James Ford (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sorrydontsuitme) wrote2008-01-03 07:59 pm
sorrydontsuitme) wrote2008-01-03 07:59 pm
(no subject)
Oh yeah, he remembers the feel of this place. The way clothes stick to his body, the humid heat, the damn heaviness in the air. It's almost unbelievable that they're back here again: they didn't have to. They could have stayed right where they were: clean rooms, plenty of food, nice-looking ladies, booze. Hell, Freckles even had a motorcycle there. He watches as she moves off without a sound into the darkness, her torch the only thing lighting up the night.
Looking down at the bag full of meds in his hands, his eyes narrow and he shakes his head: what the hell was he thinking? He don't need to bring the winnings to the doc; Metro can come find him when he wants it. It ain't like he up and moved and didn't leave no forwarding address.
Damn. Kind of hard to believe they came back here willingly and if it was up to him all alone, he wasn't going to suggest they come back here at all. But Freckles got his curiosity all piqued about what she wanted, and if she came back and he didn't, what was gonna happen to the other person? Time goes on for one of 'em but not the other? That seems awful kind of risky. But he can probably do his thirty-six hours here without getting killed: just another damn day and a half in paradise.
The walk back to his tent is quick and it's undisturbed, and everyone's in the same place they were when he left or at least close enough to it. Pulling open the flap protecting his lean-to, he takes a quick look around. A guy's got to take inventory of his stuff, and at first glance, it's all still here. He tosses the bag of pills and other meds down on the ground but he doesn't sit, not yet. He takes just a moment to stand in the makeshift doorway, the light of the fire illuminating the other shelters dimpling the beach. It's a hell of a thing, their plane crashing on this island. Until it did, he'd never been shot or tortured or even stabbed: for a con man, he'd been lucky. And just look what's happened: already, the past however many weeks of his life don't seem like nothing but a foggy memory except for one thing: the nights he spent with that girl, Julia. Almost seems like she ain't even real.
Still, it's funny how fast he falls back into his Craphole Island way of thinking. If they ever do end up getting rescued from this place, he ain't never gonna want to see another tropical location again as long as he lives.
Now he remembers how come he didn't want to come back to this place. The day ain't started out real good, with the babynapper telling him he ain't trustworthy, what with the sudden windfall of all that food dropping -- literally -- from the sky when all he suggests is a little order. But it's like being closest to the buffet at a party: everyone wants in, everyone's got to be first before the good stuff disappears, and that's what it's like there. Pure damn bedlam.
So no one listens to him? What else is new: they can take whatever the hell they want so long as it ain't out of his stash. Without a watch he can't tell how much of their thirty-six hours is gone, but it ain't like it matters: him and Freckles are either going back when the time's up or they'll be here just like always and while one of those options is a lot more comfortable than the other, it ain't like either of them is going to get him closer to home. In fact, his odds are better here... not that he wants to go home, particularly, but where he don't want to be is right here, trapped.
Like he's got any choice anyhow.
So when Jabba comes up looking for some Clonazawhatever -- which he ain't got 'cause he ain't no pharmacy, although he could put in an order next time he gets to play Back to the Future -- he's already in a bad enough mood and can't help but give him some crap, especially when he asks about a guy who ain't there. Invisible friends... he thought those things were supposed to fade when you're in first grade, but what's the harm in playing along, pretending he sees the guy Staypuff's talking about?
Apparently a hell of a lot, because he gets lit into like no one's business, and it's like all Barbar's damn anger's coming out in his fists. He don't deserve this: see if the big guy gets his damn Clonazepam now. Shit, the guy must weigh 300, 350. It's like trying to get out from under a damn elephant. Fortunately, Chewie finally pulls the Michelin Man off him and he's bruised, a little bloody. "What the hell's the matter with you? You're crazy!"
Damn.
"I'm not crazy! I'm not crazy!" As Lardo runs off, he sure as hell looks crazy.
Crap. That's the last time he ever nominates Mongo there to run anything, if that's the kind of thanks he's gonna get. There's a hell of a cut on his lower lip; he wipes it gently with the back of his hand. Yeah, business as usual. Why'd they have to pick thirty-six damn hours? One would have been more than enough.
Looking down at the bag full of meds in his hands, his eyes narrow and he shakes his head: what the hell was he thinking? He don't need to bring the winnings to the doc; Metro can come find him when he wants it. It ain't like he up and moved and didn't leave no forwarding address.
Damn. Kind of hard to believe they came back here willingly and if it was up to him all alone, he wasn't going to suggest they come back here at all. But Freckles got his curiosity all piqued about what she wanted, and if she came back and he didn't, what was gonna happen to the other person? Time goes on for one of 'em but not the other? That seems awful kind of risky. But he can probably do his thirty-six hours here without getting killed: just another damn day and a half in paradise.
The walk back to his tent is quick and it's undisturbed, and everyone's in the same place they were when he left or at least close enough to it. Pulling open the flap protecting his lean-to, he takes a quick look around. A guy's got to take inventory of his stuff, and at first glance, it's all still here. He tosses the bag of pills and other meds down on the ground but he doesn't sit, not yet. He takes just a moment to stand in the makeshift doorway, the light of the fire illuminating the other shelters dimpling the beach. It's a hell of a thing, their plane crashing on this island. Until it did, he'd never been shot or tortured or even stabbed: for a con man, he'd been lucky. And just look what's happened: already, the past however many weeks of his life don't seem like nothing but a foggy memory except for one thing: the nights he spent with that girl, Julia. Almost seems like she ain't even real.
Still, it's funny how fast he falls back into his Craphole Island way of thinking. If they ever do end up getting rescued from this place, he ain't never gonna want to see another tropical location again as long as he lives.
Now he remembers how come he didn't want to come back to this place. The day ain't started out real good, with the babynapper telling him he ain't trustworthy, what with the sudden windfall of all that food dropping -- literally -- from the sky when all he suggests is a little order. But it's like being closest to the buffet at a party: everyone wants in, everyone's got to be first before the good stuff disappears, and that's what it's like there. Pure damn bedlam.
So no one listens to him? What else is new: they can take whatever the hell they want so long as it ain't out of his stash. Without a watch he can't tell how much of their thirty-six hours is gone, but it ain't like it matters: him and Freckles are either going back when the time's up or they'll be here just like always and while one of those options is a lot more comfortable than the other, it ain't like either of them is going to get him closer to home. In fact, his odds are better here... not that he wants to go home, particularly, but where he don't want to be is right here, trapped.
Like he's got any choice anyhow.
So when Jabba comes up looking for some Clonazawhatever -- which he ain't got 'cause he ain't no pharmacy, although he could put in an order next time he gets to play Back to the Future -- he's already in a bad enough mood and can't help but give him some crap, especially when he asks about a guy who ain't there. Invisible friends... he thought those things were supposed to fade when you're in first grade, but what's the harm in playing along, pretending he sees the guy Staypuff's talking about?
Apparently a hell of a lot, because he gets lit into like no one's business, and it's like all Barbar's damn anger's coming out in his fists. He don't deserve this: see if the big guy gets his damn Clonazepam now. Shit, the guy must weigh 300, 350. It's like trying to get out from under a damn elephant. Fortunately, Chewie finally pulls the Michelin Man off him and he's bruised, a little bloody. "What the hell's the matter with you? You're crazy!"
Damn.
"I'm not crazy! I'm not crazy!" As Lardo runs off, he sure as hell looks crazy.
Crap. That's the last time he ever nominates Mongo there to run anything, if that's the kind of thanks he's gonna get. There's a hell of a cut on his lower lip; he wipes it gently with the back of his hand. Yeah, business as usual. Why'd they have to pick thirty-six damn hours? One would have been more than enough.