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Log Title: Confessions and Fun With Mescal

Log setting: Playground at night, the evening after the grey house on Moss st. gets trashed.

Log Cast:
TooFar
Trace
Wendy

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The perkigoth is here. Woo. He's over on the slide, lying on it like it was some sort of inclined lawnchair, absorbing water. He has a bottle with him and seems in good spirits. Of course, he always seems in good spirits.

Trace enters the park at a half-run, glancing behind him occasionally. While moving quickly, it isn't a clumsy gait. He paces through the dark lawn and, upon approaching the trees, slows to a walk, sticking to the shadows. Something's got the boy paranoid. His breath comes in a quiet, steady rasp, winded from the risky journey here.

A head lifts a little, TooFar peeking up to see what's incoming. Someone. Well, duh. Can't quite see yet, not with the sun currently somewhere on the other side of the world, so the perkigoth sits up, in cheerful preparation. Streetkids tend to quickly learn an urban form of situational awareness. Keep yourself in one piece longer that way, and the feathered waif likes all his happy parts, thankyou.

The bluecap's strides were silent, even somewhat graceful, but they skid to an awkward halt in the wet grass when he backpeddles a step upon seeing that he's not alone. He blinks and then twitches a smile of recognition. "TooFar. Oh, hey, man." A hand is raked through bright blue braids so frazzled they're obviously starting that slow morph into dreadlocks. "Life been good to ya?"

A cherry ember glows, the perkigoth working on shortening his lifespan another couple of minutes, "Oh, s'cool man. Y'know." And he grins, seeming a little out of sync with himself. As if to provide reason, TooFar takes a swig of the glass bottle he has with him. Near empty, the contents a mystery in this light, but it's a fair assumption it's alcoholic. Which means either the featherwaif has the stamina of an ox, or when he started the bottle was half empty already. He doesn't look particularly wasted, so probably the latter. "What's." A minor beat in the tempo of his conversation. Like mentioned, he's not quite following his own time, "What's new?"

Trace pads over to you and stands a moment, but decides spur of the moment that he'd rather be seated and plants himself down at the base of the slide, crosslegged. The wet grass is already starting to seep up through the tattered denim of his jeans, but he ignores it and fumbles around inside his jacket, coming up with a slender joint. Dry spells suck, so you spread it out, make it last. Shoulders hitch and he mumbles, "Took some sweet revenge last night." A little moon curve of a grin, but it disappears as he purses lips around the jay and fires it up.

"Cool." TooFar is all for sweet revenge, an odd, slightly glistening figure on the slide, sitting there in the slide in his feathered jacket, skyblue eyes on the imaginary side of luminescient, "Revenge. Is lots of fun. Y'know." He takes a long, slow draw from his cigarette, the time passing measurably before he bothers to exhale and continue, "Anyone I. Know? And why?" His speech pattern is screwed. Sounds like an altogothic William Shatner.

"Maybe someone y'know," Trace admits, and takes a long pull from his joint before explaining further. He holds it languidly, but finally blows it out in a slow blue cloud and rumbles, "If y'know Ben 'n Walker, y'know em. It was their house. And why we did it's coz they stole everything from us. S'all gone. So we went'n fucked their shit up. Threw trash all over th'house. Emptied alla drawers n' closets." He giggles half-heartedly. "Jason found all these razors 'n needles in the bathroom trash can, so he went an' dropped each one into a water bottle in the fridge an' put it back." He waves the joint up towards you, but his look is somewhat uncertain. You do look rather fucked up already, after all.

The featherwaif regards the dub for a moment, as comprehension sorts itself out. Smoke. Not tobacco. Hmmm. Another moment is wasted as he figures out the logistics of what to do with his current smoke so he can work on the other, without losing his bottle. TooFar finally figures this out - it was really about ten seconds, but it seemed forever to the perkigoth - and grabs the dub, toking up a decent lungful. And holding it. In that I-have-something-to-say-but-as-you-see-I'm-otherwise-occupied manner. "Stole yer stuff?" TooFar finally asks as he lets it out and returns the grass to you.

Trace plucks the jay from your fingers and takes his pull, nodding thoughtfully. "More'n 'at," he rasps airlessly, and blows his smoke out a little early in favor of explaining it. "They like... stole our lives. We had this perfect family, right? Like... So much calmer, n'truer n' that house of Jill's on Chart'n Gov. It was Real, y'know? Or I thought." He shakes his head. "No. No, it WAS real. But they went'n fucked it over. Fer some stupid sex! Howzit worth it? I don't understand... Went'n fucked around with Batiste an' broke Jason's heart. N'mine too, coz we'll never be a family like we was. Now it's like me an' Jason 'gainst the world, out on the street again. An' we're makin' it, right? But it's jest... it's lonelier." He soft sigh, and he pulls in another hard toke. Again said with a croak, to hold the smoke in as he speaks, "An' Walker doan' even act sorry."

"Th' assholes," TooFar agrees mildly, taking a swig from his bottle, which he then thoughtfully offers you. Of course, he really wasn't following it, not beyond 'Walker & Batiste bad', 'Trace & Jason good'. Complex social interaction isn't something the perkigoth has ever really had a head for, especially not now. "Assholes," the damp featherwaif repeats for good measure, "Where y'stayin' now?"

"Caddy's 'partment," he shrugs, and takes the bottle, peering into it dubiously. "She said we could... stay there. Long's we liked." He's somewhat distracted as he speaks now, his interest on the bottle. "What is this stuff?" he finally asks. "Z'it booze?" Well, dumb question, considering TooFar's state. "Smell's funny," he decides.

"T'quila, man. S'good. For ya." Yeah, evidently. The perkigoth seems to be in some sort of strobe world. "That's cool. Of Caddy. She's cool." TooFar grins oddly, as he finishes off the cigarette and stylishly flicks it in a random direction, the cherry spinning through the air and disappearing in the wet grass some yards away, "I like Caddy." Duh. The perkigoth likes everyone.

"Here y'go, man," Trace passes the bottle back without taking a drink; maybe, he hopes, in your inebriated state you won't notice. "An' yeah... yeah, Caddy's real cool. While we was rippin' the place apart, we also made off with this cool bong'a Walker's. We're gonna give it to her, like fer a present, or jest coz, since we ain't helpin' with no rent 'r nothing. We're broke as hell. Hope she likes it, anyway." He peers at the half-joint, noticing it's gone out while bottles were being passed and he was running his mouth. He takes out the cheap plastic bic again to relight it, but just before the fire touches the end he reconsiders, and the flame blinks out of existance. Both joint and lighter are carefully pocketed. He shrugs and explains himself, probably unnecessarily, "Green's slim all over."

The perkigoth doesn't much notice the lack of a sample of his nice, fine Mescal, but he doesn't seem the sort of be forcing anything on anyone anyway. All's easy with the featherwaif, "Yeah. Caddy's cool. Lot less stressed. Out then where I'm. At." He grins to himself, face illumated by a flare from his lighter, another cigarette ignited, "Gets pretty crazy. I think I'm th' only. Sane person there." Which is entirely a matter of perspective, of course. It's quite possible he's the most batshit. But that's a judgement call as well.

Wendy steps in from the park.

TooFar is sitting on the bottom of the slide, Trace crosslegged in the grass nearby. The former is drinking from some mostly empty bottle and smoking a cigarette, engaged in conversation with the latter. Yes, it's 2 in the am. Yes, it's dark out. And yes, Wendy is wandering through the park, hands tucked in her pockets as if she hasn't a care in the world. Her course is laid in and set; the pair of boys over thataways.

Well, sanity aside, Trace is far more comforted by your easy-going nature. Even in strobe mode. He smiles and says agreeably, "Yeah... yeah, I kin' see that. It's funny. They're all flingin' their shit at each other and clawin' at each other's hearts, n' y'jest seem t'let it all run past ya. Jest let it all amuse ya." He chuckles. The boy doesn't seem to see Wendy yet. It's dark, she's quiet, so perhaps it's unsurprising.

The perkigoth has a better angle and maintains some sort of spacial awareness unhindered (well, somewhat unhindered) by his advanced state of inebration. He'll glance over at the incoming shadow, his own position given away by the little laser red dot of cherry ember, set glowing by another sharp intake of nicotine. "Well, I don't wanna. Get an ulcer. Y'know?" But he carries on talking, without comment, waiting for the person to present themselves.

Wendy's voice is a bit odd, coming from the darkness. The rasp is just a bit harsher than usual. "The city hero and his companion... how are we this evening, my dear?" She could be speaking to either of them. Once the words are out, she actually steps close enough to be seen, putting face to voice.

"Hello, Wendy-maiden," Trace greets softly once the woman reveals herself. "Lookin' fer Jason? Coz he's out 'n about again. Keep catchin' me when he's gone. But he might drop by later... Anyway, I think you oughta hang out in case he do, an' even more coz I miss yer stories. Will you tell me one sometime soon? Coz I need one."

Wendy takes the few steps needed to reach Trace's side, and sinks down to sit next to him. "Whenever you like, my dear. Now, or later?"

TooFar raises his hand in greeting at Wendy, cigarette sticking out from waggling fingers. "Hey," he offers, in a friendly and slightly odd manner. The bottle is Mescal, and he's been enjoying it by the look of things, "Howzit goin'?" This is followed, at length since his sync is all off, by, "I know you. Right?"

Wendy dips her head in a nod towards TooFar, lips twitching a bit in a faint smile. "Of course you do, my dear. Years, we've known each other." Her rasp is oh-so slightly amused.

The perkigoth bobs his head in a faint nod, still grinning as is his habit, not getting that all. But he knows he's drunk, so he's come to expect that he'll not be understanding a sizable portion of what's said to him, "Oh. Cool." Goes with the flow, does TooFar, "What's new?"

Trace looks between Wendy and TooFar curiously. "You guys known eachother that long? Huh." He grins a little, but there's a strain to it, things still weighing on his mind. "Hey, guys. I gotta slip into my fort t'take care of some stuff. I'll be back though, an' when I am, Wendy's gotta tell me her story. Kay?" He picks himself up off the grass, with a smile for both friends. "I'll jest be a few minutes."

Erich pads silently out of the trees. Cat. Playground. Sand. Natural connection.

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