Fill: Mind's Eye Theater 2/3
anonymous
August 10 2011, 00:12:33 UTC
There's only one screen in the mind's eye theater. It's in 3D, but the Nostalgia Critic doesn't need the huge glasses they gave the underlings in order to view it in full quality. The newt and his weasel friends hover in the middle of the dark room, singing songs and repeating the “don't do drugs” speech an hour before the climax of the movie. A puff of gray hisses from through the Critic's teeth and reaches out to strangle them instead of disappearing. The hookers giggle.
His brain kind of feels like a balloon now. Inhale, inflate. Exhale, deflate. It's kind of like he's falling with every deflate, spiraling down into the newt's world of rainbows and pastel clouds and baby pink skies, but the joint fills him back up with helium soon enough and he floats back. They all float.
The dark-skinned hooker bats her large brown eyes at him and runs the tip of a shining nail across his muscular, exposed chest and plays the fringe of his ermine cape.
“It's made of them, you know,” the Critic slurs. She smirks back at the choking weasels dangling before them and laughs. His jokes never fall flat in the mind's eye theater.
The brunette gives an absentminded chuckle, too busy picking jewels from his crown and stuffing them in her bra. His gaze is on the dying animals onscreen, but he can see her somehow. He sees everything in the minds eye theater. He'll unlatch that bra later, and she'll pretend to act scandalized as the stones fall out to decorate their bedspread.
There's only one screen in the mind's eye theater. It's in 3D, but the Nostalgia Critic doesn't need the huge glasses they gave the underlings in order to view it in full quality. The newt and his weasel friends hover in the middle of the dark room, singing songs and repeating the “don't do drugs” speech an hour before the climax of the movie. A puff of gray hisses from through the Critic's teeth and reaches out to strangle them instead of disappearing. The hookers giggle.
His brain kind of feels like a balloon now. Inhale, inflate. Exhale, deflate. It's kind of like he's falling with every deflate, spiraling down into the newt's world of rainbows and pastel clouds and baby pink skies, but the joint fills him back up with helium soon enough and he floats back. They all float.
The dark-skinned hooker bats her large brown eyes at him and runs the tip of a shining nail across his muscular, exposed chest and plays the fringe of his ermine cape.
“It's made of them, you know,” the Critic slurs. She smirks back at the choking weasels dangling before them and laughs. His jokes never fall flat in the mind's eye theater.
The brunette gives an absentminded chuckle, too busy picking jewels from his crown and stuffing them in her bra. His gaze is on the dying animals onscreen, but he can see her somehow. He sees everything in the minds eye theater. He'll unlatch that bra later, and she'll pretend to act scandalized as the stones fall out to decorate their bedspread.
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