Marseillaise
Who: The Professor and The Devil (Mihailo and Ion)
When: March 17th, St. Patrick's day
Where: The pubs and streets of Paris Liberty
What: Here, the fortunate ones through money, or influence, or luck, might obtain alcohol and scurry to pubs and from pubs to more pubs. But the others wait in sobriety...and wait...and wait...and wait.
Rating: __me. ___me as if it were the last time.
There were few infalliable truths to life that were not related directly to a numerical postulation.
One was that in several billion years, give or take two, the solar system would be eradicated by the burn out of its central star and life on Earth would essentially cease to exist.
The other was that Mihailo Marić was distinctly not Irish.
Nor had any single member of his family line ever been Irish, a fact Ion had been invariably familiarized with through the many, many discourses on genealogy, ancestry and the migratory patterns of man.
So he was forced to ponder once again why it happened to be that he was surrounded by Irish in an Irish pub with Irish beer, Irish food and a single Serb.
If memory served (which it always did because he was not in the possession of a mind with the consistency of brittle bone) he had been very astutely catering to some much desired purification of the refrigerator's questionable contents. A certain man's absence since the three o' clock lecture had enabled him leeway on the cupboards but of course, the moment Ion had decided he'd need just a few more hours to completely restructure and organize the kitchen to a state of acceptable organization was the instant the bane of his OCD re-appeared.
Giddy.
Surrounded by strangers.
"And that, McAllister, is why many films produced at the turn of the century were lost. The chemicals, you see?"
Still surrounded by strangers (later revealed as LU undergrads) and no more self-informed as to why he hadn't just refused the group of hedonists and slammed the door in the Professor's face.
The fire-extinguisher trick had earned the man salt in his coffee and a variety of minor, extraneous punishments. This. This had resigned Mihailo to a fate worse than death. There was a special sort of Hell for the Serbian dragging him to every godforsaken pub in a logic-forsaken city on a night where so much liquor was being spilled the air reeked of its acrid tang.
At the very least, the Serbian shouldn't have been capable of doing much worse.
"Sollomoviciiii-"
Other than act (more) like a complete ass in public. "You haven't touched a fucking thing the whole fucking night." The counter shook at an exuberant pound from a fist which landed perilously close to Ion's hand. "You've been working too hard- drink, speak! You are young-"
Mihailo then, quite cheerfully, accepted the pint thrust at him by a half-lucid undergrad and transfered it to the appendage he had nearly crushed. "Take advantage of it!"
When: March 17th, St. Patrick's day
Where: The pubs and streets of Paris Liberty
What: Here, the fortunate ones through money, or influence, or luck, might obtain alcohol and scurry to pubs and from pubs to more pubs. But the others wait in sobriety...and wait...and wait...and wait.
Rating: __me. ___me as if it were the last time.
There were few infalliable truths to life that were not related directly to a numerical postulation.
One was that in several billion years, give or take two, the solar system would be eradicated by the burn out of its central star and life on Earth would essentially cease to exist.
The other was that Mihailo Marić was distinctly not Irish.
Nor had any single member of his family line ever been Irish, a fact Ion had been invariably familiarized with through the many, many discourses on genealogy, ancestry and the migratory patterns of man.
So he was forced to ponder once again why it happened to be that he was surrounded by Irish in an Irish pub with Irish beer, Irish food and a single Serb.
If memory served (which it always did because he was not in the possession of a mind with the consistency of brittle bone) he had been very astutely catering to some much desired purification of the refrigerator's questionable contents. A certain man's absence since the three o' clock lecture had enabled him leeway on the cupboards but of course, the moment Ion had decided he'd need just a few more hours to completely restructure and organize the kitchen to a state of acceptable organization was the instant the bane of his OCD re-appeared.
Giddy.
Surrounded by strangers.
"And that, McAllister, is why many films produced at the turn of the century were lost. The chemicals, you see?"
Still surrounded by strangers (later revealed as LU undergrads) and no more self-informed as to why he hadn't just refused the group of hedonists and slammed the door in the Professor's face.
The fire-extinguisher trick had earned the man salt in his coffee and a variety of minor, extraneous punishments. This. This had resigned Mihailo to a fate worse than death. There was a special sort of Hell for the Serbian dragging him to every godforsaken pub in a logic-forsaken city on a night where so much liquor was being spilled the air reeked of its acrid tang.
At the very least, the Serbian shouldn't have been capable of doing much worse.
"Sollomoviciiii-"
Other than act (more) like a complete ass in public. "You haven't touched a fucking thing the whole fucking night." The counter shook at an exuberant pound from a fist which landed perilously close to Ion's hand. "You've been working too hard- drink, speak! You are young-"
Mihailo then, quite cheerfully, accepted the pint thrust at him by a half-lucid undergrad and transfered it to the appendage he had nearly crushed. "Take advantage of it!"