke-stinking concrete. His white leather jacket is enough insulation or him at least. He's slept on worse. (If you call that sleeping.)
He's slept in Hell. And he's torn its gates open with his teeth.
Heine shuts his eyes, and shuts out that back door laughing in his brain.
(Shut up, you piece of shit, shut up.)
Sleep. Even just a little. The smoke is more real than anything.
When: ☣ Early morning. Who likes sunlight, anyway?
Where: ☣ Right on Badou's doorstep. Ginger needs to learn a thing or two about partnership.
Summary: ☣ Why is he ALWAYS the muscle, anyway? Doesn't anyone know you can build muscle, or you can lose it until it disintegrates?
Warnings: ☣ It's going to be great. Just saying. (This is DOGS. Some swearing, most likely, and depressed Heine, being...erm...Heine.)
Too long without sleep and anyone goes nuts.
He knows that. He thinks he probably went nuts a long time ago.
So much for that. You can't stay crazy for long, especially when you have to wake up to deal with the consequences of letting something else take over and wear your skin for a while.
He thinks he's been up for about three days straight now, playing something ridiculously violent on his fizzing, half-broken television set, and trying not to jump at small noises.
No calls.
Somehow it bothers him more when there are no calls, but then he gets irritated, telling himself it's not his job to get worried about calls or lack of calls in the first place. He shouldn't stoop to this. He should know better. It's not like he wants to get close to anyone. It's always just a big. FUCKING. Mess.
He's been wandering most of the night, after the white walls of his apartment seemed too close, and he'd finished his military shooter game for the third time.
It's not the same. It's never the same. Too quiet. Not enough smoke. Safe little pixel corpses don't help much. And he found himself here.
It irritated him, as if the place wasn't enough of a depressing eyesore as it was.
(Just how expensive was a cigarette habit, anyway? He'd start, himself, except who needs that kind of dependence just for a slow death? His lungs would probably just regenerate, anyway... Depressing on top of everything.)
He breathes in an irritable sigh.
There's no mistaking the stink of Badou, everywhere. Still. Maybe it'd help keep the ghosts away. And it'd almost be better to get tripped over, and vented at. Badou was reassuringly...fucked-up, and needy, and whiny.
Badou at least wasn't a ghost.
Badou was real.
(Shit. If he gets tripped over and shouted at, he'll just kick that Goddamned partner of his into a wall.)
He curls up on the smoke-stinking concrete. His white leather jacket is enough insulation or him at least. He's slept on worse. (If you call that sleeping.)
He's slept in Hell. And he's torn its gates open with his teeth.
Heine shuts his eyes, and shuts out that back door laughing in his brain.
(Shut up, you piece of shit, shut up.)
Sleep. Even just a little. The smoke is more real than anything.