Urge to Kill... Rising...

[symbiotastic.livejournal.com]

Who: Eddie Brock/Venom & OPEN
What: Eddie tries to deal with his anger management problems. Befriend him!
Where: The Apache, Mog Hill
When: Late at night (several days before his fight with Tommy and Billy)
Notes: Multiple threads are fine. If you want to have an encounter with Venom instead of Eddie, that can be arranged, as he's feeling predatory right now.
Warnings: Possible violence.

If there's one thing Eddie Brock doesn't like about the symbiote-- one teeeeeny, tiny downside-- it's the fact that it costs him about three times as much to get hammered these days. It's his (their) fourth whiskey downed, and he's only now starting to get a good, warm buzz. Freaking alien-fortified alcohol tolerance. Feeling just the slightest effects of the alcohol is like a goddamn tease. All it does is annoy him.

Actually, right now, the same can be said about, well, everything. Every single noise, every single stupid, weak, soft sack of flesh in the bar tonight-- and God, there are just so many. The guy to his right crowds him, keeps bumping his elbow against Eddie's arm. He thinks about tearing him open with each slurred "Sorry." It's not you, guy, really. There's just a monkey on Eddie Brock's back, that's all. A vicious, bloodthirsty, monkey.

Eddie laughs, shrugs, starts on his fifth whiskey. Not a care, not this guy. When his burger arrives (rare, very rare, just the way they like it), he tries to channel his aggression into it. What he's thinking about as he quickly tears into the bloody patty would've disgusted him a couple weeks ago. Probably. Made him a little squeamish, at least.

Now? He's bored and a little anxious. It's not enough to just think about these things anymore. He's just itching to sink his claws into something, somebody, hell, he's not picky. Thin black tendrils begin to creep up the back of his neck-- hey, hey, no. Down. Not here.

He finishes the burger-- practically inhaled it-- and shoves the plate away, focusing his attentions on the drink again. Tonight, he decides. Once he's finished here, it's time to go out and play. He could use a laugh-- and, hell, some cash, if he happens to corner somebody with a little disposable income on 'em.

He turns his back to the bar, eyes scanning over the crowd. Right now, he's just Brock, Edward Brock, the harmless, obnoxious idiot who tries a little too hard to impress. Nothing to see here.

Comments

[fuckrobertfrost.livejournal.com]

"Ha ha," John says sourly, though in fact he's not really that irritated, at least not at Eddie. He's about to take a drink when the fact he stationed himself on Eddie's right comes back to haunt him. That drunk guy elbows him now instead.

"The fuck, asshole," he snaps, which fails to clear any significant amount of space, due to the aforementioned carding. "Jesus, is it douchebag hour?" That's directed at Eddie, because that is basically how guys bond, mutual griping. And a lot of small guys have attitude to make up for it, but John seems particularly unworried about his physical well-being — weirdly at ease rather than obviously itching to prove something.