Fic: Metaphorically Speaking (1/1) R (Gunn/Wes)
Title: Metaphorically Speaking
Rating: R (language)
Summary: Charles Gunn had never been in jail before he started hanging out with a bunch of crazy white people and developed a thing for slime.
Notes: versaphile asked for something along these lines. So, she got it. Hope you like it!
"Damn... We fucked up."
"Hmmm, yes."
Charles Gunn was proud of the fact that, after many years of living on the edge in Los Angeles, he'd never spent the night in a jail cell. While he'd taken many trips down to the local jails to bail out friends, he'd never been the one behind the bars, never been the one tapping his fingers nervously on his knee while he shared an uncomfortable holding cell with a bunch of guys twice his size and a toilet overflowing along the back wall. Maybe he broke the law from time to time, all in the public good, of course, since the laws were biased against people like him anyway, but he'd never been caught. Not in all the years he lived in Los Angeles.
Until now.
"'Hmmm, yes', English?" Charles asked, unable to hide the irritation in his voice as he turned to look at the man sitting next to him on a stained bench. "That all you got to say?"
Wesley, for his part, was frowning, looking down at his wrist. "Do you know what happened to my watch?"
Sighing, Charles put his hand over his eyes, rubbing away at the headache he just knew was coming. "This all comes of hanging out with crazy white people," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "I never had these problems until I started hanging out with crazy white people."
"Now, Charles, do try to relax," Wesley said in that calm, cultured way that Charles knew was totally about to get both their asses kicked if the looks in the eyes of the other prisoners was any indication. "You act as if this is your first time behind bars."
"It is!" Charles hissed at him under his breath, trying not to let his words be overheard lest they be used against him by their aforementioned cellmates.
Wesley raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you were a demon hunter prior to meeting us. At least, that was the impression I was under."
"I was, but that don't mean I got myself thrown in jail," Charles replied, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "Like you got any experience in this."
With a shrug, Wesley followed Charles' lead, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back. "Three months in Charleston for aggravated assault, twenty-eight days for public intoxication and assaulting a police officer in Nacadoches, and one month in New Orleans for instigating a riot."
Words failed Charles as he stared at Wesley, who was looking over at the men nearby with a casual glance. "You're shittin' me."
"To be fair, I wasn't really at fault in any of those incidents," Wesley told him, a small sigh slipping through his lips. "The aggravated assault was on a demon that looked human that I failed to kill, the public intoxication was actually a side effect of a rather nasty curse I stumbled into, and the riot, well, I can thank the Orashio cult for that one. It's a risk you take in this business."
"Yeah, but..."
"Of course, most of this was post my being asked to leave the Watcher's Council," Wesley carried on and Charles thought he heard a touch of wistful sadness in his voice. "The seven times I found myself arrested prior to that I was usually free to leave after ten hours at the most. The Council has quite a crack team of lawyers."
Charles frowned, looking Wesley up and down. "How the hell did you survive five months in jail, English?"
"Oh, I know a few protective spells," Wesley said with a tiny wave of his hand. "If Cordelia doesn't arrive with our bail before lights out, I'll be sure to share them with you."
"Great."
Mumbo-jumbo, also known as magic, never made Charles particularly comfortable, but given the way some of the crowd in their cell was looking at the two of them, he thought he might just take Wes up on that offer. He started to shift uncomfortably, then realized how weak that would make him look and sat up straight instead, putting the fear of God in his eyes for all to see. Yeah, he was a tough bastard. He just dared them to try something. He'd killed demons tougher than these asses.
Granted, he usually had a big damn axe with him, but that wasn't the point.
"Although, this time we are guilty of everything we've been accused of," Wesley said suddenly, shaking the tough image Charles was working so hard to maintain.
"It ain't right," Charles replied, banging his head against the back of the wall. "Why didn't that cop come ten minutes earlier, when you and me were kicking that Smucker demon's ass?"
"Smu'cktar," Wesley corrected, "and it's probably just as well he didn't. Seeing a ten foot tall slimy gray beast probably would have made him more eager to arrest us for something worse."
"Can you get worse than public indecency?" Charles asked through closed lips.
"I'm not sure," Wesley replied, smiling in spite of the deep shit they were in. "Is sodomy still illegal in this state?"
"Christ."
Charles started to rub his forehead again, then stopped looking down at his fingers. A thin, sticky fluid clung to his hand and he touched his temple with the other, clean hand, feeling the same goo there. It wasn't too big of a surprise, as the gunk was practically covering him and Wesley. Plus, the stuff smelled something fierce. If Wesley's mumbo-jumbo didn't work to keep the other inmates awaiting release away from them, then the Smucker demon slime certainly would do the trick.
"It never would have gotten that far," Charles told Wesley under no uncertain terms. "We're covered in demon entrails and we smell like hell. Shit, that should have been a sign to the cop that things weren't quite as simple as he thought."
"Well, you have to admit," Wesley said, looking at the gunk on his own hand, "it does look suspicious, odor aside."
Charles glared at Wesley and thought about hitting him. "This is all your fault."
"My fault?" Wesley asked, looking up from his hand at Charles with an amused, yet slightly offended look on his face, a combination of expressions Charles didn't think was possible until just now. "Whose hand was on whose--"
"Shut it," Charles interrupted with a warning glance at the men looking at them from across the way. "And yes, English, it is your fault because you had to stand there with that damn sword that I keep telling you is too big and be standing there looking all curious-like over what was left of the Smucker demon, and I wanted to go back to the truck, and I told you I wanted to go back to the truck, but you needed to get samples, and I told you we needed to get back to the damn truck right then! But you didn't wanna go and I had to do what I could and now see what happened?"
"In that case, I apologize if my large sword and inquisitive nature resulted in a total lack of control on your part."
Wesley rolled his eyes a little and Charles' hated it when he did that because nobody ever rolled their damn eyes at Charles Gunn and got away with it until Wesley and damn if it wasn't fun to watch Wesley when he got all pissy.
But, if the past six hours in jail had taught Charles Gunn anything, it was that there was a time and a place for everything. A holding cell was not that time or place. Nor was a trash-strewn alleyway while standing ankle-deep in Smucker slime, not when a cop car could drive by at any incredibly awkward and inconvenient moment.
Stupid cop.
He was telling himself it was all about the adrenaline. The energy rushing through him at the sudden and exhilarating fight, blood pumping through his veins as the demon lay in a quickly disintegrating pile of slime before them, that's all it was. Adrenaline and a need to do something with the excitement and the power still making the hair on his arms stand on end. That's why he looked at Wesley, slightly flushed and out of breath, and knew they had to get back to the damn truck.
It had nothing to do with the way the demon slime stuck to the back of Wesley's jeans and shirt, plastering the clothing to his skin like glue. It had absolutely nothing to do with that because if demon slime suddenly became a kink for Charles Gunn, he knew he'd have to kill himself. There was nothing else for it.
If only Wesley had gotten into the damn truck.
"This is absolutely your fault," Charles repeated point blank to make sure Wesley understood.
"Oh, very well," Wesley said, rolling his eyes once more. "From this point forward, I will return to the truck when you request it, even though I don't think it's out of line for me to say you should have made your intentions a little clearer, in light of the circumstances. Had I known a little demon slime would affect you in such a way..."
"It has nothing to do with the slime!" Charles heard himself practically shouting, which made their fellow inmates look at him strangely. He bared his teeth at them and they suddenly found other parts of the cell infinitely more interesting.
"Whatever you say," Wesley said in an incredibly irritating sotto-voice that made Charles want to throttle him or jump him or possibly both.
A loud clang rang through the hall and Charles looked up as a big, burly cop strode toward them. He scanned the cell, then pointed at the two of them. Hope and a great sense of relief rushed through Charles.
"Free at last, free at last," he breathed, standing up.
Wesley shook his head, slowly getting to his feet. "No, it's just beginning."
His words didn't register in Charles' mind at first, so focused was he on keeping the cop in sight as he hurried after him down the long corridor to his chance to escape. It was only when he noticed Wesley lagging behind that what he said finally penetrated his brain. He turned slightly, grabbing Wesley's elbow to tug him along.
"Man, what are you talking about?" Charles asked him, wishing he would hurry the fuck up. "We're out of here."
"And walking into this," Wesley said, pointing, and Charles stopped up short.
Cordelia was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, tapping one pointed toe of a high-heeled shoe sharply against the ground. She didn't look happy, to put it mildly. Her expression grew even darker as soon as she spotted them.
"Shit," Charles muttered.
"You see, this is your problem," Wesley told him softly as the cop pushed a clipboard toward them for them to sign. "Lack of foresight. It causes all sorts of difficulties."
Charles signed the form without looking at it and stepped around the barrier keeping the criminals from the free men and women of the world. As soon as he crossed that line, he couldn't help but wonder if he might do better back in the holding cell. At least then he would know what he was dealing with.
"You two are dead," Cordelia said, jabbing her finger in Charles' chest. "Totally dead. Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to get someone out of jail? I had to spend hours running around from court house to court house, calling up clerks and prison officials, trying to figure out where they were keeping you and what I needed to do. I had to pay your fine with my own money because Angel couldn't find his ATM card and because the sun is up and I haven't even had a shower yet today all because you two had to get your jollies off in an alleyway!"
The small bit of discretion that Charles had clung to slipped through his fingers like the slime slipped off his clothes and onto the floor. He sighed deeply as many heads turned toward them, heads with smiles that smirked or eyes that reeked of disgust. Nope. Charles decided he and Wesley had just discovered yet another part of town they couldn't show their faces in.
"Oh, honestly, Cordelia, you don't believe that rubbish, do you?" Wesley said, looking at Charles as if he'd never seen him before and meant nothing more to him than a bug he may have stepped on a few hours previous. "It was a simple misunderstanding."
At first, Charles was hurt, then the look in Wesley's eyes caused understanding to dawn on him. "Yeah," he said, playing along, affixing the perfect look of revulsion on his face. "You gotta be out of your mind if you think these bogus charges mean shit."
"Whatever," Cordelia said, not picking up on their subtlety and not caring either. She spun on her heel and led them out of the police station. "All it means to me is that you both owe me three thousand dollars in fines apiece which I expect in my bank account my tomorrow morning, got it?"
"Sure, sure," Charles told her, knowing there was no way in hell he could pay her back by tomorrow. Angel would probably take care of it for them and all three of them knew it. After all, Wesley might not have his crack team of lawyers anymore, but surely this countered as a job hazard that Angel needed to take care of, right?
Speaking of Angel, Charles saw the long, black convertible stretched out along the curb in front of the police station and never thought it looked more inviting. All he wanted to do now was climb in that car, go home, take a shower, and possibly remind Wesley what the phrase, 'Get in the truck now, English!' actually meant. He got as far as reaching for the door handle when Cordelia's voice rang out.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her shrill voice loud even on the busy street.
Charles gestured to the car. "Going home?"
The sound that came out of Cordelia would probably classify as a snort from anybody but Cordelia. "Like hell," she said, shaking her head. "You two smell terrible. My friendship extends as far as paying your fines. From this point on, you're on your own."
"But!"
A hand touched Charles' shoulder. He turned and saw Wesley shaking his head. "There are battles you can win and battles you are certain to lose," he said sagely. "It's important to recognize the difference."
"What he said," Cordelia snapped, climbing into the car. "See you tomorrow, if you don't get yourselves arrested again."
With a crank of the engine and the roar of gas combusting, Cordelia was gone.
"Shit." Charles shoved his hands in his pockets, staring as the car roared out of sight. "Do you remember where we left the truck?"
"Vaguely," Wesley said, turning and walking off down the sidewalk. "We'll find it, assuming it wasn't towed during our incarceration."
"Don't even joke about that, English." Charles couldn't help but sigh, head bowed as he followed Wesley in what he hoped was the right direction. "Damn... We fucked up."
"True, but it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Wesley said, smiling in spite of the demon slime drying in his hair and the smudge of ink on his fingers tips from when they'd been booked. "'We fucked up.' Not, 'I fucked up,' or 'You fucked up', but 'We fucked up.' The plural brings me great comfort."
"And hearing that dirty word come out of your mouth bring me great discomfort, so stop it," Charles told Wesley shortly.
If Wesley heard him, he made no indication of that fact. "Hmm... Though we didn't get that far, did we?"
"Wesley?"
"Yes?"
"Get in the truck now, English."
"We haven't found the truck, yet, Charles."
"It's called a metaphor, understand?"
"Well, I understand that now."
"Good."
Rating: R (language)
Summary: Charles Gunn had never been in jail before he started hanging out with a bunch of crazy white people and developed a thing for slime.
Notes: versaphile asked for something along these lines. So, she got it. Hope you like it!
"Damn... We fucked up."
"Hmmm, yes."
Charles Gunn was proud of the fact that, after many years of living on the edge in Los Angeles, he'd never spent the night in a jail cell. While he'd taken many trips down to the local jails to bail out friends, he'd never been the one behind the bars, never been the one tapping his fingers nervously on his knee while he shared an uncomfortable holding cell with a bunch of guys twice his size and a toilet overflowing along the back wall. Maybe he broke the law from time to time, all in the public good, of course, since the laws were biased against people like him anyway, but he'd never been caught. Not in all the years he lived in Los Angeles.
Until now.
"'Hmmm, yes', English?" Charles asked, unable to hide the irritation in his voice as he turned to look at the man sitting next to him on a stained bench. "That all you got to say?"
Wesley, for his part, was frowning, looking down at his wrist. "Do you know what happened to my watch?"
Sighing, Charles put his hand over his eyes, rubbing away at the headache he just knew was coming. "This all comes of hanging out with crazy white people," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "I never had these problems until I started hanging out with crazy white people."
"Now, Charles, do try to relax," Wesley said in that calm, cultured way that Charles knew was totally about to get both their asses kicked if the looks in the eyes of the other prisoners was any indication. "You act as if this is your first time behind bars."
"It is!" Charles hissed at him under his breath, trying not to let his words be overheard lest they be used against him by their aforementioned cellmates.
Wesley raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you were a demon hunter prior to meeting us. At least, that was the impression I was under."
"I was, but that don't mean I got myself thrown in jail," Charles replied, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "Like you got any experience in this."
With a shrug, Wesley followed Charles' lead, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back. "Three months in Charleston for aggravated assault, twenty-eight days for public intoxication and assaulting a police officer in Nacadoches, and one month in New Orleans for instigating a riot."
Words failed Charles as he stared at Wesley, who was looking over at the men nearby with a casual glance. "You're shittin' me."
"To be fair, I wasn't really at fault in any of those incidents," Wesley told him, a small sigh slipping through his lips. "The aggravated assault was on a demon that looked human that I failed to kill, the public intoxication was actually a side effect of a rather nasty curse I stumbled into, and the riot, well, I can thank the Orashio cult for that one. It's a risk you take in this business."
"Yeah, but..."
"Of course, most of this was post my being asked to leave the Watcher's Council," Wesley carried on and Charles thought he heard a touch of wistful sadness in his voice. "The seven times I found myself arrested prior to that I was usually free to leave after ten hours at the most. The Council has quite a crack team of lawyers."
Charles frowned, looking Wesley up and down. "How the hell did you survive five months in jail, English?"
"Oh, I know a few protective spells," Wesley said with a tiny wave of his hand. "If Cordelia doesn't arrive with our bail before lights out, I'll be sure to share them with you."
"Great."
Mumbo-jumbo, also known as magic, never made Charles particularly comfortable, but given the way some of the crowd in their cell was looking at the two of them, he thought he might just take Wes up on that offer. He started to shift uncomfortably, then realized how weak that would make him look and sat up straight instead, putting the fear of God in his eyes for all to see. Yeah, he was a tough bastard. He just dared them to try something. He'd killed demons tougher than these asses.
Granted, he usually had a big damn axe with him, but that wasn't the point.
"Although, this time we are guilty of everything we've been accused of," Wesley said suddenly, shaking the tough image Charles was working so hard to maintain.
"It ain't right," Charles replied, banging his head against the back of the wall. "Why didn't that cop come ten minutes earlier, when you and me were kicking that Smucker demon's ass?"
"Smu'cktar," Wesley corrected, "and it's probably just as well he didn't. Seeing a ten foot tall slimy gray beast probably would have made him more eager to arrest us for something worse."
"Can you get worse than public indecency?" Charles asked through closed lips.
"I'm not sure," Wesley replied, smiling in spite of the deep shit they were in. "Is sodomy still illegal in this state?"
"Christ."
Charles started to rub his forehead again, then stopped looking down at his fingers. A thin, sticky fluid clung to his hand and he touched his temple with the other, clean hand, feeling the same goo there. It wasn't too big of a surprise, as the gunk was practically covering him and Wesley. Plus, the stuff smelled something fierce. If Wesley's mumbo-jumbo didn't work to keep the other inmates awaiting release away from them, then the Smucker demon slime certainly would do the trick.
"It never would have gotten that far," Charles told Wesley under no uncertain terms. "We're covered in demon entrails and we smell like hell. Shit, that should have been a sign to the cop that things weren't quite as simple as he thought."
"Well, you have to admit," Wesley said, looking at the gunk on his own hand, "it does look suspicious, odor aside."
Charles glared at Wesley and thought about hitting him. "This is all your fault."
"My fault?" Wesley asked, looking up from his hand at Charles with an amused, yet slightly offended look on his face, a combination of expressions Charles didn't think was possible until just now. "Whose hand was on whose--"
"Shut it," Charles interrupted with a warning glance at the men looking at them from across the way. "And yes, English, it is your fault because you had to stand there with that damn sword that I keep telling you is too big and be standing there looking all curious-like over what was left of the Smucker demon, and I wanted to go back to the truck, and I told you I wanted to go back to the truck, but you needed to get samples, and I told you we needed to get back to the damn truck right then! But you didn't wanna go and I had to do what I could and now see what happened?"
"In that case, I apologize if my large sword and inquisitive nature resulted in a total lack of control on your part."
Wesley rolled his eyes a little and Charles' hated it when he did that because nobody ever rolled their damn eyes at Charles Gunn and got away with it until Wesley and damn if it wasn't fun to watch Wesley when he got all pissy.
But, if the past six hours in jail had taught Charles Gunn anything, it was that there was a time and a place for everything. A holding cell was not that time or place. Nor was a trash-strewn alleyway while standing ankle-deep in Smucker slime, not when a cop car could drive by at any incredibly awkward and inconvenient moment.
Stupid cop.
He was telling himself it was all about the adrenaline. The energy rushing through him at the sudden and exhilarating fight, blood pumping through his veins as the demon lay in a quickly disintegrating pile of slime before them, that's all it was. Adrenaline and a need to do something with the excitement and the power still making the hair on his arms stand on end. That's why he looked at Wesley, slightly flushed and out of breath, and knew they had to get back to the damn truck.
It had nothing to do with the way the demon slime stuck to the back of Wesley's jeans and shirt, plastering the clothing to his skin like glue. It had absolutely nothing to do with that because if demon slime suddenly became a kink for Charles Gunn, he knew he'd have to kill himself. There was nothing else for it.
If only Wesley had gotten into the damn truck.
"This is absolutely your fault," Charles repeated point blank to make sure Wesley understood.
"Oh, very well," Wesley said, rolling his eyes once more. "From this point forward, I will return to the truck when you request it, even though I don't think it's out of line for me to say you should have made your intentions a little clearer, in light of the circumstances. Had I known a little demon slime would affect you in such a way..."
"It has nothing to do with the slime!" Charles heard himself practically shouting, which made their fellow inmates look at him strangely. He bared his teeth at them and they suddenly found other parts of the cell infinitely more interesting.
"Whatever you say," Wesley said in an incredibly irritating sotto-voice that made Charles want to throttle him or jump him or possibly both.
A loud clang rang through the hall and Charles looked up as a big, burly cop strode toward them. He scanned the cell, then pointed at the two of them. Hope and a great sense of relief rushed through Charles.
"Free at last, free at last," he breathed, standing up.
Wesley shook his head, slowly getting to his feet. "No, it's just beginning."
His words didn't register in Charles' mind at first, so focused was he on keeping the cop in sight as he hurried after him down the long corridor to his chance to escape. It was only when he noticed Wesley lagging behind that what he said finally penetrated his brain. He turned slightly, grabbing Wesley's elbow to tug him along.
"Man, what are you talking about?" Charles asked him, wishing he would hurry the fuck up. "We're out of here."
"And walking into this," Wesley said, pointing, and Charles stopped up short.
Cordelia was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, tapping one pointed toe of a high-heeled shoe sharply against the ground. She didn't look happy, to put it mildly. Her expression grew even darker as soon as she spotted them.
"Shit," Charles muttered.
"You see, this is your problem," Wesley told him softly as the cop pushed a clipboard toward them for them to sign. "Lack of foresight. It causes all sorts of difficulties."
Charles signed the form without looking at it and stepped around the barrier keeping the criminals from the free men and women of the world. As soon as he crossed that line, he couldn't help but wonder if he might do better back in the holding cell. At least then he would know what he was dealing with.
"You two are dead," Cordelia said, jabbing her finger in Charles' chest. "Totally dead. Do you have any idea how much of a hassle it is to get someone out of jail? I had to spend hours running around from court house to court house, calling up clerks and prison officials, trying to figure out where they were keeping you and what I needed to do. I had to pay your fine with my own money because Angel couldn't find his ATM card and because the sun is up and I haven't even had a shower yet today all because you two had to get your jollies off in an alleyway!"
The small bit of discretion that Charles had clung to slipped through his fingers like the slime slipped off his clothes and onto the floor. He sighed deeply as many heads turned toward them, heads with smiles that smirked or eyes that reeked of disgust. Nope. Charles decided he and Wesley had just discovered yet another part of town they couldn't show their faces in.
"Oh, honestly, Cordelia, you don't believe that rubbish, do you?" Wesley said, looking at Charles as if he'd never seen him before and meant nothing more to him than a bug he may have stepped on a few hours previous. "It was a simple misunderstanding."
At first, Charles was hurt, then the look in Wesley's eyes caused understanding to dawn on him. "Yeah," he said, playing along, affixing the perfect look of revulsion on his face. "You gotta be out of your mind if you think these bogus charges mean shit."
"Whatever," Cordelia said, not picking up on their subtlety and not caring either. She spun on her heel and led them out of the police station. "All it means to me is that you both owe me three thousand dollars in fines apiece which I expect in my bank account my tomorrow morning, got it?"
"Sure, sure," Charles told her, knowing there was no way in hell he could pay her back by tomorrow. Angel would probably take care of it for them and all three of them knew it. After all, Wesley might not have his crack team of lawyers anymore, but surely this countered as a job hazard that Angel needed to take care of, right?
Speaking of Angel, Charles saw the long, black convertible stretched out along the curb in front of the police station and never thought it looked more inviting. All he wanted to do now was climb in that car, go home, take a shower, and possibly remind Wesley what the phrase, 'Get in the truck now, English!' actually meant. He got as far as reaching for the door handle when Cordelia's voice rang out.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, her shrill voice loud even on the busy street.
Charles gestured to the car. "Going home?"
The sound that came out of Cordelia would probably classify as a snort from anybody but Cordelia. "Like hell," she said, shaking her head. "You two smell terrible. My friendship extends as far as paying your fines. From this point on, you're on your own."
"But!"
A hand touched Charles' shoulder. He turned and saw Wesley shaking his head. "There are battles you can win and battles you are certain to lose," he said sagely. "It's important to recognize the difference."
"What he said," Cordelia snapped, climbing into the car. "See you tomorrow, if you don't get yourselves arrested again."
With a crank of the engine and the roar of gas combusting, Cordelia was gone.
"Shit." Charles shoved his hands in his pockets, staring as the car roared out of sight. "Do you remember where we left the truck?"
"Vaguely," Wesley said, turning and walking off down the sidewalk. "We'll find it, assuming it wasn't towed during our incarceration."
"Don't even joke about that, English." Charles couldn't help but sigh, head bowed as he followed Wesley in what he hoped was the right direction. "Damn... We fucked up."
"True, but it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Wesley said, smiling in spite of the demon slime drying in his hair and the smudge of ink on his fingers tips from when they'd been booked. "'We fucked up.' Not, 'I fucked up,' or 'You fucked up', but 'We fucked up.' The plural brings me great comfort."
"And hearing that dirty word come out of your mouth bring me great discomfort, so stop it," Charles told Wesley shortly.
If Wesley heard him, he made no indication of that fact. "Hmm... Though we didn't get that far, did we?"
"Wesley?"
"Yes?"
"Get in the truck now, English."
"We haven't found the truck, yet, Charles."
"It's called a metaphor, understand?"
"Well, I understand that now."
"Good."