Dee dee doo...
Conversations with carnifex_atrox when I'm weary go strange places. Conversations with carnifex_atrox over text message go even stranger places.
If I try and wait until I've written the whole saga, I'll never post it at all, so until I ever, maybe, write out everything we've discussed for this, this is how it begins:
He passed by the forecourt every day, and he checked to see if his car was still there every time. His car, even though he didn't own it, had never owned it, and never would own it. It had been there for three weeks when he'd gone to look, considering, once again, trading in his reliable but old clunker for something a little more modern. It had stood out; it was bound to. The bright green colouring alone made it the brightest car there.
He'd been disappointed when he'd sat in it, however, to find that his overly lanky frame was limiting his options again, and then the boot-- trunk, the salesman said, all the Americans did-- was, in the end, not big enough for everything he'd carry in it.
So he'd gone back to his trusty old estate car that he'd brought from home before he moved out to this insane country.
But he still looked every time he passed.
Xigbar called it the closet. Depending upon the day of the week that was either because Vexen lived out of it-- admittedly, he did keep a couple of changes of clothes in it, but that was because his daily schedule could be a little bit unpredictable, and there had been times that he'd simply fallen asleep at work and then not had time to go home and change-- or because it was shaped like one, or, when he was being especially irritating, because Vexen drove it like one.
He'd only been permitted into the car with Vexen at the wheel twice, and it wasn't going to happen again. The first time they'd gone out to pick up a new video screen microscope, and Xigbar had accused Vexen of sounding like an old man when he drove.
The second time, Vexen hadn't known he'd recorded the journey until Xigbar plugged it into the stereo he had piping through the working lab and Vexen was treated to the sound of his sniffy, extremely British accent deriding the driving and mental skills of every other person that had been on the road that day.
It had been quite a lengthy recording.
As a result, Xigbar was forbidden from riding in Vexen's car for any purpose ever, which sometimes meant that Xigbar had to catch the train, or even the bus, to a location and meet Vexen there so they could load up his car, and then Xigbar had to make his own way back again. He kept telling the man to buy a car of his own, but Xigbar refused on the grounds that he couldn't afford his dream car.
“And what would that be?” Vexen had asked, snippily.
“One with semi-naked chicks writhing on the hood,” had been the reply, and Vexen had rolled his eyes.
He could guess at the sort of car he expected Xigbar to want, of course. The other scientist was only a little older than Vexen, but he came to work in brightly coloured shorts and terrible neckerchiefs. Either he didn't care about being taken seriously, or he was enduring a mid life crisis that had started from the age of about sixteen and had yet to abate.
It would be a car much like the one creeping up behind Vexen now, with the top down, and growling like a caged animal. The shade of blue of its paintwork was the same as the hair of its driver, and Vexen grumbled under his breath. The driver was too young to be able to afford a car like that, so either they were a spoiled little rich boy who leeched off mummy and daddy, or they were a drug dealer.
“Get out of my arse, you hooligan,” Vexen hissed at the reflection in his rearview mirror. The driver had a scar on his face-- definitely a drug dealer-- and his passenger had bright red hair and smudged make up, or tattoos, or some other mark on his face. They were close enough for Vexen to see that much detail, and his heart leapt into his throat as the powerful engine gunned, revved with the change of gears, and then the car shot out to overtake him.
Which, naturally, was when some complete idiot in the oncoming lane decided to swerve around a cyclist, making the idiot in the blue car slam on his brakes and swerve--
there was the sickening screech of brakes and scrape of metal, and then more screeching brakes as Vexen stopped. The blue car pulled ahead and crawled to a stop while Vexen checked himself for the signs of a heart attack. Only then did he tuck his car in, letting the traffic behind him pass, with the crunch and tinkle of breaking glass as they rolled over the broken remains of Vexen's wing mirror.
He didn't feel as though he could breathe properly as he turned the key, shutting his engine off, leaving his hazard lights on, and crept out of the car to go and inspect the damage.
Behind him, the blue haired lunatic had got out of his car to inspect the damage on his own vehicle. His red haired passenger stood up on the seat, leaning over the windscreen, which earned him a waved hand instruction to sit back down.
Vexen was shaking by the time the idiot approached, with a combination of fury, and shock, and lingering fear. His wing mirror was gone, and there was a wide, three foot long scratch down the door of his precious car.
“Is it bad?” The man asked, approaching Vexen, who towered over him by more than a head.
Vexen wasn't sure how to reply. His hands were still shaking, and he didn't know quite what answer to give. “Of course it's bad!” He snapped, “You crashed into me! Did you ever pass your test or did you pay off the examiner?”
“At least you're unharmed,” was the only response as fingers with neatly manicured nails ran over the scratch in the paintwork.
“What a pity the same can be said for you.” Vexen scowled, and looked at his watch. “So much for my no claims, and now I'm going to be late! This is perfect!” He spat, and glared at the man responsible.
Who dipped into his pocket, removed his wallet, and handed Vexen a business card. “It's just a mirror and a scratch. I'll pay for it.”
Vexen snatched the card from between the man's fingers and glanced down at the name: Saix Sedem, and yes, there was a phone number printed on the card, too.
Over by the far too expensive blue car, the red haired passenger had slipped out of the door and sparked up a cigarette, leaning against the passenger door as he inhaled, and then exhaled a plume of grey smoke.
“Axel.” Saix said, and it was all that Saix said, most of the communication taking place in the pointed look he gave his passenger. Axel proceeded to stand up off the car and walk around to the sidewalk with his cigarette. Then Saix turned back to Vexen; “If you're in a hurry, don't let me detain you.”
At which point he turned, heading over to his passenger and plucking the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a long drag on it or himself before throwing the half-finished cigarette away, much to his passengers offence. He left Vexen fuming as they both got back into the car, and left.
“I thought you quit?” Axel said, conversationally, folding his arms behind his head and resting as far back in the seat as the seat would allow.
“I did.”
“It looked like it.” He stole a glance at the severe expression his friend was wearing. “Was the creepy old guy that hard on your nerves?”
“No,” Saix replied, not taking his eyes off the road, “the damage to my car is.”
“You should learn to drive then, shouldn't you?”
That only earned him a sharp, and brief, glance, but it was enough to make Axel laugh.
It's rough, and mostly written in snatches of time between doing everything else in life, and I expect I need to do some serious brushing up on Americanisms, but hey, it's there.
The work situation, fortunately, has been resolved. It involved going begging to a former assistant manager who no longer works for the company in question for a reference, and then she handed it back late so it became a very close thing, but the reference came in. Thank god.
Now the manager of the home is away for a couple of months for reasons I am not supposed to know about, but do, because you can't tell anyone ANYTHING in that place without it becoming common knowledge in under five seconds flat.
The really hilarious thing is that the manager wrote all the residents a letter explaining that she was going into hospital and would be away for a while, and for anyone who has any problems to go to the assistant manager instead, which they received yesterday at dinner time. Except that none of the residents knew who she was anyway, and then THEY started gossiping and now half of them think she's gone off to have another baby.
She hasn't. But try telling them that.
Generally speaking, I'm in a good mood today. The fact that I've had the day off helps. I just finished working ten days straight, after having only one day off. Having a chance to sit on my arse for the day was nice.
If I try and wait until I've written the whole saga, I'll never post it at all, so until I ever, maybe, write out everything we've discussed for this, this is how it begins:
He passed by the forecourt every day, and he checked to see if his car was still there every time. His car, even though he didn't own it, had never owned it, and never would own it. It had been there for three weeks when he'd gone to look, considering, once again, trading in his reliable but old clunker for something a little more modern. It had stood out; it was bound to. The bright green colouring alone made it the brightest car there.
He'd been disappointed when he'd sat in it, however, to find that his overly lanky frame was limiting his options again, and then the boot-- trunk, the salesman said, all the Americans did-- was, in the end, not big enough for everything he'd carry in it.
So he'd gone back to his trusty old estate car that he'd brought from home before he moved out to this insane country.
But he still looked every time he passed.
Xigbar called it the closet. Depending upon the day of the week that was either because Vexen lived out of it-- admittedly, he did keep a couple of changes of clothes in it, but that was because his daily schedule could be a little bit unpredictable, and there had been times that he'd simply fallen asleep at work and then not had time to go home and change-- or because it was shaped like one, or, when he was being especially irritating, because Vexen drove it like one.
He'd only been permitted into the car with Vexen at the wheel twice, and it wasn't going to happen again. The first time they'd gone out to pick up a new video screen microscope, and Xigbar had accused Vexen of sounding like an old man when he drove.
The second time, Vexen hadn't known he'd recorded the journey until Xigbar plugged it into the stereo he had piping through the working lab and Vexen was treated to the sound of his sniffy, extremely British accent deriding the driving and mental skills of every other person that had been on the road that day.
It had been quite a lengthy recording.
As a result, Xigbar was forbidden from riding in Vexen's car for any purpose ever, which sometimes meant that Xigbar had to catch the train, or even the bus, to a location and meet Vexen there so they could load up his car, and then Xigbar had to make his own way back again. He kept telling the man to buy a car of his own, but Xigbar refused on the grounds that he couldn't afford his dream car.
“And what would that be?” Vexen had asked, snippily.
“One with semi-naked chicks writhing on the hood,” had been the reply, and Vexen had rolled his eyes.
He could guess at the sort of car he expected Xigbar to want, of course. The other scientist was only a little older than Vexen, but he came to work in brightly coloured shorts and terrible neckerchiefs. Either he didn't care about being taken seriously, or he was enduring a mid life crisis that had started from the age of about sixteen and had yet to abate.
It would be a car much like the one creeping up behind Vexen now, with the top down, and growling like a caged animal. The shade of blue of its paintwork was the same as the hair of its driver, and Vexen grumbled under his breath. The driver was too young to be able to afford a car like that, so either they were a spoiled little rich boy who leeched off mummy and daddy, or they were a drug dealer.
“Get out of my arse, you hooligan,” Vexen hissed at the reflection in his rearview mirror. The driver had a scar on his face-- definitely a drug dealer-- and his passenger had bright red hair and smudged make up, or tattoos, or some other mark on his face. They were close enough for Vexen to see that much detail, and his heart leapt into his throat as the powerful engine gunned, revved with the change of gears, and then the car shot out to overtake him.
Which, naturally, was when some complete idiot in the oncoming lane decided to swerve around a cyclist, making the idiot in the blue car slam on his brakes and swerve--
there was the sickening screech of brakes and scrape of metal, and then more screeching brakes as Vexen stopped. The blue car pulled ahead and crawled to a stop while Vexen checked himself for the signs of a heart attack. Only then did he tuck his car in, letting the traffic behind him pass, with the crunch and tinkle of breaking glass as they rolled over the broken remains of Vexen's wing mirror.
He didn't feel as though he could breathe properly as he turned the key, shutting his engine off, leaving his hazard lights on, and crept out of the car to go and inspect the damage.
Behind him, the blue haired lunatic had got out of his car to inspect the damage on his own vehicle. His red haired passenger stood up on the seat, leaning over the windscreen, which earned him a waved hand instruction to sit back down.
Vexen was shaking by the time the idiot approached, with a combination of fury, and shock, and lingering fear. His wing mirror was gone, and there was a wide, three foot long scratch down the door of his precious car.
“Is it bad?” The man asked, approaching Vexen, who towered over him by more than a head.
Vexen wasn't sure how to reply. His hands were still shaking, and he didn't know quite what answer to give. “Of course it's bad!” He snapped, “You crashed into me! Did you ever pass your test or did you pay off the examiner?”
“At least you're unharmed,” was the only response as fingers with neatly manicured nails ran over the scratch in the paintwork.
“What a pity the same can be said for you.” Vexen scowled, and looked at his watch. “So much for my no claims, and now I'm going to be late! This is perfect!” He spat, and glared at the man responsible.
Who dipped into his pocket, removed his wallet, and handed Vexen a business card. “It's just a mirror and a scratch. I'll pay for it.”
Vexen snatched the card from between the man's fingers and glanced down at the name: Saix Sedem, and yes, there was a phone number printed on the card, too.
Over by the far too expensive blue car, the red haired passenger had slipped out of the door and sparked up a cigarette, leaning against the passenger door as he inhaled, and then exhaled a plume of grey smoke.
“Axel.” Saix said, and it was all that Saix said, most of the communication taking place in the pointed look he gave his passenger. Axel proceeded to stand up off the car and walk around to the sidewalk with his cigarette. Then Saix turned back to Vexen; “If you're in a hurry, don't let me detain you.”
At which point he turned, heading over to his passenger and plucking the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a long drag on it or himself before throwing the half-finished cigarette away, much to his passengers offence. He left Vexen fuming as they both got back into the car, and left.
“I thought you quit?” Axel said, conversationally, folding his arms behind his head and resting as far back in the seat as the seat would allow.
“I did.”
“It looked like it.” He stole a glance at the severe expression his friend was wearing. “Was the creepy old guy that hard on your nerves?”
“No,” Saix replied, not taking his eyes off the road, “the damage to my car is.”
“You should learn to drive then, shouldn't you?”
That only earned him a sharp, and brief, glance, but it was enough to make Axel laugh.
It's rough, and mostly written in snatches of time between doing everything else in life, and I expect I need to do some serious brushing up on Americanisms, but hey, it's there.
The work situation, fortunately, has been resolved. It involved going begging to a former assistant manager who no longer works for the company in question for a reference, and then she handed it back late so it became a very close thing, but the reference came in. Thank god.
Now the manager of the home is away for a couple of months for reasons I am not supposed to know about, but do, because you can't tell anyone ANYTHING in that place without it becoming common knowledge in under five seconds flat.
The really hilarious thing is that the manager wrote all the residents a letter explaining that she was going into hospital and would be away for a while, and for anyone who has any problems to go to the assistant manager instead, which they received yesterday at dinner time. Except that none of the residents knew who she was anyway, and then THEY started gossiping and now half of them think she's gone off to have another baby.
She hasn't. But try telling them that.
Generally speaking, I'm in a good mood today. The fact that I've had the day off helps. I just finished working ten days straight, after having only one day off. Having a chance to sit on my arse for the day was nice.