The Funky Aftermath
I HAD TO DO IT!! I HAD TO WRITE MORE!!! This is the first time I have written Candy and GAH, she is difficult.
Robin walked home on that disastrous, foggy March day. It seemed like the kind of day that would bring extreme subway line congestion, so he might as well walk it.
As he walked, the small rational portion of his mind asked small, rational questions.
Hey, Robin. How ya feeling today?
Well, it's been a pretty hectic day.
Yeah, that it has. Feel like eating any time soon?
No, thanks. I still feel a bit sick.
Of course, of course...understandable. Say, Robin, why did you go into that CD store today?
To get a CD.
Well, it seems like there are less problematic ways of getting a CD. After all, most music-buying trips don't involve nudity.
...
Your silence is intriguing. So, tell me: why did you go into the store?
To get a fucking CD, alright?
Now you're moving into that aggressive space we discussed. There's no need for that kind of talk. Remember, foul language is the feeble minded's--
At this point, it occurred to Robin that he was being lectured on swearing by a condescending voice in his head. He managed to cut it off(it was quite a feat) when he reached his doorstep, spending ten minutes rifling through his pockets and various potted plants for his keys.
His apartment wasn't anything special-- on the small end of medium sized, it was sparsely furnished to allow for some moving around space. The place came across as barren, though, almost unlived-in unless you happened to glance at the sink, which was piled with dirty dishes. If Robin had one vice, it was the dishes. He could be neat about anything else, but the dishes were the death of him.
There was always that awkward moment when he got home. He would look around and realize there was nothing to do and feel guilty. He supposed it was left over from school, when coming home meant he should start on his homework-- but why would he, when there was television to be watched and books to be read and doodles to be drawn?
At any rate, he stood around at a loss for ten seconds before sitting down on the square couch. On the coffee table was the book about werecats he had gotten from that funny little bookshop.
Robin stared at it. It was one of those old books with no writing or pictures on the cover; it simply existed as a dull, forest green tome.
Ever since he had bought it, he had felt a twinge of annoyance and something that was almost guilt every time he looked at it. God, what had possessed him to get it?
The same thing that made you go into the store today? the previously AWOL voice hissed slyly.
He felt something in him that reminded him of the meeting earlier, but he shouldn't think about that, anyway. He loosened his tie and remembered the CD store keeper tugging it earlier. He thought he might be blushing, but the heat was making him queasy again, so he turned on the television and didn't think about it.
Well, look at that: a Ghost Hunters marathon. Robin proceeded to think non-thoughts as his brain melted out of his ears.
****
Shell was just sitting behind the desk, minding his own fucking business, thank you very much, when a customer had the audacity to burst in at three minutes before closing time. He was about to yell to get the fuck out, if you please, but it was Candy, and he figured he had better save his yelling for later.
He merely rudely asked, "What do you want?" to which she replied in a sing-songvoice something about crustaceans and pogo sticks.
"We're closed," he said, even thought it was technically a lie, and would actually have no effect on her presence if she wanted to be here.
"That's too sad!" she said, pouting and simultaneously arching her body around the shelves of disks in some eerie dance. It was mesmerizing, actually, not unlike her, until Shell reminded himself that she was seriously irritating.
Candy threw herself down on his desk backwards, looking at him upside-down with her waist bent at almost a right angle. "So, mi lobo marino, you won't ever believe-- well, actually, you probably will, since you did it-- what Rex told me yesterday!"
Shell didn't bother to answer, since he didn't care what the fuck Rex said so long as he kept his injury-prone self off of valuable records, but he knew Candy would continue anyway. "Ze said--" She slithered onto her stomach. "Zing! Ze said that Jamal said that well part of it was Jamal and part of it was hir really since Jamal didn't know the kinky stuff but hey! They said that you were hitting on some werewolf!"
Shell had been counting the seconds he was staying overtime when the key word made his head shoot up. Had what she said been surprising enough to release the more feline part of himself(it was a close thing, really) he would have laid his ears back and hissed.
"Well, they're both nosy little bitches, aren't they?" he snarled. "Tell them to mind their own damn business and, oh yeah, leave this instant you are making me stay late."
Candy was bored anyway, it seemed, and left laughing and dancing her eerie little dance.
Shell wasn't sure why he had gotten so pissed off. Probably, he thought, as he grabbed his coat to brave the fog, he was just a bit of an angry person.
Robin walked home on that disastrous, foggy March day. It seemed like the kind of day that would bring extreme subway line congestion, so he might as well walk it.
As he walked, the small rational portion of his mind asked small, rational questions.
Hey, Robin. How ya feeling today?
Well, it's been a pretty hectic day.
Yeah, that it has. Feel like eating any time soon?
No, thanks. I still feel a bit sick.
Of course, of course...understandable. Say, Robin, why did you go into that CD store today?
To get a CD.
Well, it seems like there are less problematic ways of getting a CD. After all, most music-buying trips don't involve nudity.
...
Your silence is intriguing. So, tell me: why did you go into the store?
To get a fucking CD, alright?
Now you're moving into that aggressive space we discussed. There's no need for that kind of talk. Remember, foul language is the feeble minded's--
At this point, it occurred to Robin that he was being lectured on swearing by a condescending voice in his head. He managed to cut it off(it was quite a feat) when he reached his doorstep, spending ten minutes rifling through his pockets and various potted plants for his keys.
His apartment wasn't anything special-- on the small end of medium sized, it was sparsely furnished to allow for some moving around space. The place came across as barren, though, almost unlived-in unless you happened to glance at the sink, which was piled with dirty dishes. If Robin had one vice, it was the dishes. He could be neat about anything else, but the dishes were the death of him.
There was always that awkward moment when he got home. He would look around and realize there was nothing to do and feel guilty. He supposed it was left over from school, when coming home meant he should start on his homework-- but why would he, when there was television to be watched and books to be read and doodles to be drawn?
At any rate, he stood around at a loss for ten seconds before sitting down on the square couch. On the coffee table was the book about werecats he had gotten from that funny little bookshop.
Robin stared at it. It was one of those old books with no writing or pictures on the cover; it simply existed as a dull, forest green tome.
Ever since he had bought it, he had felt a twinge of annoyance and something that was almost guilt every time he looked at it. God, what had possessed him to get it?
The same thing that made you go into the store today? the previously AWOL voice hissed slyly.
He felt something in him that reminded him of the meeting earlier, but he shouldn't think about that, anyway. He loosened his tie and remembered the CD store keeper tugging it earlier. He thought he might be blushing, but the heat was making him queasy again, so he turned on the television and didn't think about it.
Well, look at that: a Ghost Hunters marathon. Robin proceeded to think non-thoughts as his brain melted out of his ears.
****
Shell was just sitting behind the desk, minding his own fucking business, thank you very much, when a customer had the audacity to burst in at three minutes before closing time. He was about to yell to get the fuck out, if you please, but it was Candy, and he figured he had better save his yelling for later.
He merely rudely asked, "What do you want?" to which she replied in a sing-songvoice something about crustaceans and pogo sticks.
"We're closed," he said, even thought it was technically a lie, and would actually have no effect on her presence if she wanted to be here.
"That's too sad!" she said, pouting and simultaneously arching her body around the shelves of disks in some eerie dance. It was mesmerizing, actually, not unlike her, until Shell reminded himself that she was seriously irritating.
Candy threw herself down on his desk backwards, looking at him upside-down with her waist bent at almost a right angle. "So, mi lobo marino, you won't ever believe-- well, actually, you probably will, since you did it-- what Rex told me yesterday!"
Shell didn't bother to answer, since he didn't care what the fuck Rex said so long as he kept his injury-prone self off of valuable records, but he knew Candy would continue anyway. "Ze said--" She slithered onto her stomach. "Zing! Ze said that Jamal said that well part of it was Jamal and part of it was hir really since Jamal didn't know the kinky stuff but hey! They said that you were hitting on some werewolf!"
Shell had been counting the seconds he was staying overtime when the key word made his head shoot up. Had what she said been surprising enough to release the more feline part of himself(it was a close thing, really) he would have laid his ears back and hissed.
"Well, they're both nosy little bitches, aren't they?" he snarled. "Tell them to mind their own damn business and, oh yeah, leave this instant you are making me stay late."
Candy was bored anyway, it seemed, and left laughing and dancing her eerie little dance.
Shell wasn't sure why he had gotten so pissed off. Probably, he thought, as he grabbed his coat to brave the fog, he was just a bit of an angry person.