Roger, Andy, G
The twenty-second prompt from my table:
001. Beginnings
“I think we’re off to a good start,” Bob says, “seeing as it’s only quarter past noon.”
“Shame Andy parked street side,” Mike comments, from his concealed position behind a tree in the park. “What on earth are we going to do with all this shaving cream now?”
“Maybe John left his unattended?”
“Nah,” Mike says, “he knows Andy’s not involved this year, so we’ll be the ones stuck with the lumpy mashed potatoes.”
Bob sighs, and crosses item number six off his list. “Think we could get something into their food?”
“Doubtful.”
“Pity; this park is full of unappetizing crap, and in some cases I mean that literally.”
“Time to relocate?” Mike asks, looking down at his twin, who nods fervently.
“That sooner the better, preferably before I start thinking about what just crawled into my shoe,” Bob says, folding the master list and relegating it and his neon blue highlighter to a dark and cramped pocket for now.
“Sounds good to me,” Mike says, pushing away from the tree before brushing off his clothes, watching dead leaves and bark shower Bob’s exposed neck. “Whoops, sorry about that.”
Bob scowls at him, digging the offending dead things out of the back of his shirt, “I’m sure,” he says, “just like you’re sorry for the eggs?”
“How was I supposed to know those were fish flakes?”
“You bought them! And put them there!”
Mike smirks, “well, I suppose there is that.”
Posted to tennisslash.
001. Beginnings
“I think we’re off to a good start,” Bob says, “seeing as it’s only quarter past noon.”
“Shame Andy parked street side,” Mike comments, from his concealed position behind a tree in the park. “What on earth are we going to do with all this shaving cream now?”
“Maybe John left his unattended?”
“Nah,” Mike says, “he knows Andy’s not involved this year, so we’ll be the ones stuck with the lumpy mashed potatoes.”
Bob sighs, and crosses item number six off his list. “Think we could get something into their food?”
“Doubtful.”
“Pity; this park is full of unappetizing crap, and in some cases I mean that literally.”
“Time to relocate?” Mike asks, looking down at his twin, who nods fervently.
“That sooner the better, preferably before I start thinking about what just crawled into my shoe,” Bob says, folding the master list and relegating it and his neon blue highlighter to a dark and cramped pocket for now.
“Sounds good to me,” Mike says, pushing away from the tree before brushing off his clothes, watching dead leaves and bark shower Bob’s exposed neck. “Whoops, sorry about that.”
Bob scowls at him, digging the offending dead things out of the back of his shirt, “I’m sure,” he says, “just like you’re sorry for the eggs?”
“How was I supposed to know those were fish flakes?”
“You bought them! And put them there!”
Mike smirks, “well, I suppose there is that.”
Posted to tennisslash.