Fish, a short and pasty-skinned young man with a wicked case of bed-head, is currently putting on public display his ability to be somehow pointy and soft at the same time, as well as his seasonal wardrobe, which can easily be summed up by the word 'overdressed'. He's sitting on a ledge bordering a garden, the stone slabs just wide enough for his
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He stops and puts his hands on his hips, thoughtfully. "How much would I have to pay you to draw Lady Gaga riding a unicorn?"
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"ah-hrmm. Hey," he repeats, and then taps both pen and pencil against his bottom lip. "I dunno, like a hundred thousand dollars. Or just two bucks, like the sign says." Dry sniff goes here. "What's up?"
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"I'm on it." That is no lie: he's already sketching, as of right now. "And, um, I dunno. I'm not broke, but I get griped at for doing freebies so I'm tryin' to make a habit of... not. Doing it. Should she have the Coke cans in her hair? This is gonna look like nothing, by the way."
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Thus far, Fish's artistic process seems to be LINES, ALL THE LINES EVER, and tilting his head a lot, and showing his teeth when he draws the shark's mouth, because... teeth. He's a method artist, okay. Finally, he is finished, which actually means he gives up on the damn thing before he can overwork it or really mess it up.
"Here. This's as good as it's getting..." It looks something like this.
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Slowly, Fish pulls the page free, taking care not to rip it, pauses to rub a little glue off the top edge and then hands it over. "Go ahead and fold it if you gotta, I won't be offended or whatever." He's kind of deflecting, but given how sparkly his eyes are right now (he is basically an anime), Brody's reaction has him thoroughly tickled.
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He's not sure what to do with it, so he rolls it up instead. He can carry it in his pants or his boot or something. "No! It can't have creases. What if you get super famous and it's worth like a million dollars and I have to have it framed in the... sports bar that I... totally own in this hypothetical situation so I can tell people 'yeah, I knew that guy'? What then?"
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This is usually when he'd take a drag, but he isn't actually holding a cigarette. The habit is so strong, though, that he actually lifts his hand toward his face, and... very smoothly... and not awkwardly at all... turns it into a little rubbing-his-lips gesture instead. He has an itch, I tell you. An itch. On his lips. It's gone now, you saw nothing.
"So, hey, tell me a story, starring you, and your recent adventures n'at."
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A beat. "Um."
He has to pause for a little too long to think of something that's G-rated. Or at least PG-rated. Or at least interesting instead of depressing, which his stories tend to be lately. "Well, a friend of mine adopted a baby turtle. It's about..." He holds his hands not terribly far apart. "This big and it eats fruits. When it walks it kind of wiggles its tiny legs like this," he demonstrates with his ostensibly not so tiny arms, "and if you poke it it hides in its shell. It'll also chew your fingers if you hold still. He named it Harvestman Jr."
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