A bench in the park, Saturday afternoon
Dean had known how to get rid of his punk rock curse for the last 24 hours or so, now. How? Well, he'd finally broken down and called Joey back. . . .
"Joey. It's me. . . . No. . . . NO. . . . It's DEAN, dammit. The guy you cursed with a freakin' mohawk? . . . It's not funny. . . . Okay, fine, it's not that funny. How do I get rid of it? . . . Ha ha. Now, seriously, how do I -- you are serious. Come ooooooon! I don't even know that song! . . . Yes, I've heard of 'youtube'. I seriously hate you. . . . Nope. Never again. . . . Not even if you get that pierced. . . . Yeah, they've been fun, but I want to . . . you know what, I'm not having this conversation. . . . fine. . . . FINE. . . . whatever, just -- fine. . . . Bye." *click*
He'd spent the last 24 hours making sure he knew everything he needed to do this right. And trying to deny that this was the only way they'd found to get rid of the curse.
But now, it was time to do it. Which would be why Dean was standing in his full cursed glory on a bench in the park, dancing like an idiot, and singing "Punk Rock Girl" by Dead Milkmen at the top of his lungs.
Sure enough, as he finished the last sustanined note of the song, the kilt melted back into his usual jeans, the baby blue tshirt back into his usual gray under a red flannel. His hair went back to normal, his piercings vanished, and the tattoo faded into his skin.
He was still going to have to wash the eyeliner off, though.
[ooc: Open! Come mock the poor cursed boy in his singing or applaud the magic transformation back into his normal blue collar bad boy self.]
"Joey. It's me. . . . No. . . . NO. . . . It's DEAN, dammit. The guy you cursed with a freakin' mohawk? . . . It's not funny. . . . Okay, fine, it's not that funny. How do I get rid of it? . . . Ha ha. Now, seriously, how do I -- you are serious. Come ooooooon! I don't even know that song! . . . Yes, I've heard of 'youtube'. I seriously hate you. . . . Nope. Never again. . . . Not even if you get that pierced. . . . Yeah, they've been fun, but I want to . . . you know what, I'm not having this conversation. . . . fine. . . . FINE. . . . whatever, just -- fine. . . . Bye." *click*
He'd spent the last 24 hours making sure he knew everything he needed to do this right. And trying to deny that this was the only way they'd found to get rid of the curse.
But now, it was time to do it. Which would be why Dean was standing in his full cursed glory on a bench in the park, dancing like an idiot, and singing "Punk Rock Girl" by Dead Milkmen at the top of his lungs.
Sure enough, as he finished the last sustanined note of the song, the kilt melted back into his usual jeans, the baby blue tshirt back into his usual gray under a red flannel. His hair went back to normal, his piercings vanished, and the tattoo faded into his skin.
He was still going to have to wash the eyeliner off, though.
[ooc: Open! Come mock the poor cursed boy in his singing or applaud the magic transformation back into his normal blue collar bad boy self.]