(no subject)
"Say cheese!"
The flash from my camera lights up the surrounding jungle for a fraction of a second, and the shutter clicks opens for about as long, capturing a shot of Madrox wrenching the hem of his trenchcoat out from his dog's mouth. A look of surprised annoyance crosses his face, and he points a finger in my direction, half-distracted still with ensuring his coat doesn't get turned into a glorified chew toy. They've been at this game on and off for the better part of half an hour, what was meant to be a walk to catch up with an old acquaintance having turned into some ongoing sketch-comedy skit. At this point, my bets are on the dog winning.
"Hey!" he shouts, turning on the spot with his coat bunched in his hands -- the dog still hasn't let go. "What'd we say about taking pictures?"
"Correction: what did you say about taking pictures? 'Cause let me tell ya, I don't remember signing any contracts."
My camera falls against my chest, hanging from the strap around my neck, as I let go of it in a hurry to wheel myself out of the way of Madrox's warpath. A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I let out a loud laugh when he trips over a raised tree root in his rush to get at me, literally falling head over heels. He manages to roll out of it and land on his feet, but I can't help but think that I'd've done it with a bit more panache if our positions were reversed. As it is, though, he's covered in mud and I'm stuck in a wheelchair for another couple of months -- and honestly? I'm pretty sure I got the better end of this bargain, which isn't something that happens all that often.
"I am so getting you back for this," he says, dragging a hand across his face, and he flicks away some mud. It ends up hitting the dog, who -- understandably -- barks in protest. Poor little guy. Must suck to have such an incompetent master. "You mark my words."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "Like I haven't heard that one before. Add in some maniacal laughter, why don'tcha? Then we'll really be set."
Scoffing, he holds up a hand in a sarcastic little wave goodbye, and he turns to leave -- presumably to change into something a little less Swamp Thing. The dog scampers after him. "See ya around, Parker," he calls out, already shrugging out of his coat.
"Your picture's in the--" I cut myself short, frowning when I realize that isn't his index finger he's holding up. "Hey, don't think I didn't see that. There are kids around here!"
"Save it for the op-ed."
Peter's right leg is broken and he's in a wheelchair. Jamie has an M tattooed over his right eye and is covered in mud. The dog looks like this. Tag one or the other! New friends, old friends -- it's as good a time to meet either of 'em as any. New tags accepted through Wednesday.
The flash from my camera lights up the surrounding jungle for a fraction of a second, and the shutter clicks opens for about as long, capturing a shot of Madrox wrenching the hem of his trenchcoat out from his dog's mouth. A look of surprised annoyance crosses his face, and he points a finger in my direction, half-distracted still with ensuring his coat doesn't get turned into a glorified chew toy. They've been at this game on and off for the better part of half an hour, what was meant to be a walk to catch up with an old acquaintance having turned into some ongoing sketch-comedy skit. At this point, my bets are on the dog winning.
"Hey!" he shouts, turning on the spot with his coat bunched in his hands -- the dog still hasn't let go. "What'd we say about taking pictures?"
"Correction: what did you say about taking pictures? 'Cause let me tell ya, I don't remember signing any contracts."
My camera falls against my chest, hanging from the strap around my neck, as I let go of it in a hurry to wheel myself out of the way of Madrox's warpath. A grin tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I let out a loud laugh when he trips over a raised tree root in his rush to get at me, literally falling head over heels. He manages to roll out of it and land on his feet, but I can't help but think that I'd've done it with a bit more panache if our positions were reversed. As it is, though, he's covered in mud and I'm stuck in a wheelchair for another couple of months -- and honestly? I'm pretty sure I got the better end of this bargain, which isn't something that happens all that often.
"I am so getting you back for this," he says, dragging a hand across his face, and he flicks away some mud. It ends up hitting the dog, who -- understandably -- barks in protest. Poor little guy. Must suck to have such an incompetent master. "You mark my words."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "Like I haven't heard that one before. Add in some maniacal laughter, why don'tcha? Then we'll really be set."
Scoffing, he holds up a hand in a sarcastic little wave goodbye, and he turns to leave -- presumably to change into something a little less Swamp Thing. The dog scampers after him. "See ya around, Parker," he calls out, already shrugging out of his coat.
"Your picture's in the--" I cut myself short, frowning when I realize that isn't his index finger he's holding up. "Hey, don't think I didn't see that. There are kids around here!"
"Save it for the op-ed."
Peter's right leg is broken and he's in a wheelchair. Jamie has an M tattooed over his right eye and is covered in mud. The dog looks like this. Tag one or the other! New friends, old friends -- it's as good a time to meet either of 'em as any. New tags accepted through Wednesday.
