((OOC: Another party thread. You know how it goes. And if you don't... ask! ^^ Happy Riftversary! Even if it's two hours until... it's over. :/ I'm sorry I'm slow
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Des is sitting on a barstool with his back against the bar, nursing what is either his fourth or fifth Sudden Headache and watching the TV that's now broadcasting Flagg's speech. He's not quite drunk yet, because his alcohol tolerance is weirdly high, but he's buzzed.
He waves his flute at the TV and says, to no one in particular, "You know, when bastards like that are too charming for their own good, they probably are." Which makes all the sense to Des and is probably redundant to anyone else.
Des wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, grimacing at the TV even though the scene has changed by now. "That was my cat," he grumbles, completely unapologetic that he just treated the bar to a rather spectacular impression of Old Faithful.
"She.... Does that," he adds. Whether he means 'turns into a human' or 'talks to people she shouldn't' is not clear. It could be either.
"Your cat was on TV. Maybe you left the door open." Yeah, sorry Des, she's not quite getting it, and now she thinks you're a bit unbalanced. Or really, really drunk.
Considering the fact that he started the conversation talking about how said pet was British, this should not come as any sort of surprise.
Des smacks his forehead. "I am not that drunk," he mutters as if sensing what she's not saying. He's really not! This is honest fact! ....He just takes it for granted that not everyone is as fully invested in weirdness as he is.
This is why he didn't like normal people where he was from, although he's getting better at that now.
"If you were sticking around, you'd get it. Chicago's weird." And Des, who has no fear of Bar Diseases, proceeds to dig into the munchies, because Des will eat anything you don't nail to the counter.
"Got the weird bit, thanks. That was your cat. In the trench coat. Your cat who can apparently turn into a girl." She's not saying it as though she believes you, Des, just... trying to clarify a few things.
"Yes!" Des nods enthusiastically... And then he realizes that she clearly still doesn't believe him and he smacks himself on the forehead again. "There was this cat, okay? She fell through the Rift and she developed the power to turn into a girl. I am not making this up! And, oh look. I can tell you things about this place that make that-" he points sympathetically at the TV again, "- look perfectly logical."
Des leans against the bar. Okay. Fine. She wants to be taught, OH HOW HE WILL TEACH HER.
"First off, have you ever ridden a bog unicorn? Have you ever ridden a bog unicorn into the heart of danger alongside a giant psychic armadillo? 'Cause I have."
He pauses, realizes that sounds like something that only a crazy person would say and then adds, "I am not making this up."
Des just stares at her, swivels around to face the bar again and orders another drink, and for a moment just sits there, like maybe he's considering just ignoring her and pretending this conversation never happened. After a second, however, he swivels back around. "Okay, you know what? Don't come flailing at me when you run into the friendly mushroom-growing sewer-dwellers."
This is Des's flat stare. It is the same stare he gives whenever the doors play something humiliating whenever he walks into a public place. It is not an expression of happiness.
"Don't have an aneurysm or anything," he grumbles and tilts back his drink.
It takes a bit to catch her breath, even after she's stopped laughing. "Oh bloody..." She waves at the bartender, who looks rather dubious about giving her anything else. But hey, money is money, and she's not causing trouble or being accosted.
"Sorry, just. That. The way you said. That." Another gigglefit later, she wipes at her eyes and grins at him. "Bog unicorn. What the bloody hell is a bog unicorn?"
Des throws his hands in the air. One of these days, he's just going to get a set of cards printed up with Ferdinand's picture on one side and a description on the other, because this is the third time in a week that he's had to explain this.
"It's a unicorn that lives in a bog. They're... Less pretty than your average unicorn, but very reliable when you're storming... Abandoned construction sites to rescue for friends from a torture-happy psychopath... And I'm just going to stop talking now."
Because nothing he is going to be able to say at this point won't sound kinda ridiculous or like a bad movie. THIS IS HIS LIFE.
Possibly that wasn't the place he should have went in his flail. He grimaces and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, about as all right as you can be when that sort of thing happens. Thing is, it's the second time it's happened."
He blows some hair out of his face. "I'm not kiddin' about this place being crazy. It's crazy in the bad way too. I can understand people needing to get out of here, whether they want to go back home or not."
He doesn't though. Guess that makes him really crazy.
He waves his flute at the TV and says, to no one in particular, "You know, when bastards like that are too charming for their own good, they probably are." Which makes all the sense to Des and is probably redundant to anyone else.
It is going to be a long night.
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"She.... Does that," he adds. Whether he means 'turns into a human' or 'talks to people she shouldn't' is not clear. It could be either.
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Considering the fact that he started the conversation talking about how said pet was British, this should not come as any sort of surprise.
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This is why he didn't like normal people where he was from, although he's getting better at that now.
"If you were sticking around, you'd get it. Chicago's weird." And Des, who has no fear of Bar Diseases, proceeds to dig into the munchies, because Des will eat anything you don't nail to the counter.
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The sad thing is... He's really not kidding.
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You told her you could educate her, Des. She wants to be taught.
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"First off, have you ever ridden a bog unicorn? Have you ever ridden a bog unicorn into the heart of danger alongside a giant psychic armadillo? 'Cause I have."
He pauses, realizes that sounds like something that only a crazy person would say and then adds, "I am not making this up."
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She is trying so damn hard not to bust out laughing. And so she doesn't speak. Interpret that as you will, Des.
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Yeah, Abby. Yeah.
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"I belie--heeee." Give her a minute, Des, she'll come back to you eventually.
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"Don't have an aneurysm or anything," he grumbles and tilts back his drink.
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"Sorry, just. That. The way you said. That." Another gigglefit later, she wipes at her eyes and grins at him. "Bog unicorn. What the bloody hell is a bog unicorn?"
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"It's a unicorn that lives in a bog. They're... Less pretty than your average unicorn, but very reliable when you're storming... Abandoned construction sites to rescue for friends from a torture-happy psychopath... And I'm just going to stop talking now."
Because nothing he is going to be able to say at this point won't sound kinda ridiculous or like a bad movie. THIS IS HIS LIFE.
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It's quiet, not insistent. She doesn't look at him, leaving him space to retreat if he doesn't want to talk about it.
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He blows some hair out of his face. "I'm not kiddin' about this place being crazy. It's crazy in the bad way too. I can understand people needing to get out of here, whether they want to go back home or not."
He doesn't though. Guess that makes him really crazy.
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