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Post by joel buckley on Jun 18, 2009 20:48:20 GMT -7
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - sometimes – and by sometimes, i mean every single morning since he got the job – joel dies of boredom. his eyelids flutter about halfway down jean baptiste boulevard and when he tosses the second-to-last paper he’s supposed to deliver on the street, his beefy, masculine face meets the handlebars. this morning’s a little different though; instead jolting upright, he teetered down the street for a few moments before his limp body set the entire bicycle off balance and it skidded into one of the stoops of the street’s many ancient townhouses. but so great was joel’s boredom that even an injury that would make a seven-year-old burst into tears for thirty minutes gave joel perfect incentive to take a five minute snooze. it would’ve been longer, but the deep cut dragged that across both lips dripped blood into his slightly gaping, drooling mouth, and he started to choke on it. “god fucking damn it, christ,” came the inevitable string of expletives, spitting a red goober onto the sidewalk and wiping the remainder from his chin. he lifted himself kind of like he was doing a pushup, sort of walking into an upright position. “jesus christ.”
after he dusted himself off, he had a good look-around at where he landed. it was actually the last house on the street he was supposed to deliver the morning paper to, but it was littered with the daily news updates of the past two weeks. “oh, crapola,” said joel, suddenly remembering something. the only time he’d seen the resident of the house was his first day on the job; a silver-haired lady with a humpback. oh, shit, what if she died and nobody knew about it? now joel’s catholic conscience overtook him (although it never seemed to when he was cursing like a sailor [if sailors really cursed all that much, that is] before), and now he had to check up on the lady, make sure she was doing okay, right? but what if there was a dead body in there? technically, he was an illegal alien… or, whatever, he had a passport, but joel always sensed there was something wrong about him being there. guilty conscience again? it wasn’t certainly wasn’t misplaced. there’d probably be something extremely wrong with him if he didn’t feel like a jackass for leaving his now ex-fiancée on their wedding day. the only thing he’d feel more guilty about would be thinking of a decomposing old lady in her apartment for the rest of his life.
joel looked up the steps, to the door, as if the stairway stretched on into infinity (or heaven [he kind of wanted to break into air guitar if he wasn’t so goddamn frightened]). each step seemed to echo melodramatically in both ears until he stood on the dusty welcome mat. he reached for the ornate, antiquated door handle, but it slipped from beneath his fingers when the door opened. his mouth let out a little noise – he would’ve called it a squeak, but joel was incapable of squeaking because his pitch was so low – when he looked down at the little old lady about half his size. “y – y’paper, ma’am?”
“excusez-moi?”
he sort of shoved the rolled up newspaper into her bony, wilted hands. “here, take your paper, ma’am.”
“monsieur, je ne comprends pas ce que vous dites,” the old woman said in rapid french, glancing from the paper back to joel, “c’est en anglias – je comprends à peine un mot de l’anglias!”
“mademoiselle,” joel tried what little french, sweeping his arms to gesture to the clutter of newspapers littering the stairs up to her townhouse, “your, um, do you… ?” okay, so mademoiselle was the only bit of french he knew, but he was trying to use a little bit of universal sign language. he started picking up the papers and tucking them under his arms “d’you want me to stop deliverin’ your papers, ma’am? or, uh, want me to bring ’em in?”
the old lady grabbed him by the forearm, knocking a couple of papers, “oh, come in,” she said in heavily accented english, “come in, come in, come in.” joel somehow had the impression that it was all she knew in english, and he was proven wrong within moments. “come in, i make you breakfast.” but immediately reverted back to an incomprehensible french. “les gens ne visitent jamais et ma qualité! vous êtes beau!”
she led him inside into a tiny living room with a few squat chairs, an old-fashioned television, and a roaring fireplace whose mantelpiece was covered – every square centimeter – with framed pictures in varying stages of decay. the old woman seemed especially interested in showing joel this, “mes petits-enfants,” although he had no idea what precisely she was saying, he didn’t need a translator to detect the overwhelming pride in her voice, “c’est lorraine et c’est claudia – claudia est mariée, vous savez. elle a un enfant. mon premier arrière-petit-fils!” she kept poking at a picture of two blonde young women – sisters, from the resemblance – embracing and wearing matching sunburns and peeling shoulders. “et ceci,” she added, grasping the frame of another picture, with another young woman whose face was too square for her body, “est cora, elle vit dans la ville maintenant! combien merveilleux!”
“that’s great, ma’am,” he was quite comfortable saying, knowing she couldn’t understand a word, “but what about breakfast?”
they instead proceeded to cycle through every single picture on the mantelpiece before she begrudgingly prepared some toast and jam for joel before sending him off. “visitez-moi de nouveau autrefois!”
wow, that was weird. but, hey, he did his good deed for the day, and the lady certainly wasn’t dead.
the one standing outside, squatting over one of the baskets of his bicycle probably was gonna be, though.
“what n’the ever livin’ hell r’you fucking doing, lady?”
status. fin.
tag. andy!
outfit. imagine david boreanaz naked. it’s what i do.
words. 972.
lyrics. “evil” – interpol.
notes. that’s cora, lorraine, and claudia’s (who will be character requested someday!) french grandmama. d’aww![/font][/size][/color] |
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Post by andy doyle on Jun 22, 2009 21:45:13 GMT -7
  andy doyle honestly could not remember a recent instance of her being quite this drunk. after getting kicked out of a club the previous night (apparently picking a fight with the nightly club muscle wasn't such a hot idea), already drunk and with no one to hang out with as topher couldn't be in the same room as alcohol without feeling queasy, andy had, unfortunately, been forced to entertain herself, and when someone like andy is left to her own devices, only disaster can strike.
in the course of one night, she had managed to almost completely empty the public fountain in the middle of town; knock over a pokemon display at burger king; steal nearly three hundred dollars worth of make-up from a fancy downtown boutique; steal someone's bike; crash and drown that bike back into the public fountain; pocket the wishing change; and even play a quick game of hopscotch in the middle of a busy highway, all while drinking herself retarded. now, a normal person would call that night's debauchery outrageous and over-the-top, but not andy. no, never andy. there could never be enough carnage and mayhem for her. shit, the more bodily harm that comes to one person, the better, but only if that one person isn't andy herself. it would actually kind of suck if she got hurt, but that wasn't the point. what mattered was the where, what and why.
to be less vague, the details concerning the where, what and why. where was she? in a random neighborhood that she had never seen before. what was she doing there? well, if you asked andy, she'd say "usin this bullshit fuckin toilet that don't work for shit", but to the well-trained eye it looked more like andy lynne doyle was using someone's fucking bicycle basket as her own porta-potty. and the why? well fuck, when does she ever need a reason for anything?
the answer to that delightful query came in the form of an outraged bystander who had caught andy performing a very private action out in a very public setting. awkwaaard! "what n’the ever livin’ hell r’you fucking doing, lady?"
fuck! busted. startled and caught off guard, andy discretely (read: awkwardly) tumbled down the side of the bike, landing on her side and grunting from the pain. she stood, pulled her pants up, and expected her arm for cuts and bruises (no more than usual) before finally turning to face joel. unsteady on her feet and swaying as if caught in the middle of a fierce gust of wind, andy raked her fingers through her wild hair and struggled to come up with an excuse. oh, balls. even if she were sober, she'd have a hard time bullshitting her way out of this.
whose fucking idea was it for her to use the bicycle as a toilet, anyways?
oh, right. her's. shiester. after a long and uncomfortable silence, andy finally shrugged, planted her hands on her hips and ignored the fact that they slid down almost immediately and awkwardly hung at her sides. christ, was she drunk. "izzis...there ain't...i gotta pee, pal. where'za toilet? fuckin just--just point...uhh..."
yeesh. without wasting another moment, andy promptly collapsed on the ground, spread-eagle, dazed, and the very embodiment of a hot fucking mess. "i'm, um, i'm just gonna...i gotta lay down for a bit, dude. don't lemme stop you's." truly, a pathetic and low moment for her NOTES [/size] best thread ever.[/font] COUNT[/size] five hundred and ninety-six.[/font] OUTFIT[/size] click![/font] TAG[/size] joely moley![/font] MUSIC[/size] chairlift - garbage.[/font][/left] |
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Post by joel buckley on Jul 1, 2009 8:54:16 GMT -7
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - joel was hoping it was one of those things. you know, when you’re driving down the highway and from a distance it looks exactly like an old soggy armchair but it’s actually a really wide homeless guy with a cardboard sign saying he’s looking for a ride to tulsa (don’t do it). but he was in close enough proximity that although the initial sight looked absolutely ridiculous, what he was seeing was, in point of fact, a girl taking a shit in the basket of his bicycle. joel was pretty confident in saying (well, thinking, but whatever) that this was the most bizarre thing he’d seen in… about six or seven hours.
the girl, apparently startled by the sudden noise of joel’s growly bostonian accent, toppled down his bicycle and onto the pavement. if he wasn’t so goddamned angry and/or afraid she might vomit all over him, he might have helped her up. the operative word being might. but somehow, through the haze of her obvious intoxication, she miraculous managed to gain an upright position on her very own, even though her posture was as steady as someone trying to ride out an earthquake. she looked up at him through the stabs of black hair obscuring her face, apparently waiting for him to say something first – even though he kind of already had. a little slow on the uptake, it only appeared to have sunk in after a string of word vomit came spilling from her lips, “izzis… there ain’t… i gotta pee, pal. where’za toilet? fuckin’ just – just point… uhh…”
“christ’s balls, lady – ” he might have been the first person in history to refer to andrea lynne doyle as a lady, even if it was dripping with his own distinct brand of sarcasm – “you drank like a skank,” joel sure was an observant fellow. perhaps he still had a place in his ex-fiancée’s private investigation service! yeah, not so much. “if y’already fuckin’ defecated all over my bike y’might as well piss all over it, too,” he added, trying to sound as intimidating and pissed off (pun! score!) as he felt. joel had a lot more to say, but apparently andy wasn’t quite in the mood. seeing that his students back at that god awful prep school in boston seemed to have the same sentiment whenever joel tried to speak, it was safe to assume that he probably had that kind of effect on people who fell into a certain age range. christ, girl was probably, like, fucking fifteen and probably had a public drunkenness charge she’d forgotten about or was given to in french. anyway, andy showed her way of not paying attention by falling down (like billy crudup’s “i’m on drugs!” dive into the pool from almost famous but backwards and falling onto hard fucking pavement). trying not to look at the fecal damage inflicted onto the only vehicle (hell, the most expensive thing he owned) while he did this, he walked over to the girl, settling his sneakered feet in the wide open crook between her head and her outstretched left arm, accidentally (or was it purposely?) stepping on her split ends. “i’m, um, i’m just gonna… i gotta lay down for a bit, dude. don’t lemme stop you’s,” she excused herself in a daze, obviously finding this to be a perfectly proper excuse after marking her territory on joel’s bike. not so much for joel.
“don’t stop me from what?” joel queried fiercely, folding his arms and probably looking like the jolly caucasian green giant standing over her. “from fuckin’ beatin’ your drunk ass for shittin’ all over my brand fuckin’ new bike? who the fuck even does that? fuck it, i’m callin’ the cahps,” he added, his heavy boston accent pervading the last word rather comically. of course, joel didn’t necessarily mean any of that. for one thing, he dreaded the fuzz as much as andy did (if that were possible), and either beating the shit out of her or calling the cops would surely attract… well, the police. and besides all that, he didn’t hit girls. even ones with boy nicknames (not that he knew that or anything else about her… yet).
status. fin.
tag. andy!
outfit. imagine david boreanaz naked. it’s what i do.
words. 700.
music. “gay bar” – electric six, aka my joint.
notes. I’VE GOT SOMETHING TO PUT IN YOU.[/font][/size][/color] |
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