(no subject)
Bret had thought this third Conchord business was going to finally be over, and the trouble he just knew was coming was going to be averted. He had trusted Jemaine would finally end it and get rid of Todd. What actually happened, though, was anything but.
"Well, you see, while I had him in a headlock, he sort of explained why he thought you shouldn't be in the band," Jemaine said, evenly. "And after a while, it kind of made sense."
Bret almost balked at him. Was he joking? He had to be. "You were only over there for like twenty seconds."
"Yeah, after about 20 seconds, it kind of made sense. It's hard to fire a guy who's in a headlock. It's easier for me to fire you, Bret, because you're my friend," he replied, still straight-faced, his voice denoting the fact he thought his reasoning was completely sensible.
Bret's expression hardened when he realized what he was saying dawned on him. "So what are you saying?"
"...You're fired, Bret."
The anger started to bubble up, and he couldn't, for once, keep it out of his voice. "I'm fired."
"...Yeah."
Bret was almost at a loss of words. Jemaine made a hasty retreat soon after delivering the news, leaving Bret standing in the middle of the park at a complete loss over what just happened. All he knew at that moment was he felt more worked up than he had felt in years. Jemaine, the one who was supposed to be his best friend, was taking Todd's side, and that alone was just a little bit too much for him to take. He had a burning desire to do something, to let all of his frustration out, so he did what anyone (or so he thought) would do in the situation.
He danced.
He was sure people were staring at him as he let his body lead him, every footstep draining what was building up inside him. He imagined every time he jumped off things he was in fact stepping on that smug dick's bongos. Who played bongos, anyway? It certainly wasn't better than his instrument.
That line of thinking, of course, made things worse instead of better, and suddenly his steps were more like stomps against the pavement. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care, even with Murray's warnings about the dangers of the streets echoing in his head. Where he did end up was on a platform of sorts, and with a burst of speed he didn't know he had he jumped, arms outstretched -
And landed neatly on carpet.
The sudden lack of pavement surprised him so much that what adrenaline he had in him rushed out of his body, and he fell backwards onto his butt, startled. Suddenly the expansive street had turned into a room. The only and immediate response he had was wondering if someone had maybe slipped some of those acids into his drink and they had just kicked in, because otherwise what he was seeing made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
A jukebox in the corner of the room played the music he swore he had heard in his head just seconds before. He turned to stare at it, wide-eyed. All he could think to utter was one simple phrase.
"...Oh, flip."
[OOC: Welcome the other Conchord. He's standing in the middle of the rec room, baffled. -g-]
"Well, you see, while I had him in a headlock, he sort of explained why he thought you shouldn't be in the band," Jemaine said, evenly. "And after a while, it kind of made sense."
Bret almost balked at him. Was he joking? He had to be. "You were only over there for like twenty seconds."
"Yeah, after about 20 seconds, it kind of made sense. It's hard to fire a guy who's in a headlock. It's easier for me to fire you, Bret, because you're my friend," he replied, still straight-faced, his voice denoting the fact he thought his reasoning was completely sensible.
Bret's expression hardened when he realized what he was saying dawned on him. "So what are you saying?"
"...You're fired, Bret."
The anger started to bubble up, and he couldn't, for once, keep it out of his voice. "I'm fired."
"...Yeah."
Bret was almost at a loss of words. Jemaine made a hasty retreat soon after delivering the news, leaving Bret standing in the middle of the park at a complete loss over what just happened. All he knew at that moment was he felt more worked up than he had felt in years. Jemaine, the one who was supposed to be his best friend, was taking Todd's side, and that alone was just a little bit too much for him to take. He had a burning desire to do something, to let all of his frustration out, so he did what anyone (or so he thought) would do in the situation.
He danced.
He was sure people were staring at him as he let his body lead him, every footstep draining what was building up inside him. He imagined every time he jumped off things he was in fact stepping on that smug dick's bongos. Who played bongos, anyway? It certainly wasn't better than his instrument.
That line of thinking, of course, made things worse instead of better, and suddenly his steps were more like stomps against the pavement. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care, even with Murray's warnings about the dangers of the streets echoing in his head. Where he did end up was on a platform of sorts, and with a burst of speed he didn't know he had he jumped, arms outstretched -
And landed neatly on carpet.
The sudden lack of pavement surprised him so much that what adrenaline he had in him rushed out of his body, and he fell backwards onto his butt, startled. Suddenly the expansive street had turned into a room. The only and immediate response he had was wondering if someone had maybe slipped some of those acids into his drink and they had just kicked in, because otherwise what he was seeing made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
A jukebox in the corner of the room played the music he swore he had heard in his head just seconds before. He turned to stare at it, wide-eyed. All he could think to utter was one simple phrase.
"...Oh, flip."
[OOC: Welcome the other Conchord. He's standing in the middle of the rec room, baffled. -g-]