(no subject)
Robin Goodfellow sat on a stool at the bar in the Catscratch, though not particularly well. He would have been weaving on the small seat if it weren't for the fact that his head was morosely pillowed on the bar-top over his folded arms. His green eyes were dull stones, brown curls damp and plastered to his grimly pale forehead on a face in need of a shave.
His previously pristine Ralph Lauren button-down had a small tear in one sleeve. The pants he wore weren't the ones he'd come in, but a pair of silk monstrosities, dark navy blue with gold and rose-colored prints of an icon of the Virgin Mary. Courtesy the Clothes Box.
It was Scotch whisky that night; six glasses worth that hour before he was forced to admit to himself he needed to stop; no rocks, no water, no beer. Hell, there was barely a glass, considering how much of the amber stuff had ended up on the bar-top or soaked into Goodfellow's shirt-sleeve. A few days ago, he would have been at home in his condo in Chelsea. A few days ago, he would have drunk the entire island under the table - come all takers. Now he was done under by a few glasses full of the hard stuff. A few days ago, he wasn't quite so human. Mortal. Flaccid. Impotent. Robin moaned, loudly and self-piteously.
"I've been gathered up in a cosmic burlap sack and dumped here as if a whore well past her prime from a cliff into the Bosporus. What have I done that nature hated me so much that she was forced to regurgitate me on some bumfuck middle-of-nowhere island that doesn't even have the self-respect as to market itself as a resort."
Wetting the tip of his right index finger with his tongue, he ran it around the rim of his empty tumbler before flicking the glass once. It rang out, a clean, clear sound. Goodfellow winced, voice slipping into a few lines of slurred, barely comprehensible Greek before recovering.
"I used to be something."
Even the nearby strippers weren't enough to drag his attentions away from himself at the moment.
[ non-debut ep because robin needed to meet more new people ... in his natural habitat. ]
His previously pristine Ralph Lauren button-down had a small tear in one sleeve. The pants he wore weren't the ones he'd come in, but a pair of silk monstrosities, dark navy blue with gold and rose-colored prints of an icon of the Virgin Mary. Courtesy the Clothes Box.
It was Scotch whisky that night; six glasses worth that hour before he was forced to admit to himself he needed to stop; no rocks, no water, no beer. Hell, there was barely a glass, considering how much of the amber stuff had ended up on the bar-top or soaked into Goodfellow's shirt-sleeve. A few days ago, he would have been at home in his condo in Chelsea. A few days ago, he would have drunk the entire island under the table - come all takers. Now he was done under by a few glasses full of the hard stuff. A few days ago, he wasn't quite so human. Mortal. Flaccid. Impotent. Robin moaned, loudly and self-piteously.
"I've been gathered up in a cosmic burlap sack and dumped here as if a whore well past her prime from a cliff into the Bosporus. What have I done that nature hated me so much that she was forced to regurgitate me on some bumfuck middle-of-nowhere island that doesn't even have the self-respect as to market itself as a resort."
Wetting the tip of his right index finger with his tongue, he ran it around the rim of his empty tumbler before flicking the glass once. It rang out, a clean, clear sound. Goodfellow winced, voice slipping into a few lines of slurred, barely comprehensible Greek before recovering.
"I used to be something."
Even the nearby strippers weren't enough to drag his attentions away from himself at the moment.
[ non-debut ep because robin needed to meet more new people ... in his natural habitat. ]