01: good morning, good morning

[tender_crook]

Action (reserved for the residents of 1651 Albright Lane):

[Blue pyjamas. His initials are hand-stitched on the pocket. Well, somebody's initials are. There's a "K" on them. But they are the lesser of many, many sartorial evils, and with a robe over you can hardly tell he's wearing painstakingly reproduced serial killer trophy clothingKurt sits at

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[no_indoor_voice]

[About fifteen minutes later, an already dressed but still somewhat dishevelled Tybalt walks in.

He sees Kurt but appears to take no notice of him, then suddenly looks at him again.]

Oh. They replaced the hollow boy with you.

[/standard tybaltvoice]

[tender_crook]

[Kurt's affectedly comfortable pose -- don't mind me, just sitting down here in the dark, waiting for you to materialize -- falls apart, as he slams himself back into his chair.
He snaps:]

Who the frick are you?

[... in retrospect, that would have been an appropriate time to use the actual f-bomb. But visions of boy skin suits are dancing in Kurt's head.]

[no_indoor_voice]

[grim-ass tybaltsmile]

Welcome to Hell, boy.

[tender_crook]

[HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT
Tybalt is fortunate that Kurt did not go all the way in the "I am totally composed and have my wits about me" charade in making coffee. The kitchen setup is charmingly quaint. But even if he did manage it, that shit would be knocked over in panic.]

Where's my phone--

[shoeofbaileys]

[Have a frog-man squatting in the door to the kitchen, Kurt, just staring at you.]

What you doing in Old Gregg's house?

[tender_crook]

[Great. Wonderful. Just... swell. There is now a green homeless man in a tutu in his field of vision. ]

Who are-- what are you wearing?

[shoeofbaileys]

This Old Gregg's clothin', just like this Old Gregg's house.

Now how about you tell Old Gregg why you here, motherlicker, or Old Gregg gonna tear your tiny little head off.

[tender_crook]

I woke up here!

[Kurt is backing away slowly.]