It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

[bonhomme7h.livejournal.com]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

Comments

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

"Cool!" He tilts his head. His expression of curiosity is more pronounced than usual, exaggerated by the booze, but no less alert. At least, not at this point. "You were injured, then? Heck, if your feet get all messed up, trading up for hooves isn't a bad way to go." Sure, that makes perfect sense. Sure. He giggles.

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

"Nah, nah. Not there. Lost a tooth, though." He sticks his tongue through the hole. "That's just, ah, fuckin' --" He flails a little, reaching for the word. A chirp of frustration. "Genetics? That shit. Ghoulkin, yeah? Been going that way for a while, but when your feet go, they don't go easy."

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

"Oh?" Eddie contemplates this for a minute. He is a little thrown off by the missing tooth, which at least fits into the realm of possible and uncomfortable things, as far as most of his life's experience is concerned. That is grosser, somehow. Well, plus the guy does smell terrible, but this is a lesser fault than being stupid, and Pickman's got his act together.

He frowns - it's not displeasure, but taking the time to decide how he feels about all this. His smile is slow to return, in a lazy sort of way. "I get it. You're an average human where I'm from. Though, you-where-I'm-from would approve, I am certain."

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

"Yeah? You think?" He frowns a little himself, considering the idea that some poor Pickman somewhere might not be ghoulkin. "How old was he? Might not've hit 'im yet, yeah?"

A shrug. "Either way, I'm the one who's here, so fuck 'im."

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

"Younger than you, sure, but this sort of thing... Just doesn't happen where I'm from. I can say that with a fair amount of confidence, with allowance made for all things being possible, even if unlikely."

He takes another drink. "You don't like that?"

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

"Kinnof a shame, yeah? S'the best thing that happened to me, figurin' that out. Sure as gugshit a better fuckin' family than the inbred old-money scum who so-called raised me."

That is quite possibly the most bitterness Eddie, or anyone outside of a few dear friends, has ever seen him express.

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

Eddie, drunk, reacts to that more than he probably would otherwise, too. He laughs, a harsh, cut off ha-ha, not giggling. "Ah, yeah. Family." He sneers. "Did you ruin your family by existing?"

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

"Fuck, yes. What the fuck," his voice slipped, easily, into a much more subtle and refined accent, upper-crust Massachussets. "Richard, you're embarrassing us with these silly pursuits of yours. Can't you grow out of this painting phase and pick a real career, like your siblings?"

He grinned, wide and crooked, resuming his normal voice. "They ended up disownin' me. Fuckers."

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

"Oh god." He can play at this game, too. His impersonation of hated parental figure is course and lacks any of the cheerful arrogance of his own voice. "I don't want to hear any of it, Eddie, you fuckin' liar. I work my ass off to put food on this table! And what do you do? What?!" Obviously, he isn't coming from quite the same situation. He also can't keep that up for very long at all without another, "Gaaaaawd damn it, I hate my family."

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

"Fuck." A sympathetic wince and a shake of his head. "I'll drink t'that, brother."

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

"Fuck. Yeah." He will now drink the rest of whatever is in this bottle, and completely ignore the fact that this is exactly the sort of behavior his father was prone to. He is, after all, infinitely more intelligent.

[paintfromlife.livejournal.com]

Pickman feels some annoyance, not at Eddie, but at his own lack of alcohol and the fact that, even if he got hold of some, it would take an act of God to get him tanked. But he can remedy at least one of those. He waves in the general direction of the nearest barkeep or waitress, and once attention is gained, points at himself. Drink! Make it happen!

[edsidlemirth.livejournal.com]

Pickman didn't have a drink? Aw, is he rude now? There is only one way to fix this. Eddie holds up two fingers and will also present the nice bringing-the-drinks person with money. So, that should sort everything out, right?