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Log Title: How We Got Our Air Conditioning
Log setting: Contadina Trailer Park, nighttime.
Log Cast:
Walker
Glass
Jean-Batiste
Trace
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Contadina Trailer Park. Feel the muggy breeze in your hair, smell the trash in the streets. From here and there from the darkness of the matchbox living spaces noise issues forth: a baby cry, a man's laugh, a cat fight... Oh, the joys of trailer living. With the heat so high, many an AC unit (that still can) is working its fiercest to drive off the humidity.
Glass's car is a touch noisy and it spews black smoke as it rattles along the street, but that's far from unusual for a car in this neighborhood. He drives slowly, seeming to limp along.
Trace is both nervous and excited, squirming a little in his chair, fidgeting with a fray in his shirt, his seat belt, or drawing smudges on the window. He peeks out often to watch the scenery pass, or looks within to check the faces of his friends. Petty theft. How fun, and how risky in his case. He chews on his lip and tries to surpress his smile.
At least it's late enough that all the trailer brats are in bed, instead of screaming and playing in the streets. That's something to be thankful for. Batiste has the window rolled down, and is leaning out, eyeing up the trailers as Glass's car rolls by them. Looking back in at the three of you, he murmurs, "Maybe there'll be a couple trailers side by side where there's nobody home..." He can dream, at least. Even trailer-trash has to have social lives, don't they?
Glass nods, turning the car to head down one of the dirt rows between the trailers, "There might be. I think the trick is to have somebody go up and knock on the door while everybody else gets the Air conditioner. Then the neighbors won't think we're up to anything.
"And if there's not..." Trace suggests delicately, lacing his ink-stained hands together and studying them carefully. "I mean... are we covered, as far as stuff to, to protect us if someone, y'know, decides they don't want their AC ganked?"
Glass says, "To protect us how? Just run and get it the car and we'll drive off. You want me to stay and drive, or somebody else? The liscence plate on this car is expired, and it doesn't say it belongs to me."
Walker eyes each dark trailer appraisingly, noting the positions of the different styles of slightly rusty units. "S'up ta ya, Glass..." He glances at the driver's console, shrugging a shoulder. "I could do th' getaway drivin' if ya trust me with ya car." His eyes find the darkened rows of homes again, immediately assessing once more.
Trace nods, "Well, 'course it'll be best to run." He lifts his shoulders in a defensive shrug. "I was just, y'know, askin'. Gotta plan fer all situations... But I mean, it'll be fine. We all kin run good. I'm not worried." He looks out his window and studies trailers. "Let's.. let's try and hit one've the bigger ones, okay? One that looks like maybe they won't have no trouble gettin' another one..."
Glass laughs softly, "You can hardly make my car worse than it is. How heavy is an AC? The two who are strongest should go get it." He glances into the back seat at Trace, over his shoulder, "Lets hit whichever one's on the end of the row at the back, and has an AC. That way the neighbors won't hear as good."
Jean-Batiste looks back into the car, across at Trace. "Yeah," he agrees, nodding a little. "It'd kinda suck, stealing from someone who couldn't get another one." What a Robin Hood he is. He grins and adds, "No point in stealing a piece of crap air conditioner, either." After chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully, he murmurs, "I'll help get the air conditioner out of the window. Can you drive at all, Trace?" He smiles fondly at his blue-haired friend and murmurs, "If you were the one who knocked, they'd know something was up right away."
Walker turns to peer at Trace, one brow lifting. Doesn't he know trailer parks are renowned collectors of welfare families and stoners who could never hold down a job? Apparently not... and neither does Bat. Eep. He shrugs inwardly; he's not about to deflate the enthusiasm with a reality buster. "I'd volunteer ta do th' knockin' but that'd be a sure-fire way ta get th' folks all nervous." He knows; he's had it happen before when he needed to use a phone.
Glass laughs. "I'll go to the door if you guys can lift the thing. I'll look like a repo man in the dark, with this coat. Walker should probably drive, and Trace and Batiste'll look like some punks I hired to move the stuff? You think?"
Trace shakes his head insistantly. "I can't drive none at all! I'd kill us dead so quick..." And then Batiste's words make him laugh aloud, and he just shrugs and murmurs, "I... Well, ya'd be surprised. Give me a hat, 'n I'd be best fer it, I bet." He looks back out towards the window, towards the row of houses, and then smiles with chagrin and admits, "Yer lookin' at 'trailer trash', Batiste. I know these places... We lost our house. My aunt gave us a good deal on one..." He shrugs. "I guess I feel bad 'rippin off someone really down 'n out, s'all. Oughta get.." Another laugh, this one full of irony. "Oughta hit a family like mine. Recently fallen... Prolly be the best off. Plenty stuff to sell, to work up the money for another..." He gets pulled away from his thoughts and looks up at Glass. "Naw. Naw, let's not go in. I can't lie fer shit. Naw, the whole point of comin' here, I thought, is we can jest rip it right off the window and bolt, right...?"
Glass shakes his head, looking back over his shoulder, "No. We look for one where nobody's home, and we park in front of it and somebody goes to the door so it looks at legit, is all." He turns again, then gestures to a large and newer looking brown trailer. "How about that one?"
"It would prob'ly be easia jus' ta pull it off the outside," Walker nods. He looks to the trailer in question. Side-mounted; that'll make life simple. "Looks like a tahget... But I would like ta know why trailah companies use such ugly colohs f'their homes."
Jean-Batiste looks back at Trace and murmurs, "You'd look guilty, don't you figure? You're the one who says you can't hide what you're feeling..." He reaches across and back and tousles blue braids, then leans forward to look towards where Glass is pointing. "Yeah, we don't go inside...going inside would be bad news." Beware Loo-zhanna militia with shotguns. "I figured we were going to just rip it off, too...Glass's idea is way better, though..." He licks his bottom lip and looks out at the street again, mostly casual. Still deserted? Good.
Glass nods, "We won't go inside. If somebody comes and makes a fuss, we'll just run. But the people around here won't want to come outside if they think we're legit. Nobody wants to talk to a loanshark or a repo man if he doesn't have to, it's bad luck." He parks on the muddy 'street' in front of the brown trailer, blocking its empty driveway. He pulls the keys from the ignition. Something's broken there, the engine doesn't turn off when he does that. One key he removes from the ring, the rest he hands to Walker. He turns and looks into the back seat, "You ready?"
"Yer right, 'course." Trace nods, and then dips his head and chuckles at the braid-touseling. He pushes them back out of his eyes once Batiste retreats, then peers out at the target trailer. "If ya want, I'll be the one t'tear it off an' slip back t'the car," he murmurs as he settles his hand on the door latch. "I'm small, I kin' get it off quick... An' nobody'll hafta see me'n read my face."
Glass nods, "Just keep it quiet." He gets out of the car and goes around to the back to open the trunk with the single key he removed from the ring. He leaves the door open.
Walker takes the keys, glancing from them to the steering column. Neat. He'd heard from a cabbie once there were some cars you could do that with. He just had never seen one. "Ready, willin' an' able. Pawty time." He grins and slides over to the driver's side.
Trace slips out of the car, easing the door shut quietly as possible, and walking over to give Batiste a gentle nudge. "Hey. Kin' ya loan me yer ball cap? If someone sees me, this here head'a blue braids is gonna be pretty memorable ta Big Bubba an' lil' Bub jr when they come 'stalkin N'orlins fer us." He grins broadly, teasing there, but still wanting Bat's hat.
Jean-Batiste wiggles impishly in the back seat, then clambers after Trace, murmuring, "No way you're having all the fun..." He tugs his ballcap down - then, on second thought, turns it around backwards. Might as well fit in with the rest of the yahoos. He flashes a wide, taut grin at Walker and Glass, then follows after Trace, trying to affect a casual but purposeful stride. He's a repo-assistant, just doing his job. Yep.
Glass nods to Trace and Batiste and strides up to the front door, standing under the 'porch' light. He pretends to knock, but doesn't actually strike the door or make a sound. Then he pretends to wait, looking around casually, watching the area, the darkness of the other trailers, the flickering blue light of televisions brightening their windows.
Walker folds an arm over the steering wheel, sliding the key - once found - back into the ignition. He wriggles a little in the seat, generally feeling the car out. Testing completed he turns his attention to the surrounds, playing watchdog for the duration of his wait in the car.
Trace ducks quickly to the side of the trailer before the owners can knock. He does *not* want to be seen if he can help it, not with this conspicious and easily tracked head of hair. He pauses once out of sight and in shadow to wait on Batiste. Casual..? Nope. He's trying for it of course, but his whole body language whoops out, 'hey, we're being sneaky!'
Glass pretends to knock again and lights a cigarette, preparing for another wait. He affects a stance and expression that scream boredom.
A cigarette's a good idea for the wait; Walker tugs one out of the rapidly-becoming-smushed pack from the back pocket of his pants. One thing that has always earned pants in general a black mark in his book: pockets ungentle to cigarettes. Leaning back into the seat he watches Glass in the dim glow of the porchlight for a few moments before surveying the dark area again.
The park is relatively still, save for the hum of air conditioners and the chirr of crickets driven from their homes in abundance by the frequent rains. The only motion Walker sees anywhere nearby along the narrow road of thin houses comes from a scraggly tom cat perched and bathing its tail on a car that looks like it hasn't been moved in ages.
Stroll, stroll, stroll. Batiste does a decent job of staying casual looking, perhaps to try and counter the sneakysneaky aura of his blue-haired friend. Back into the shadows of the back end of the trailer, where the lack of illumination and the dull brown colour of the trailer seems to devour all possible light. Grass, twigs, and leaves crackle, seemingly twice as loud as normal. There, in the bedroom window, the air-conditioner hums and whines, unhappy with the thick Louisiana air. He steps forward, and gently eases the window up about two inches. It slidesquEAKs and he flinches. "Sure you can carry this?" he whispers to Trace, as he prepares to fold in the side-supports and slide the unit out.
Glass looks around absently, smoking and pretending to be annoyed. He glances at Batiste and Trace with the AC, then back towards the car and at the neighboring trailers.
"I-I-uh.." Trace stammers, looking from the heavy metal contraption to Batiste with uncertainty. The weight of the AC hadn't quite crossed his mind. He chews on his lip a moment then bobs his head, but whispers softly, "Be ready t'take it from me if it looks like I'm gonna drop it?"
Glass calls softly, "Both of you carry it together. Just put it in the trunk."
Walker's breath hitches softly as a light in a trailer further down the way flicks on. Must just be a glass of water or something of the like as the light flicks off once more not too many rapid heartbeats later. He remembers to exhale and takes another puff off his cigarette, relax back into the seat of the car.
"Just need to hold it while I lean in to yank the cord," Batiste whispers back as he starts to slide the supports in, the plastic rasping (hopefully) turning his voice into white noise. "Then you carry the cord so I don't trip on it." He folds in both side-supports. Now the noisy part. If he was really strong, maybe he could heft it so it didn't need to be dragged at all. He's not that strong, though. And so he rocks it downward a little, lifts it as best he can, and drags it out. "He re, grab it," he whispers, trying to ease it into Trace's arms as best he can. He'll have to stand close to the trailer's side - the cord won't be all that long.
Trace umphs! He stumbles back just a step as the air conditioner is handed over. His little arms tremble, and he has to heft it up every couple seconds to readjust his grip, but he keeps it up dutifully, with much effort. "I... I mean, if you want," he suggests raspily, "ya kin' carry th' cord..." Yeah, right. Like he's doing *such* a good job just holding it while standing still, let alone walking and easing it into a trunk.
Walker shifts a little in the seat, eyes darting to the crime-in-progress. His tonguebar raps lightly against the back of his teeth, then he's looking down the drive again. Rockabye trailerpark... In a few moments, they'll be home free. Gotta think positive about these sorts of things.
Glass sighs and glances at Batiste and Trace. This is taking too long for his liking.
Quickquick, now - Batiste hops up, supporting himself on the windowsill with a soft grunt, and stares into the blackness within the trailer for a second before ducking in and fumbling around for the end of the cord to yank out. Damned dark brown cord, impossible to see...there! He yanks at it, only to find a seemingly infinite length of extension cord. He drops back, holding the cord with its matching length of white extension cord. "Crap," he mumbles. He wrestles it free, tosses the white cord back in, and closes the window behind it. He flips the a/c's cord over Trace's shoulder like a feather boa and reaches to grab the a/c. Time to go.
Trace lets the clunky thing get yanked out of his hands, and rubs where the metal has left red indentions on his hands and forearms for just a moment. Oh, yeah, we're in a hurry... He lopes after Batiste, gathering up the cord and holding it up. So he's stuck with a lame job, honorary Cord Carrier, but he'll do it right and durnit, Batiste isn't going to trip.
Glass grins as they walk past and steps down off the step to follow the pair.
Walker's trying not to get ancy but he can't help glance to the trailers to either side of the one being burglarized. Hurry up, guys... he thinks in Bat and Trace's direction. Woo... Bat's carrying it by himself? What a stud! He shifts a little in the seat as the whole group begins to converge, ready to get the fuck outta Dodge.
Jean-Batiste, feeling more than a little cocky, murmurs to Glass as he hustles by with little stutter-steps because of the a/c in front of him, "Repo is such a -sad- job..." He's not a stud - he sounds rather strained, but better he have a sore back in the morning than Trace get hurt. Besides, two people trying to hurry is often like a three-legged race - and falling on an a/c would hurt much more than falling on a gunny sack. Towards the trunk he goes, to try and ease the appliance in as quietly as possible.
Across the street -- or dirt and gravel that passes for one in this place -- a trailer door opens and someone peeks out. A tiny someone. The door opens further, but it's just a little girl with uncombed hair who drags a blanket behind her and peers out at the boys with calm curiousity.
Glass steps around to give Batiste some help, taking a hold of the front of the AC and lifting it a bit. It's awkward manuvering it into the trunk, but it fits. Clank. The trunk's door can't close completely, but it's good enough. Glass looks at the open door and the little girl. He grins sunnily at her and waves.
Trace stuffs the cord into the trunk and moves around the car to get the doors open so everyone can get right in and be off quickly as possible. He flings himself into his own seat and shuts the door, murmuring a breathless, "Hi Walker."
Walker pulls the gear into reverse as he hears the cardoors open, not easing off the brakes just yet. "Hey," he returns softly. "Ya awright?" He glances out the side window, ready and in gear.
The girl blinks into the darkness, but when she sees Glass smile and wave she lights right up and waves back. Hi hi! Lovely. At first Mr. Cuddles the blanket had told her these were Bad people doing Bad things to the Brockhurst's trailer, but obviously he was wrong. Blankets so often are. With a scolding sigh, she gives the nice folks one last wave and heads back into her home.
Glass climbs into the car and shuts the door, "Me? I'm great. Lets get outta here."
Jean-Batiste shakes his head at Glass as he piles into the car, eyeing up the now-closed door the small child was standing in once he's safely inside. "Damn, Glass..." he murmurs in disbelieving admiration - the kid startled him, and he didn't think to act friendly and smiling like that. He slumps back in his seat, grins tautly, and murmurs, "Shall we go?"
Glass grins at Batiste, "What you damning me for? It's not cool to scare kids." He gives Walker a gentle tap on the shoulder, leaning forward to do so, "Lets go before she tells her parents about the nice men outside." Trace answers him belatedly, because he'd been staring off across the street distractedly. When the girl disappears he gives a tiny, relieved sigh and looks to Walker. "What? Oh, yeah... Yeah, m'cool. We got it." He turns to be certain Batiste is inside, and when he is, and all the doors are closed, he grins with much triumph.
As soon as the last door's closed the car is rolling back. "I'm goin'," he murmurs. Certainly no high-speed peel out; Walker's rather casual about pulling out of the trailer park, leaving the headlights off till clear of the driveway. Once clear of the park the headlights come on and a clip or two above normal speed is undertaken. Home again, home again... "Y'all want ta take this direct ta y'all's apahtment so we don' have ta tote it again?" He suspects a dead body could be toted in those apartments and no one would ever breathe a word.
Jean-Batiste starts to giggle softly when the headlights come on, and sprawls back even more contentedly into the carseat, arms dangling out to either side of him. "Yeah, let's take it straight there, no reason to move it around twice." Besides, it's probably safer to hide stolen goods where they'll end up being used, rather than endangering Walker's place. If an old a/c could even be tracked through a car with expired plates.
Glass nods, looking around, "No sense in lifting it twice. Anybody got a cigarette?" He opens his window and leans back with his elbow on the edge.
Walker's home does endanger itself well enough on its own, certainly. He offers his mushed pack of cigarettes to Glass after pulling one out for himself. "Well, y'all'll now have AC, guys," he beams, glad you were able to nab it.
Glass smiles, taking Walker's cigarette pack. He extracts one and places it between his lips, then offers the pack to Batiste, murmuring around his, "Gotta light?"
"Apartment sounds good to me too..." Trace murmurs, but his eyes are on the window, looking back in the direction of the trailer park that's no longer in view. Once they're sufficiently away from the place, he settles back, allowing himself to relax a bit more. Home free. "We'll be real glad 'fer it soon 'nuff."
Jean-Batiste squirms around a little, locates his lighter, and leans forward over the front seat to flick the lighter on and hold it for Glass to light his clove from. There's safe use of fire for all you kiddies out there. Maybe Walker will drive over a railroad track while Glass is lighting up, and we'll all get to see what he looks like without eyebrows.
Glass smiles at Batiste and leans forward to light his cigarette from the unsteady flame Batiste holds. He misses first, then singes the paper near, but not at, the tip of the cigarette. Third times a charm, he reaches out to steady Batiste's hand and manages to get the clove cherried.
[ Off-Camera, the group drops the stolen AC off at the boys� apartment at Lafitte�s, and then head back to Walker�s place. ]
Home sweet home...and yet again, Walker's barely around to appreciate it. Within minutes of arriving, he's pretended to nibble on some food and waltzed out again, to handle another rehearsal. Le sigh. Batiste watches him stroll out the door and chuckles to himself, shaking his head in amusement.
Glass watches Walker flounce out before he even gets his boots off, "See you," he says baffledly.
Trace makes a beeline straight for the couch, and the boy bellyflops right down onto it. He sits up and grins, "Walker's so busy alla time. I dunno how he keeps going." He tugs his shoes off and brings his feet up onto the couch, arms curling about his legs, nestled comfortably. "Our apartment... Gonna be so nice when we fix it all up." A little giggle. "When there's finally more in there 'n jest an air conditioner and an incense holder, anyway."
Glass grins, "What else you want? We should steal a statue."
Jean-Batiste sprawls out on the floor, belly-up, stre-e-etching in both directions as far as he can go. "He's...crazy, that's...how..." he murmurs mid-stretch. "Must...live on pure sugar...like a hummingbird." He grins at the thought of Walker with rainbow green and crimson hair instead of black, then closes his eyes. "The apartment's gonna be -perfect-. Even if all we have is the incense holder and the air conditioner." He grins widely. Bliss.
"A statue..?" Trace blinks, and then giggles. "If we want a statue, why don't we jest make one ourselves? We could make it outta that one cheese wax!" He snickers to himself, then nods to Batiste. "Utopia, 'member?" he smiles. "I'm still paintin' that."
"I want everyone to paint part of that..." Batiste murmurs happily. "Even if it's just one line or a flower or something. So we can see everyone when we look at the painting." So what if they won't get their damage deposit back? It's more than worth it.
Trace cocks his head and grins at Batiste. "Oh.... I think we had different ideas, then. I jest meant the word. I mean..." He twists a blue braid around in his fingers. "Well, I mean, how do you paint Utopia as a picture? What's it look like?"
Glass shrugs off his coat, then hangs it up. He frowns at it and pats it down, then reaches into one of the voluinous pockets, pulling out something about the size of a magazine, wrapped in plastic. He grins and tosses it to the couch, "Hey Trace."
Trace blinks at Glass and, fumbling, just barely catches the plastic-wrapped something. He peers down at it.
Jean-Batiste twists around, popping his back in a couple of places, then shakes his head at Trace. "No, the same idea. Just...you know, details in the letters? Like...embellishment. I just thought it might be cool if everyone added something to the wall. I guess it doesn't have to be on the actual Utopia painting, just...somewhere, you know? I'd like that."
It's not a magazine. It's three plain black t-shirts, sealed around a peice of cardboard. The whole thing was folded in half in Doug's pocket and doesn't look all that tidy now. Red and white printing on the plastic. Hanes.
Glass glances at Batiste and steps into the living room, having rid himself of both coat and boots. He says, "Everyone should add something to utopia?"
Trace blinks down at the package and then breaks into a grin. "Doug, thank you!" he whoops, tearing at the plastic and tossing it away like christmas wrapper. "This is great..." He yanks one of the shirts away from the cardboard and holds it up to his chest, then looks to the others for approval. With a grin, he wonders, "Doesn't mean I gotta give ya three shirts back, right? Only got the one."
Glass laughs, taking a seat. "Naw. Keep 'em. They cost less than all those cigarettes. I never noticed that you don't smoke."
Jean-Batiste rolls over onto his hip, propping his head in his hand. He beams a rather sunny smile up at Glass and murmurs simply, "Thank you." New shirts for Trace. Bliss. He turns to look at Trace and brings pinky and forefinger to his mouth, wolf-whistling softly. "Sex-y," he leers, then giggles softly. "They're great."
Trace nods and explains, "Yeah.. a cigarette's nice on X or sometimes shrooms or somethin, but otherwise it don't do nuthin' for me.." He looks over, tosses back his head, and bats his eyes dramatically at Batiste's whistle, then just laughs and decides, "I'm goin' to the rest room to change into this one. Be right back." He hops up off the couch and scampers for the bathroom.
Jean-Batiste wolf-whistles again, just to be a pain. "Take it off, take it off!" he calls, grinning at the retreating back of his friend. He sighs contentedly and rolls over onto his back again, sprawling out decadently in the carpet. He smiles softly at Glass and murmurs, "That was really great of you. Thanks."
Glass sits down on the floor next to Batiste and trails his fingertips over the other's stomach. "It wasn't all that great. It's not like I work for anything, you know?" He smiles.
Jean-Batiste closes his eyes, and draws in a deep breath, sighing it out. He coughs a little, and flops one hand onto his chest, rubbing at his breastbone until it eases. "You still did it, though. That's the important part." He opens his eyes a crack and smiles up at Glass, murmuring, "I've saved up a bit of money...I think we ought to all go out shopping for summer clothes soon. It's too hot to wear this all the time. Sandals and shorts and new T-shirts...maybe jackets. We all need clothes, I think."
Glass' hand finds the spot on Batiste's chest where he was rubbing and takes over, absently. He murmurs, "Yeah, you do need clothes. I have some lighter clothes than this. But no sandles. The streets are too crowded. And shorts look funny with boots." He chuckles, "And I'm always wearing that coat, because if I don't it rains." His dark gaze slips down to his hand on Batiste's chest, "Maybe you should get a raincoat. So you don't keep having a cold from the wet."
The bathroom door opens and Trace strides out, model-down-the-runway style with one hand on his hip, the other loosely holding the old shirt. He can't keep it up long without giggling however, and bounces onto the couch happily. He hugs his new shirt.
Glass looks up at Trace and grins. "Wow."
Jean-Batiste lets his hand rest still against his upper chest, fingers on his collarbone, and seems quite happy to let Glass rub the sore spot at the base of his breastbone where his chest is tender from coughing. He raises his head a little as Trace sashays in, and summons up another wolf-whistle, calling, "Woo, baby! We're going to have to beat the women off, they'll be coming at you in droves." He grins at his blue-haired friend and murmurs, "It looks great, Trace."
Trace covers his eyes and hides his face against the cusions to hide from flattery thrown his way, giggling, "Will not, shut up!" He peeks up and then decides it's safe to uncurl now, and he pinches the fabric in two places and pulls it out to grin, "'Centuates my girlish figure though."
Glass rubs Batiste's chest while watching Trace. He grins, "Yeah, it does. Looks pretty hot." He reaches out his free hand and points at Trace, deepening his voice to say in a minatory tone, "Now you must make a choice."
Jean-Batiste sits up enough to prop himself on his elbows, and gives Trace a grinningly stern look. (In other words, not very stern at all.) "Hey. -Hey-! You watch it. I've still got prettier tits, even if you have a prettier T-shirt." He sinks back to the carpet, making a big deal out of sniffling woefully. It trails off to giggles as Glass deepens his voice.
Trace rolls his eyes. Right, right... god forbid anyone invade Batiste's tit monopoly. He snickers, and then looks at Glass cluelessly. "What choice 'zat?" His fingers idly toy with the old, worn grey t-shirt in his hands, picking at the few little flecks of black that were once the letters on the concert T. His eyes and attention, however, remain on Glass.
Jean-Batiste closes his eyes, and smiles contentedly at the ceiling. He coughs a couple of times, frowning mildly, then relaxes again. "Yeah, what choice...?" he murmurs softly, sounding a bit distant or drowsy. He starts rubbing his ribs a lit tle, a sort of absent scritching. T he longer he rubs, the more his smile settles to a somewhat thoughtful expression.
Glass says darksomely, "You may keep your old shirt, but if you do, you must give one of the new ones to Batiste. And wash the old one." He pauses and wheezes like Darth Vader, then continues, "If you cannot make such a sacrifice, you must give the old shirt to me, and I will take it to a terrible place of loneliness and despair, never to be seen again." He holds out his hand to Trace, stiffened in an attempt to make it look skeletal and threatening.
Jean-Batiste giggles softly and murmurs, "The T-shirt Graveyard..." trying to sound deep and spooky like Glass. It doesn't work, and he coughs again, then giggles a little more before subsiding to hear what Trace's choice will be.
Trace giggles! T-shirt graveyards and Glass' Darth Vader voice. Just too funny. "Well." He rubs at his chin, mock-solemn as he pretends to think it over. "*Never* to be seen again? Ever?" Then he laughs and flings a shirt Batiste-wards, before holding up his old grey shirt and announcing, "Though I think this old thing probably *deserves* t'be in a place've loneliness and despair... Phah!" he wrinkles his nose at it and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn't notice, but it lands on a lamp.
Glass says deeply, "You have chosen wisely," then breaks into laughter and carries on rubbing Batiste's breastbone, his claw-hand dropping to his side again.
Jean-Batiste is pelted with a lovely new T-shirt, and grins at it, face half-obscured by the black cotton. "Thamfs," he calls, getting a mouthful of shirt for his trouble. He grabs onto it with his teeth, baring them, and suddenly shakes the shirt viciously, snarling as he does. "Grr! Grrah! Grrah!" O-kay. Someone's gone loopy. He releases the shirt and rests his head back, giggling some more. "Thou...shal' not...dis'bey th'Third Beas'," he tries to intone.
Glass laughs!
The blue-haired artist laughs too, and reaches down to pat Batiste's braids, because *really* he's just a BatistePuppy playing at being a big growly dog. Trace is sure of it. "Sure it'll fit ya?" he wonders. "Well, I s'pose it will. Ya may be taller, but I guess that matters more fer pants than shirts, y'know?"
Glass nods, chuckling, and says, "If it doesn't fit you can pull on it and stretch it or something. And you'll have to buy your own pants." He taps Batiste's chest, playfully.
Jean-Batiste puffs out his chest, trying to look all ferocious - it might help if he could stop giggling for more than a minute at a time. "It'll fit, it'll fit..." he promises, sitting up and shifting around a bit to untie his flannels then shuck off his shirt. He throws it at Trace with a grin, then pulls the new and improve shirt over his chest. "Oh, this is great." Nothing like never-been-dirty clothing to make you feel good. He runs his hands down over his chest, and preens a little. Glancing sidelong to Trace again, he murmurs, "I think it looks better on you than me, though."
Glass leans back and stops petting Batiste, watching him change his shirt.
Trace just rolls his eyes again, flopping down onto his stomach and dangling his legs up. "Stop... C'mon, ya must know yer good-looking." He snickers and crosses his arms, dropping his chin into the fold as he points out impishly, "Ask Glass."
Glass smiles at that, likewise impishly.
Jean-Batiste gets a little stubborn - but only a little bit, because he's not good at denying things Trace says. "The shirt looks better on you," he replies. See? That way he's not denying it, but still standing his ground. He's so clever. He looks over at Glass, and blushes slightly. "Stop it..." he mumbles, reaching out to gently poke Glass's stomach with a grin. He's grinning, that is. If Glass's stomach is grinning, it's time for Batiste to scream now.
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