For Remmy.
Happy birthday/Welcome Back, Remmy!
Happy Birthday/Congrats on your awesome performance, Deaners!
List!
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Sparrow darts up to Norrington. Norrington looks down his nose at him while the shorter pirate moves in close, chest touching chest.
"I was rooting for you," he purrs. His voice seems to be -trying- to console Norrington, while his eyes are laughing at him.
"No! That's all wrong!" A young British girl moves up to the both of them, and, after some vicious wrenching of Norrington's stiff neck and yanking of Sparrow's matted hair, forces them to kiss.
A gasp goes through the crowd and Lieutenant Gillette draws his pistol. First he points it at Sparrow (who has gone so far as to wrap his arms around Norrington), then changes his mind and aims at Charlotte. She's dared to sully Norrington's reputation by making him kiss Sparrow!(But the way he's enjoying it seems to be his own little contribution to the affair) But before he can kill the horrid girl for her crimes against Norrington, Sparrow, and yes, even the British Crown, she totally steals Jack's exit and tumbles backward off the parapet, falling into the warm Caribbean ocean.
-
He doesn't know how he ended up here. He doesn't even know where the fuck he is. All he knows is that he's not sure he likes it.
Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.
There's a fucking dog at his ankle. It keeps barking at him. Bark. Bark. Bark. God fucking damn this dog, and whoever the hell's got him tied up. He's tied to a chair. Sands has kicked the dog dozens of times, but it keeps coming back.
But he has his hands free. Finally, the dog hops up into his lap and tries to eat his beltbuckle and he grabs it. Feels like a shorthair dog. Too small for a weiner-dog. What the fuck is this monstrosity?
Doesn't matter. All it takes is one vicious twist and one shake and the barking thing is dead. He tosses the dog's corpse to the ground in victory and sits there, waiting to die.
"Thanks for getting rid of it." a gravelly female voice from in front of him says, and he jumps.
-
I creeped myself out.
-
Abberline's yellowed fingers trace the bumps and ridges of the opium pipe he holds. He turns his eyes to the little Oriental boy sitting by him. The boy takes the pipe and lays it across his lap.
Satisfied with the events thus far, Fred Abberline lays back and opens his mouth, givin the smoke a route to freedom.
The smoke gives a brave attempt at escape. It truly does. The heavy air, rank with the sour smell of sweat, lost dreams and opium stops it. Pathetic tendrils of blueish grey smoke creep forward out of Fred's mouth like the legs of a heavily drugged spider.
Abberline can feel the opium surging through his veins, perhaps the fastest thing in the parlour. It fills him, pushing everything out of its way as it courses through his body, making him hollow.
No.
That's not right, Fred thinks, and closes his eyes. He was hollow long before he'd darkened the doorway of this parlour. He's been completely void of anything since the Ripper case. The opium fills him up.
He sighs and waits for the dreams to begin.
-
But they never get the chance to begin.
Ichabod cannot stand the fact that Abberline is so addicted to this substance. It disgusts and degrades him. Countless times, Ichabod has threatened Abberline, each time he has to drag him out of the den, he warns him.
Abberline never listens. So once again, he's forced to enter the den, pushing his way past those who can stand and locating Abberline's couch. He's too frail to pick up the Englishman, so he settles for pushing the couch over and grabbing Abberline's hair.
Of all the things Ichabod's dealt with, this is the worst. He would rather face the Horseman again, face his Father and his endless torture devices, anything but watch Fred kill himself.
But the Horseman never comes. His Father never appears. And Ichabod loves Fred too much to seek them out.
-
Shooter places a hand on Mort's shoulder to comfort him. "It's alright," the Southerner drawls. "Lotsa people end up here."
Mort knows better than to correct John. But he still thinks at him, eyes narrowing. John takes a step back from Mort. "At least you're still getting published."
But he's no longer the best. He's not the best here. God, the best here is some little Englishwoman who wrote a fucking Star Wars novel. She's over there, signing books and Britishing in a way that makes him grind his teeth.
"Maybe...." Shooter begins in a slow, gentle voice. Mort knows what he's going to ask.
"Yeah." He said, aloud, making the fat horror-writer next to him give him an odd look. "I was thinking about growing tomatoes this year."
All done.
Happy Birthday/Congrats on your awesome performance, Deaners!
List!
-
Sparrow darts up to Norrington. Norrington looks down his nose at him while the shorter pirate moves in close, chest touching chest.
"I was rooting for you," he purrs. His voice seems to be -trying- to console Norrington, while his eyes are laughing at him.
"No! That's all wrong!" A young British girl moves up to the both of them, and, after some vicious wrenching of Norrington's stiff neck and yanking of Sparrow's matted hair, forces them to kiss.
A gasp goes through the crowd and Lieutenant Gillette draws his pistol. First he points it at Sparrow (who has gone so far as to wrap his arms around Norrington), then changes his mind and aims at Charlotte. She's dared to sully Norrington's reputation by making him kiss Sparrow!(But the way he's enjoying it seems to be his own little contribution to the affair) But before he can kill the horrid girl for her crimes against Norrington, Sparrow, and yes, even the British Crown, she totally steals Jack's exit and tumbles backward off the parapet, falling into the warm Caribbean ocean.
-
He doesn't know how he ended up here. He doesn't even know where the fuck he is. All he knows is that he's not sure he likes it.
Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.
There's a fucking dog at his ankle. It keeps barking at him. Bark. Bark. Bark. God fucking damn this dog, and whoever the hell's got him tied up. He's tied to a chair. Sands has kicked the dog dozens of times, but it keeps coming back.
But he has his hands free. Finally, the dog hops up into his lap and tries to eat his beltbuckle and he grabs it. Feels like a shorthair dog. Too small for a weiner-dog. What the fuck is this monstrosity?
Doesn't matter. All it takes is one vicious twist and one shake and the barking thing is dead. He tosses the dog's corpse to the ground in victory and sits there, waiting to die.
"Thanks for getting rid of it." a gravelly female voice from in front of him says, and he jumps.
-
I creeped myself out.
-
Abberline's yellowed fingers trace the bumps and ridges of the opium pipe he holds. He turns his eyes to the little Oriental boy sitting by him. The boy takes the pipe and lays it across his lap.
Satisfied with the events thus far, Fred Abberline lays back and opens his mouth, givin the smoke a route to freedom.
The smoke gives a brave attempt at escape. It truly does. The heavy air, rank with the sour smell of sweat, lost dreams and opium stops it. Pathetic tendrils of blueish grey smoke creep forward out of Fred's mouth like the legs of a heavily drugged spider.
Abberline can feel the opium surging through his veins, perhaps the fastest thing in the parlour. It fills him, pushing everything out of its way as it courses through his body, making him hollow.
No.
That's not right, Fred thinks, and closes his eyes. He was hollow long before he'd darkened the doorway of this parlour. He's been completely void of anything since the Ripper case. The opium fills him up.
He sighs and waits for the dreams to begin.
-
But they never get the chance to begin.
Ichabod cannot stand the fact that Abberline is so addicted to this substance. It disgusts and degrades him. Countless times, Ichabod has threatened Abberline, each time he has to drag him out of the den, he warns him.
Abberline never listens. So once again, he's forced to enter the den, pushing his way past those who can stand and locating Abberline's couch. He's too frail to pick up the Englishman, so he settles for pushing the couch over and grabbing Abberline's hair.
Of all the things Ichabod's dealt with, this is the worst. He would rather face the Horseman again, face his Father and his endless torture devices, anything but watch Fred kill himself.
But the Horseman never comes. His Father never appears. And Ichabod loves Fred too much to seek them out.
-
Shooter places a hand on Mort's shoulder to comfort him. "It's alright," the Southerner drawls. "Lotsa people end up here."
Mort knows better than to correct John. But he still thinks at him, eyes narrowing. John takes a step back from Mort. "At least you're still getting published."
But he's no longer the best. He's not the best here. God, the best here is some little Englishwoman who wrote a fucking Star Wars novel. She's over there, signing books and Britishing in a way that makes him grind his teeth.
"Maybe...." Shooter begins in a slow, gentle voice. Mort knows what he's going to ask.
"Yeah." He said, aloud, making the fat horror-writer next to him give him an odd look. "I was thinking about growing tomatoes this year."
All done.