Trace and TooFar at Dairy Queen

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Log Title: Trace and TooFar at Dairy Queen

Log setting: First the playground, then DQ.

Log Cast:
TooFar
Trace

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TooFar ambles on in, smoking as per usual, humming to himself. As he enteres the playground, his gaze seems to wander automatically over towards the odd fruit tree.

The bluecap has reclaimed his castle for the evening, sprawled out on his stomach with his chin rested against the fold of his crossed arms. His legs are bent up at knees and locked together at the ankles, a lazy posture to be sure. He is, however, quite silent as he watches you and the cloud of cigarette smoke you trail, moving across the dark lawn and sandy expanse of the playground. A tiny smile quirks his lips as you near the fruit-bearing trees. Some people don't give up.

The featherwaif gestures at the tree with middle and forefinger held together, a cigarette clasped in between. Sort of a pointing handgun. "This tree," he declares in an amused tone, somehow aware that he's being watched by someone he knows, "Is really startin' t'get under my skin." He glances back to grin at the bluecap, ""Y'know?"

A soft laugh from the shadows. "Ours is not t'wonder why." The blue-haired boy doesn't seem perturbed that his featherboi spying was noticed. He languidly picks himself up out of his tummysprawl, arms bracing and back arching in a brief cat stretch before he crawls over to the edge of the castle roof and shifts his legs before him, dropping down feet first and landing in half-crouch. He straightens and walks over to you. "Guess I hope ya don't find out. Then y'll stop comin' to visit my playground."

The feathergoth shirks his shoulders in a gentle manner, taking the time to finish off his cigarette and flick it, with average accuracy, near a trash can. Whoops. Missed. "Nah, kinda cool here. Fer people watchin'." Another cigarette is shaken free of the softpack, "Or somethin' like that." Nicotine is idly pondered on, or rather, absorbed into his circulatory system and he enjoys the process, "So, this yer playground?" He smiles at that, interested.

"Indeed," Trace intones, dipping in a playful mock-bow and looking up with a slight grin. "My kingdom. My imperial sandbox out yonder, an' my mighty castle. And my summer home, hidden away from prying eyes." The tour is simply indicated with a little nod-gesture towards each, excepting the 'summer home', whereupon he just smiles. His head tipped to one side, he points out, "S'better'n some oil drum on Decatur, eh? Suits me, anyway. An' it's even got a breakfast bar." With a chuckle the boy glances up towards the trees. "Yeah, I live royal on my playground."

The streetwaif accepts all this with a bemused nod and a little more nicotine intake, "Cool, man." The summer home is earned a mildly arched brow, perhaps he's trying to decide if that's a literal location, or funny ambiant bullshit. Hmmm. He'll find that one out, eventually. It's what he does. "So, like, what's up wit'cha, man? I ain't seen ya fer a bit."

"Well.." Trace loses some of his playfulness at that question, looking out towards the playground's entrance. "Survivin'. Made it ta day thirty-two." His gaze shifts again, back to you. "I jest, y'know, been smokin' way too much pot an' hangin' in there. But some days is better'n others. Some days is nearly like normal. Like today." His smile surfaces again. "S'all Caddy an' Cathy's fault."

The featherwaif bobs his head again, in great sympathy for the bluecap's survival. A good coverup for the racing mental gears. Surviving what? tick tick tick. Oh yeah, /that/. Whoakay, now we know what page we're on... but TooFar is good, these thoughts are buried faaaar beneath his outward emotion, "Shit man, that's cool. That's some harsh shit you kicked, l'il green never hurt no one, right?" He grins winningly, even patting you on the shoulder in a brotherly manner, "Wanna get somethin' t'eat or somethin', y'know, t'celebrate thirtytwo whole days?"

"Sure thing," Trace smiles almost shyly. Why not? Sure, maybe thirty-one might have been more appropriate, one month and all, but who's keeping track. Thirty-two's as good a number as any. "So where you feel like eatin'?" As an afterthough he points out sheepishly, "I, um. I don't got no money'r nothin'. I don't really keep any on me, coz it's jest easier that way. Nothin' like a big wad pressin in yer pocket to tempt ya." His eyes hold some apology for his current lack of fundage.

TooFar seems to understand completely, he was going to treat anyway. The cigarette dangles from his lips as he fishes around his pockets in a fund drive, "Hey man, yer party. Where d'ya wanna eat?" Some change is found, some screwed up bills. He adds with a grin, "An' don' go pickin' the Ritz, kay?" The collected cash is weighed, literally. The feathergoth seems to think he can judge the value of his wad simply by balancing it against the emptiness in his opposite hand, "Yeah, I gotta 'nuff. But not MickeyD's, neither, kay? Place gives me indigestion."

Trace chuckles as you rule out McDonalds. "Ain't a problem, man. McDonalds can go to hell. They kicked me out once f'makin' sculptures onna' tables. If they can't appreciate no fine art -- edible fine art -- then fuck 'em." He considers the wad in your hand and then looks up and suggests, "Wanna hit a Dairy Queen? Sure, the burgers suck, but there's good ice cream."

"Dairy Queen?" mutters TooFar to himself, "Y'know, I think I gotta coupon or somethin' fer 'em." Somehow, the featherwaif doesn't seem like the coupon clipping sort, "Fer a sundae, I think. Cool. Dairy Queen. Ice cream. Kickass." The money is shoved uncerimoniously back into a pocket, the cigarette de-ashed and sucked on like a nicotine soother, "Um, where is the place? I know I seen it, but can't remember where it was."

"Jest off Eslpanade," Trace announces with a shrug. "Ain't far." He gives the playground a final glance, one last surveyal of the kingdom, and then starts towards the path leading out of the playground. He keeps slow and at your side. "Hey, um. TooFar?" His hands are shoved deep down into his pockets, shoulders hunching a little, eyes ahead. "Member when I gived' ya my gear?" Black shoes scuffle through the damp grass, gaudy silvery laces glinting occasionally. "Ya..." He swallows and chokes it out. "Y'kin... toss it." It's a fickle decision. Today's been a good day. Yesterday, ahh... wasn't. How will he feel about it tomorrow? But even so, for the moment he seems to have made his decision and doesn't call it back. "Doan' need it no more."

The featherwaif follows alongside, nodding, "Sure dude, s'cool." TooFar's own footwear, a beaten up old pair of combats, sort of plow their way through the grass before scraping across the sidewalk in the streetgoth's meandering and casual gait. "Y'ain't never need worry 'bout it 'gain, kay?" He grins at the bluecap, like he was mentally upgrading the kid's status above that of everyone else, everyone, one might just suspect, the feathergoth considers as really amusing retards. But that may be a wrong impression. The moment passes anyway.

Trace returns your smile, again somewhat shyly, which seems to be a pattern whenever he's congratulated for his sobriety. Well, not sobriety, since the scent of marijuana does hang rather thickly over the somewhat grubby little artist, but junk-free anyway. "Thanks, TooFar," he says quietly, hazel eyes lifting to the sidewalk trailing out ahead of him. "I do 'perciate it." He pronounces it Southern, purr-shee-ate; little slips in his calm, predominantly light cajun drawl. For a stretch of the walk after that he is quiet, the set of his shoulders relaxing again, and finally his hands slipped free of his pockets to swing free at his sides.

[Travel spam. The boys walk to Dairy Queen, which doesn�t really exist on the grid, but we�ve got spiffing imaginations.]

The featherwaif saddles up to the counter, offering the girl behind it - who looks about his age, just a middleclass suburbanite instead of a streetrat - a winning and roguish smile, "Hey there, babe." TooFar, casanova. "I'll have one of those banana split things, kay? An' m'real cool dude friend here's gonna have a..." He glances back. What is Trace having?

Trace's smile to the girl is not quite roguish. In fact, it's downright awkward, with a blush at the fringes leftover from your introduction. Amateur. "M'gonna have... a cheese burger with catchup an' pickles." Seems the burgers don't suck so much that he doesn't want one. "And, um." He looks to TooFar. "You gotta sundae coupon? Coz a sundae sounds good. With extra cherries."

The featherwaif nods with finality, smiling at the girl through those bright skyblue eyes of his, eyes ringed with black makeup. It's actually a slightly unnerving combination, but no one seems to have told TooFar this, "Kay, two burgers," - he seemed to remember he needs protein too, or what passes for it here - "A 'nana split an' a' sundae." He leans in at the poor girl, winking causing her to redden and blush with his addition of, "With extra cherrrries." The 'r' is rolled in a manner that might cause the scene to be upgraded from G to PG13.

Trace keeps most of his laugh contained behind a smooth stroke of his mouth with one too-casual hand, his eyes peeking at the girl with an expression that's amused waxing apologetic, like 'This guy just followed me in here. I've never seen him before.' But when he looks back to TooFar, hand falling away, there's affection in his smile. "Thank you, drive through." A nudge. "I'll get spoons an' stuff. One sec." See Dairy Queen girl, TooFar's just paying coz I have to get spoons. I'll pay him back at the table or something, seriously. He trots over to the little spoon/straw/condiment stand and cheerfully plucks from several of the round containers sunk into the tacky red counter. Apparantly 'stuff' contains straws, salt packets, pepper packets, some horseradish, and some of those bright red combination spoon-straws. But napkins? We don't need no steenkin' napkins. Go fig.

TooFar, who'd started to draw some rather unfriendly glances from other employees, the manager, and someone who looks like the highschool linebacker who's manning the grill and is very likely the girl's boyfriend, measures the atomosphere and judges that now would be a good time to pay and take the food. It's Trace's day, after all. Can't go an' get yerself tossed out of the DQ on Trace's day. At least not without having eaten first. And thus he pays, in small bills and loose chain, grabs the tray and heads off to find the guest of honour. But not without another wink and suggestive glance for the girl. And the linebacker. He joins Trace with a happy sigh and a grin. "I have to come here more often." The tray is set down and the foodstuffs divied up, "There an ashtray here somewhere?"

Trace looks around. Hmm, this doesn't seem to be the smoking section. But it's close, and after all close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and Dairy Queens. So he ducks out of the table and snatches up an ash trey from a couple rows down and sets it down in front of TooFar. Then it's back into his seat, as he takes his sundae eagerly. Heh. He looks back towards the girl behind the counter. Maybe she turned red at TooFar's advances, but it seems to have paid off in Trace's point of view. Five cherries, rock on!

He ignores his banana split initially, does TooFar, instead unwrapping his burger and paying it careful study uncase it was mined or something. Can't trust linebacker linecooks. Or maybe he's just a paranoid nut. Either way, he seems satisfied and adds the standard trinity if condiments to his assemblyline food. Ketchup, relish, mustard. Reapplying the top bun, he sighs at it, like offering a silent prayer to the fast food gods. "Sad lookin', ain't it?" The burger sits there, looking sad. All hot food at DQ looks sad, but that's beside the point. "I mean, theoretically, this used t'be a real live animal, man. Kinda sucks that it turns out to be a real shittin' lookin' burger." TooFar shakes his head somber. "I mean, where's the justice in that?" The featherwaif, quite clearly, must be short a few little bulbs in his Christmas tree. He smiles once, a giggle almost, and starts into his burger without another word, probably leaving the increasing impression that this kid is just not right in the head.

Trace must take a few huge bites of gooey fudge sloppy sundae first before even touching the burger. It's part of his mantra or something; go for dessert first. But as you start to go on about sorrowful burgers that never lived up to their full potential, he looks to his wrapped cheeseburger, and then tears the wrapper off. Does his look sad? Hmm. Yeah, it does. But he grins as he acknowledges, "Huh, guess you're right. I mean, even if it'd wound up a whopper or something it'd prolly be a happier slab of beef, eh?" He tugs the bun away from the burger -- the side that's not permenantly melded to the meat with too-orange cheese -- and starts his own ritual. Catchup, horseradish, salt, pepper, all casually sprinkled onto the meet. He peels a pickle away from the goopy mess and nips at it experimentally, then swipes it quickly into the fudge and ice cream like he were dipping a chip in salsa. The chocolate-smeared pickle is popped into his mouth, and then the bottom bun is pressed back down onto the upside-down burger. He takes a healthy bite, jaws working greedily.

Around mouthfuls of thoughtfully chewed burger, TooFar agrees, "Yeah, man. Burger King's s'ok. Denny's is pretty cool." Bite, munch munch munch, swallow, "But I think the proper appreciation t'yer average cattle is better shown with a nice homemade barbaque, or a patti at a nice, family owned kinda place. Y'know, where they make it 'emselves." The burger is quickly finished, DQ not really selling the biggest ones in the world, "It's all spiritual, man," doth say the featherwaif, pausing to take a sip from his coke (we didn't forget those, nosir), "An' doin' this t'an animal is jus' wrong, y'know? There's no, y'know, connection." The wrapper is scrunched up into a ball as he, through a somber looking crooked grin, studies his bananasplit thoughtfully. Only TooFar could manage a somber looking crooked grin.

Trace's mouth is kept quite full on account of his enthusiastic scarfing, so he just nods his agreement and appreciation for your theories on the goals and success of fast food meat. Finally there's just a tiny pinch of cheeseburger left, so he plunges it into the ice cream, squish, and then pops it into his mouth, slurping fudge and sweet gooey white off his fingers with no manners whatsoever. Wiping his sticky hand on his jeans carelessly, he comments when he notices you eyeing up the banana split, "Don't go'n tell me that 'nana didn' die a beautiful death, though. I mean, 'coulda been shrivled up an' dried fer some health food mix, 'r dropped by the banana slave picker dudes in Zimbabwe or whatever an' left t'rot." He smiles at your dessert. "Naw, this one had it good. I'd love t'go that way. Drowned in ice cream an' chocolate, hell yeah."

He chuckles, does the featherwaif, grinning at Trace like he was nuts. "You shittin' me man? I ain't worried 'bout no fruit." The dessert in question is pulled forward and dug into, "Fruit don't count, cuz the tree still live, right?" Jeez, some people. Uneducated. Mmmm, banana split. "An'way, I happen t'kinda like dried fruit, man. Good for ya. Low in preservatives. Closer t'the source, y'know?" The cherry is eaten, followed by a couple spoonfuls of banana mixed with ice cream, "An'way, I don' think y'get 'nana's from Zimbabwe."

"Y'don't think?" Trace muses, and swirls his spoon in his ice cream thoughtfully, black-brown swirling with the creamy white and submerging some of his cherries. "Yeah..." he grins broadly, eyes distant upon the sundae, as though he's reading the answer there. Fuck tea leaves. "Yeah, they do. They got fields'a 'nana trees in Zimbabwe. Big yellow-gem clusters that hang right in reach, an' the elephants kin pull 'em down with their gator-gift noses..." A cherry slips under, and is churned back up again, painted white. "An' there's crystal rivers what cut through Zimbabwe, twistin' an' feedin' the 'nana trees... An' the slaves with their lashed backs 'n beaded skin sneak away, an' dive in for a moment like heaven... sploosh!" He jabs at the ice cream with his spoon-straw, but it doesn't make a very satisfying splash. "An' all the rives lead to a waterfall. S'called Angel Falls. I saw a picture in history class. An' it's tall as Niagra, but slender, with mists that tumble out to fog the trees..." He trails off and looks up, blushing, like being caught and abruptly pulled from a trance. He drops his eyes to his ice cream again sheepishly.

The featherwaif idly regards Trace as he masticlates his banana split. "You live in a pretty cool world, man," TooFar muses in humour. There's nothing judgemental about this, not like some parent scolding a kid for daydreaming, just a sort of mild appreciation, "Guess I'm gonna have t'visit th' place sometime, an' check it out for ya." Most folks would say something like that just to humour Trace, the streethgoth says it like it's been added to his upcoming schedule. Future: Visit Zimbabwe. Back in the present is his melting banana split, which he works on finishing.

Trace's smile is hesitant, but finally blooms as you decide to visit Zimbabwe for him. "Gotta tell me what you see in it," he agrees, digging into his ice cream with his fingers now and fishing out two cherries. They're quickly devoured, stem and all, sucking one into the pocket of each cheek and then crushing them between his teeth with relish. Which is not to say that he chased the sweet red fruits with a slurp of the condiment, but actually just enjoyed them plenty. Not that it'd be wise putting such a mouthful beyond the strange realm of the bluecap's tolerant palatte.

Dessert now finished, TooFar leans back a little and pulls out a cigarette, held in wait for the most opportune moment. The smoke is bic'd up and sharply inhaled, the short span of dinner enough to cause the blood to hurt and demand payment. The featherwaif even seems to relax a little, not that he was visibly tense before. "Mmmm, cool. That was a nice 'split." The burger... well, if you have nothing polite to say...

Trace had been gabbing much of the time you got to spend working on that split, lost in banana fields and chasing dream rivers. So now he works double-time to finish off his ice cream and catch up with you. "So what you been up to while I been layin' low?" he wonders between shoveled mouthfuls. "Things still insane at Grace's place? I mean, Jill's?" Two more bites of ice cream, and then he's down to the scraping stage, pooling melted ice cream into the cradel of his spoon and slurping what little remains.

"Yep," TooFar agrees, "Friggin' nut house. I'd swear," grins the feathergoth, obviously the essence of all that is sane and normal, "Everyone in that place is batty as shit. They're soooo screwed up." And he laughs, reaching across teh table to tap off his cigarette over the ashtray, "Social case study right there, man. Volume's worth." And this he finds funny. Perhaps that's why he stays. "I'd avoid the place, man, it's a friggin' pharmacy. Intense stress levels." Chuckle, puff. Smile.

"Yeah," Trace agrees, lips twisting a little at the thought of the Dysfunctional's ever-present chaos. "I can't barely stand it there lately," he sighs. "I wouldn't ever go but for Grace. But even when I do go see her, I run into that fucker Flagg or something else totally screwy happens. I dunno. Next time I'm makin' Grace crawl outta that hole if she wanna hang." Coz yeah, that girl just follows him around. Wrapped around his lil' finger, you bet. He smiles with chagrin and corrects himself delicately, "I mean. I'll suggest it. Coz like, I dunno, that whole place just sucks you in like some evil Jerry Springer black hole or something. Totally brings you down."

Trace tips his head and considers. Well, totally brings down everyone except perhaps TooFar, you magic perkigoth you.

It apparently doesn't bring TooFar down. It's apparently a never ending source of amusement for him. But we've established that the featherwaif is different quite strongly, "Yeah, I think she should get outta there. Mind you, she'd gone and made a room fer herself up in the attic, locked an' all, so she might be tryin' t'chill or somethin'. All that stress is bad fer her leg." The now used cigarette chainlights it's replacement before being crushed out in the ashtray. "I suprised none a' those guys have ulcers." And he smiles. Friggin' batshit perkigoth.

Trace gives a little wicked laugh at the thought of Flagg and Nash and all those punks getting ulcers. "Grace's leg's feelin' better. She kin' walk without limpin' round no more. Prolly still' makin' good use'a them painkillers though." He starts to grin, but then purses his lips. Hmm, yeah, Grace is getting some good shit and not even illegally, but best not think on that, really. Onto new topics. "So where you stayin' if you ain't holed up there no more? I mean, like I said, I totally don't blame you, but y'know.. You out on the street r'what?" Hey, that's something to consider: which would Trace pick, if forced to choose between the warm, roofed shelter of Jill's house -- with all that insanity and Flagg breathing down his neck -- or a oil drum or box shelter? Huh. He's really not sure, but leaning towards the latter.

With all the apparent nonchalance of someone who quite honestly doesn't care if the roof over their heads is properly insulated, tarpaper, a treebranch or cardboard, the perkigoth shrugs, "Don't much matter, man, so long as it's free." He grins around his cigarette, exhaling through his nose as he pulls the cancerstick away, "Don't matter at all. But I'm still havin' fun at Gracie's. Those guys are a laugh. If that stops workin' out, I can find someplace else t'crash, or jus' sleep in th' park or somethin'." He smiles easily, shirking his shoulders again, "Don't matter at all. Things work out."

Trace seems to be mulling over something as you suggest the park as an option in case life doesn't work out at the home of the Dysfunctionals. Downcast eyes on the table, he absently sucks sweet grenadine from the cherry flesh, his very last one tucked away in one cheek, unchewed. Finally, with the fruit still chipmunked away and bulging one cheek just a little, he looks up and offers seriously, "Y'could stay in my summer home, if you didn't have no place t'go." A little grin and he looks down shyly. "I stay at Walker's now, y'know? I only use it when I'm fightin' with them, or need time t'think 'r somethin'. But, um. It's cool, I mean, it's jest this little place... It's kinda magic. But anyway, you could stay there if you ever need, an' if you promise t'not hurt the pictures hung there." He hitches a tiny shrug, hazel eyes finding yours again. Seems it's a big deal to him. "I mean, I know ya got everything taken care of prolly. I jest... You been a friend, y'know? An' f'the dinner an' ice cream an' wantin' to go to Zimbabwe, s'the least I can do. So if ya ever need, jest ask an I'll show ya the door."

"Oh, so that place y'were talkin' 'bout's real?" See? Told ya TooFar would find out eventually. It's what he does. "Sure, man, I'd like t'know 'bout it." Places to hide are good. The perkigoth has had need of them in the past, "Cool. Doncha worry 'bout it, I'll take right care a' the place whenever I'm 'round. I'll even, like, dust or something." The featherwaif grins, crushing out the newest cigarette. No he won't. Streetrats don't dust. But he'll certainly take care of the place otherwise.

"Yeah, s'real, but I don't think it needs no dustin'," the blue-haired kid grins. "Dunno, you'll see. It's a safe place." He peers down into his empty sundae container with disappointment. Not even any more melted dribbles to scrape up. But then he remembers his forgotten cherry stored away and chews up that. After a moment he explains, "Can't really tell ya, jest gotta show ya. Dunno. M'sure I'll see ya at the playground again sometime, an' I'll show ya." He shines a grin at you and all but winks. "N'maybe you'll finally have a reason to show sides disecting my poor fruit trees."

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