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Log Title: No Big Thing

Setting: The playground, three days after Trace emerged from his detox exile.

Log Cast:
Trace
Caddy

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Trace is just emerging from the bushes. However it is a slow process, and punctuated by his annoyed muttering; he's got a plastic grocery bag with him, but it's gotten caught on the tangles of foilage that make up the entrance to the boy's 'summer home'.

So..you know, there's Caddy. Loitering. Like any well trained street rat. She lingers at the entrance of the playground, bloodshot eyes surveying but not really seeing much. A cigarette is pressed between her pale lips, of course. Couldn't survive without that. Just stick it in her vein. "Hey Trace..." she mumbles when the boy emerges, after an initial start and wide-eyed look. Because the bushes around here have been known to contain some...monsters. But she knew it was you. Yeah, yeah. She's cool. "What's up?"

Trace starts too as you greet him, since to the best of his knowledge this playground was empty when he crawled *into* the bushes. He straightens, abandonning his plastic bag to hang there among the sharp branches. It'll be the fort's brand new noble crest, the honerable Household of Big Bear. Til' he finally yanks the damn thing free anyway. Hazel eyes survey you briefly -- darker eyes, it seems, though it's an illusion caused by larger pupils. He offers a little smile. "Hey, Caddy."

Caddy grins back wanly, folding her arms and leaning on the nearest piece of wooden playground adornment. Booted feet stretch out to support her frail body. Looks like a chopstick when she stands like that. "Hey Trace," she repeats in a mutter, a cloud of cigarette smoke expelled from her mouth. But wait. Blink. The redhead stares at you for a long moment, as if really seeing you for the first time. "Are you clean then?" she queries casually, as if talking about the weather. Extradition of hard drugs from the system. No big thing. "I mean....you're...outside."

"Uh." Trace looks somewhat sheepish, glancing down and shoving his hands in his pockets, eyes trailing along the grass at his feet. "Yeah, I am... outside." A quirk of a grin. "And clean." He lifts his shoulders in a shrug, pulls his hands out of his pockets again and resumes his tugging on the plastic grocery bag. It finally comes free, torn. "I was cleanin' out my fort... There was stuff in there." A blush. "Not... I mean.. jest, um. Old spoons and stuff, not actual.. *stuff* stuff." You know. Stuff. "Whatever. I mean, I jest, I don't really like shit lyin' around remindin' me, so I was just gettin' it outta here."

Caddy grins at your behavior. Thinking you have to explain yourself to her. "It's cool, Trace..." she murmurs quietly, removing the smoke from between her lips and looking at the bag faintly. Stuff, huh? "I could throw it away for you," the redhead offers casually. Yeah. 'Throw it away for you'. "I mean...'cause your friends wouldn't wanna have you...they might be thinkin'...Since you're clean now and all..." Well, whatever. This attempt at being subtle isn't really getting her anywhere, so she just falls silent and continues to puff away on the stick that will surely be her premature death.

Trace's smile grows slightly less embarrassed, almost grateful, and he nods a little. "Okay. I mean, coz yeah. It'd be awkward explainin' why I'm carryin' a bag of trash like this around. They.. they'd believe me, but anyway. It'd be easier if you could help me." He hands the bag over, and within are, as he said, a couple old blackened spoons, as well as some cotton balls, a beat up water bottle, and some crusted, browned pieces of foil. "I already passed my gear off to TooFar. Said he'd hang onto it if this all fell through. I gotta find him sometime... Tell him I want him to jest get rid of it. Coz, y'know. I'm doin' this for real."

Sure. Caddy is just the best little helper. She accepts the bag readily, peering down into the plastic depths with slitted eyes. Slightly disappointed that it is just trash like you promised. A gal can hope though, can't she? "Sure thing Trace..." she mutters in reply to the gratitude, unzipping her backpack and dumping the plastic bag in with the rest of the junk in there. "Yeah...TF..." Thoughtful, that. As if she's contemplating the fact that he's holding your gear. A faintly devious look in her eye, a plotting smile blossoming over her face at some secret little thought she's having in that red head. "I mean....yeah. That's cool that you're doing it, Trace. Way to go, man...." The smile turns into a full fledged grin as she reaches out to swipe at you with one skinny hand. A victory pat. And even though she does have a mischievous look to her right now, the girl seems to be sincere in her felicitation. "I'll buy ya a fuckin' ice cream cone."

Trace smiles wistfully, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his too-baggy jeans. "Hey, thanks Caddy. I mean.. you don't gotta, coz y'know, people talk like it's some big thing I did, but all it really was, s'jest me fuckin' up and gettin' un-fucked up. I mean. It's nothing that... great, like something to be proud of. I was jest... a stupid fuck in the first place, to let it get away from me." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, then looks to you. "Be careful with it. You still doin' anything with it, since that one day?" He grins a little, somewhat sheepishly, because it's still a fond memory in spite of the hell he's been through over junk. "I was stupid, I fucked it up, y'know? But I'm jealous of you. I wish I could start over, do it right next time. Coz it's jest... if you don't let it own you, it's jest.. the best..." He trails off and licks his lips. Gee. Maybe he oughta change the subject.

Caddy's grin broadens, bringing the swiping hand up to her head to scratch thoughtfully. "Yeah...well, fuckin' right. Sometimes getting un-fucked is fuckin' hard, right? Don't discount yourself. Fuckin' discounting the positive or something," she declares. What? She probably read that in Cosmopolitan or something. "Yer not stupid. We just lose our way sometimes..." She should really be a shrink. The redhead thrusts her hand into her pocket, producing her pack of battered cigarettes and staring at them thoughtfully. "Well...not really. I mean, Nash kind of broke the stuff that I had...and I haven't really..you know. Where am I gonna get it? From Elizabeth?" Yeah, right. Miss DARE herself? That'll happen. "So...whatever. You know." Yeah, you know. The girl runs her fingertip over the top of the white pack, still pensive about something. "But whatever."

"Ohh.." Trace looks at you. "You don't know where to score? I mean, there's places, it ain't hard." There's places. Geez, he's so specific. "Um." That bashful look again. He scuffs at a tuft of grass. "I'd take you, but, y'know." Oh, THAT would be a lovely fun situation to get into. Bring detox boy back to his dealer's doorstep. "Goin' there'd kinda be... bad. I mean, hard. At this time. I prolly could if I hadn't jest gotten done with dryin' out, and I'm stronger about.. things. But anyway, I could try to jest 'splain the directions m'self if you wanted."

Aren't you sweet? Showing a girl where to get her drugs! Caddy smiles at you tenderly, looking as if she's resisting the urge to reach out and tousle blue braids. "Ain't no big thing, Trace..." she murmurs, finally pushing whatever thought she was having to the back of her mind while flipping open her pack of cigarettes. "I mean...well, if you wanna gimme a map, sure...but don't put yourself out or nothin'. 'Cause it's not like any big thing." Makes a person wonder if anything is a really big thing to Caddy. She places one of her coffin nails between her lips, whipping out her lighter and sparking the thing up with flourish. "I gotta quit this shit..." she mumbles, motioning her head at the smoking cigarette in her hand. "S'takin' all my money...." Her green eyes flick away from you absently to gaze vacantly at another part of the playground. Empty stare. Lights are on, but no one is home.

Trace chuckles a little. "That's mostly why I don' smoke. Also specially, it just don' seem to *do* much. Dunno. If I'm gonna smoke, I'll smoke weed or something." He rolls his shoulders in a hunched shrug without removing his hands from his pockets. "Anyway, ain't no thing, splainin' directions. Guess I'd show you to Keats' place. He don't rip you off. He's a good guy, even if his place is a dump. Rocket's the other connection I know of... He's got an awesome crashpad. S'like some psychadelic opium den or something. Anyway, he pretty much tries to keep hold'a alla' Jackson Square and the French Quarter 'round it. But anyway, he's all expensive an' shit, but you can go to him for fancy stuff. I usually couldn't afford him. Anyway, dunno which of those is for you."

Is Caddy picky? Certainly not. The girl floats out of her reverie at the mention of her pet hobby of sorts, grinning. "I've got some pot...If you want..." she mumbles. Of course! Never leave home without it. "But...uh....fuck. Here..." One of her pale hands darts out to rip open one of the smaller zip parts of her backpack, producing her sketchpad and a pencil. "You can write the directions to both, and then I can fuckin' choose." A buffet of sorts. Pick and choose and fill your plate! "S'at cool?"

Well, now that you mention it... This whole kicking junk deal is leaving Trace quite the pothead, actually. He grins broadly and suggests with a slick smile, "Tell you what. You spark a blunt fer us to share, an' I'll draw yer maps. Z'at work?" He takes the pencil and sketchpad from you. Resisting the urge to intrude and flip through to see some of your other drawings, he turns directly to a blank page at the back, considering it thoughtfully.

Caddy sniffs, never losing that grin as she digs back into her bag of wonders. "That reminds me...I mean...my sketchpad. I got you a Christmas present..or a junk free present. I dunno if yer Jewish...." she says seriously as she produces a bag of green, a pack of rolling papers, and a lighter. "I thought I already had one rolled..." the redhead muses quietly, more a thought out loud than anything. "Fuck..." More rooting around in the disaster area known as her backpack takes place as she continues with her previous thought..."I mean..I got you a special one, and then me and Cathy kind of worked on one together...."

See, wasn't he polite? Not just gonna draw your maps, but he wants to share the j with you. He coulda just been like 'gimme weed, bitch!' Okay, then he wouldn't be Trace. He drops down sit in the grass crosslegged and sets the sketchpad on his lap. He looks up at you with surprise. "Wha..? I mean. Cool. I jest." He shakes his head a little, still off-guard, and gives an open, pleased smile. "Christmas works. Or a junk free present. I mean, I'm not Jewish. I'm not really anything." He tips his head to the side, looking up at you. "I jest... I don't have anything for you, though. I didn't 'spect nothing."

"Oh, it's cool..." Caddy mumbles absently, kind of consumed in the search for her pre-rolled joint. "I mean...I saw it, and I went...that is -so- Trace. You know..? I kind of had to get it for you...It's a sketch pad. A purple one..." For Purple Trace. Get it? "I got Cath a red one...I mean, I have it in here...I just have to find this fuckin' joint first..." And as if on cue, she removes the long, white stick from God knows where in that pack. "Finally..." she breathes, smiling triumphantly. She has conquered her backpack! The redhead too settles down on the grass, putting the joint in her mouth and poising her lighter for ignition. "You didn't want first, did you?"

"Awesome," Trace smiles brightly. "Purple. F'purple me. Thanks, Caddy. That's perfect, coz really I been fillin' up my usual one an' I don't got 'nuff pages left to last me through the month, I don't think." At your question, he shakes his head and says, "Go 'head. Get it goin', an' I'll start this thing." The pencil is held poised, and he then he taps the eraser against the paper thoughtfully, trying to visualize it. "I'll do Keats first," he decides aloud, but sounds as though he's speaking to himself. First he slashes the page through with a dark-pressed line of graphite to seperate it, and then writes out KEATS in tiny block letters at the top of the first section and ROCKET on the lower section. The pencil starts to scritch softly as he starts the first map. "Ought've gotten y'self a green sketchpad," he murmurs, as the thought occurs to him. "F'Green you."

Oh, go on. Caddy grins faintly as she sparks the lighter and inhales on the joint in a huge sucking motion. The girl has lungs like a vaccuum. "I..uh..figured you'd like it. And I wanted to get you something that you'd really like...." Her eyes water faintly as she pulls the joint back, trying to keep the smoke in as long as she can. Looks like she's about to explode. But she continues to talk, in that strained voice. "And I kinda figured you'd like that, right? I mean...well, I woulda gotten one for myself, but then it wouldn't have been as special. As a gift, you know?" Her runny eyes watch your map drawing as she finally blows out the cloud of acrid smoke, reaching over to hand you the joint. "Fuck. Careful. It's harsh...."

More familiar with Keats' place, that map comes easily for him. By the time you're holding the joint out for Trace, it's already finished, and he's pondering how to draw out the way to Rocket's elite little hideaway. His eyes are thoughtful as he takes the joint from too pinching fingers and pulls. His eyes go shinybright, and his shoulders shake a little with mirth he refuses to express in a smoke-escaping giggle. "Yeah," he agrees in an airless croak, "S'harsh alright." It's passed back to you. He looks down at the picture again and finally chuckles. "I can't draw out a way to Rocket's. I dunno. It's jest.. I mean, you go to Jackson Square, and there's this street, but I don't 'member it's name, and... Shit. Here. This is whatchya do. You go to Jackson Square, and you look for a little punk, like fourteen years old, with a Marvin the Martian hat on. He'll be there sellin' light shit on the Square. Clumsy fuck, surprised he ain't been caught yet. Anyway, you tell him you wanna see his friend, an' he'll take ya." The sketchbook is passed back to you. "Or show ya anyway."

This is all so..hard to understand. Caddy takes the joint back, pressing it between thumb and forefinger as she listens. "Who the hell is Marvin the Martian?" Guess she isn't a big fan of cartoons, huh? "I mean...oh...that little green guy that always wants to blow everything up? On Bugs Bunny or something?" She takes the jointless hand and forms it into a gun, pointing it at you. "Oh goodie!" she shrieks in her best alien voice, collapsing into a fit of giggles. Not a bad impression of the little guy. She even got one of the catch phrases. Snicker. "Okay....that's fuckin' cool...." Her eyes rest on the map appreciatively as she takes a hit off the joint, eyes watering plenty as she tries to hold the abrasive smoke in her lungs. "Here..." she croaks, passing it back to you.

"That'd be the guy," Trace laughs, surprised at your martian improv. He shakes his head a little, amused, and explains as he reaches for the joint, "S'like martians... Rocket.. y'know." He shrugs and takes another, longer hit off the j, but that was probably a mistake. He's only a hardcore potsmoker in training, y'see, and a pink-lunged non-smoker to boot. But it's kinda amusing, watching someone try to cough without letting their smoke escape. "God," he gasps, and now he's trying not to cough OR laugh. "Skankweed." Beggers can't be choosers, but at least they can be cheerful complainers. He hands it back.

Yeah..well ..when you're a stoner without much direction, all you do is sit around and watch TV, zoning out and giggling at cartoons. Caddy has probably worked on a thousand voices like that in her 'spare time'. Although she can't ever seem to remember the names of the characters. Wonder why. "Oooh...I get it..Martians and Rockets. So that's like a little code or something?" Clever! The redhead sucks hard on the joint, this time with minimal eye watering and no coughing. "Fuck off....it's good stuff," she breathes, giggling expertly without releasing any smoke. Don't call her the Pot Princess for nothin'! "So it's a little harsh. That's what makes it good." Yeah...no pain, no gain. She hands it back, finally releasing her lungful.

"It is, huh?" Trace murmurs around a quirked grin. And even as he reaches for it, he quips, "Coulda fooled me." Such an ungrateful little brat. He takes his hit, hisshisscracklehiss, and there's a stretch of silence as he holds his breath and passes it back. Once he's blown out his smoke, he says, "Anyway, what you should try sometime is this stuff my friend Doug shared with us this once. You'd really like it. The high was awesome. He called it..." His brow furrows a little. "What was it? It was like... Austrailian Thunderfuck. No, wait, Alaskan Thunderfuck. Um.." He grins. "That sounds more right, but Alaska's all too cold to grow weed. Well, fuck it; it was SOMETHING thunderfuck. And it was awesome."

Caddy sticks her tongue out at you playfully when you mock her drugs, squeezing her eyes shut to give the comical apperance of an overgrown kid. "Maybe it was.....African?" Hey, that starts with an A. The redhead shrugs lazily as she opens her eyes again, curling her tongue back into her mouth. "Uhm...well....me and Nadey did some really cool stuff once. Uhm...I forget what the name of it was." Typical. She clasps the joint, quickly becoming a roach, in her hand and goes at it. A huge hit. It's a wonder her eyes don't bug out of her head damn head. "Hey...d'ya wanna see the book...?" she asks, putting one of her hands over her mouth as if to keep the smoke there. "I mean, the sketch book...." Exhale. A large cloud of twisting, greyish white smoke drifts along the playground, and she watches it proudly. See what I did, Ma? "Here..." she hastily hands you back the joint as she begins to root through her backpack once more.

"Yeah, I wanna see!" Trace smiles brightly, snatching the joint back. He doesn't hit it immediately though, glancing back to look towards the bushes that hide his fort. "My sketchbook's in my bag... It's still in the fort." He looks back to you and offers, "We could trade, if you want." His smile is now shy when it lights upon his lips. "Some I'd be embarrassed to show, though." Though the skankweed is making him more open to sharing his sketchbook work than he'd usually be.

Caddy snickers, inclining her head toward her own book where she left it on the ground after seeing the map. "Yeah...I mean...that would be neat...'Cause I bet you have a lot of cool stuff. 'Cause...yeah." Seasoned pot smoker she is, the redhead is quite undoubtedly more than a little stoned. Usually pretty secretive about her art, too. "I mean....yeah...but I wanted to give you this now, because I'll forget..." Ta da! Merry Christmas. A shiny purple sketch book is produced out of the wilds of her backpack, painfully unused. "Here it is..." she mumbles, brushing off a candy wrapper clinging to the cover before tossing it at you unceremoniously. "Faaa la lala..." she giggles, dry condition of her mouth blossoming and becoming apparent by the thickness of her voice.

"My purple sketchbook!" Trace croons. Sticking the joint between his lips to free up his hands, he snatches up the shiny purple sketchbook and gazes at it with admiration. "Happy junk free day to me," he attempts to sing around the j, and it nearly falls from his lips. Seems he's pretty stoned too. He laughs and resettles it more comfortably in his mouth before running his fingers over the smooth cover like a kid with a new toy. "This is great, Caddy." He looks up, taking the joint from his lips now and holding it. "Here, lemme get my sketchbook. It's black, lots less cool than this one." He peers at the blunt. Did he hit it? Uhh... He decides he must've, since he's had it so long, and passes it off before standing up clumsily and heading back into the bushes. He's not in there long, and comes back with his canvas bag in tow. The brambles surrounding the fort's hidden entrance are more willing to give up Trace's beat up satchel, it seems, than the plastic bag of junk trash it tried to devour earlier. The little artist is already fumbling with the latches on his bag, pulling the old book out and replacing it with the purple one.

Stoned or no, you must be careful with the drugs. Caddy looks comically terrified when the joint almost falls out of your mouth, about ready to lunge forward in a last ditch attempt to save whatever little might be left inside the white paper. But thank God it doesn't come to that. "Yeah...I'm glad you like it, Trace...." she mutters through her relief, a grin on her face as she delicately receives the joint back and goes about the business of roaching it for another time. Very expert at it. Using her spit and everything. After that little matter is taken care of and all the drugs tucked safely away in her pack, she crawls over to you. Sitting back on her haunches, watching earnestly. Apparently she's all excited about this. Appraising another artist's work. "Hurry..." she complains. Not that it would matter if you were The Flash. It would still take too long.

Trace is definitely not the Flash. Damned evil satchel. It gets sooo much more complicated sometimes. Look at these snaps and buckles and zippers and things he has to fumble with for no real reason. Yank, yank. Get out here, trusty sketchbook. He looks down at it a moment, and then looks to yours. Well, here goes. He holds it out to you, as one presenting his child for you to cradle. "Here y'go." For all the seriousness with which he passed you the book, he's quick to break into a goofy grin as he gets his hands on yours.

Trace's sketch book:
Hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares and memories, all within the black covers of this 8" x 11" hardbound sketchpad. A glance through the pages reveals mostly artwork done in pastels, charcoal, chalk, or pencil, extra drawings done on everything from paper restaurant placemats to napkins tucked between between the pages like leaves. Now and again a written entry in untidy, hectic handwriting can be found as well.

Caddy's sketch book:
Ugly. Old. Weather beaten. This white sketch book has been to hell and back, barely hanging on by the black bindings at the top, with little hope of surviving another year of abuse. Red writing that may have once been a company name has smeared hopelessly in a river of crimson. Inside, though, dreams have been captured on paper. Every page is filled with something, from portraits to idle doodles on scraps of trash. On certain pages, two or three drawings have been jammed in together for want of space.

Trace runs gentle hands over the much abused cover of your sketch boook, and then looks up at you shyly. "Jest open to any page?" he wonders, fingers already itching to open up this book of your inner fancies, parting the pages just a little at random.

Caddy licks her lips thickly, staring at the cover of the black book for awhile. "Unh..oh...no.." She tucks your book under her arm, scooting over so that she's kneeled by your side. "Well, I mean...there's only a few good ones...Like, well...not that I'm being secretive about it or anything, but mostly I just draw stupid things...So you only wanna see the good ones, right?" The redhead flicks her hand out, the book falling open easily to a creased page. "There...I like this one..See? It's kind of like a forest. You know? When the butterflies kind of stay in the trees, and then you get a flood of light and they all sort of start to fly. It's really cool to watch..." She smiles, almost shyly, as she points at the page.

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Butterflies! A ton of butterflies. Brilliant, diminuitive creatures with gossamer wings the colors of the rainbow. They flit about in a dense canopy of trees easily, sunshine breaking through the parted leaves in dappled drops. This is done in some sort of colored ink, hues showing up on the stiff, white paper nicely. The view is one of someone who is laying on the ground, looking up at the insects flapping about.
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"Caddy..." Trace looks down upon the page with eyes that widen as he takes in the colorful swirl of dancing butterflies gracing the page, and his smile blooms slow and sweet. "Caddy, they're magic!" He laughs softly, reaching out to very gently touch the wings of of one of the closer insects, as though he expects it to flutter away at his touch. "They're really beautiful..." He looks up at you. "Wow." Looking down at his sketchbook in your hands, he offers, "Want me to find you a magic one, so you don't pick a real depressing one or something..?"

"Yeah..I mean...they are kind of magic..." Caddy agrees, touching one of the colored butterflies softly herself. "Because they just look like sticks, you know? And then if you lay there long enough...it's like a big cloud..." she trails off, regarding the picture silently for a moment. Gravely. "Uhm...what?" It takes a minute for it to register. But finally she twists her gaze down to the book in her hands, nodding slightly..."Yeah..here. Show me one of yours..." She holds the book out for you.

Trace leafs through the book quickly, flipflipflip, sometimes murmuring under his breath, "No.... no, not that one." Glimpses of bright red and gold and violet leap out between the turning of pages, and it seems he is fond of vivid colors, though occasionally black or grey will stand out in dulled contrast. Finally he finds one that seems to satisfy him. He looks at it, and briefly checks some works behind it, but eventually comes back to that page. "Here. This one." A series of sketches and doodles cover the page, all done in Trace's prefered medium, colored chalk and pastel.

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Foxes. Foxes leaping, foxes crouching and ready to pounce, foxes curled in sleep and peaceful. Trace has cheerfully etched them out all over the page. They are realistic foxes for the most part, with bushy white-tipped tails and bright red fur, little black noses and bright amber eyes. The only exception is one just slightly left of the center of the page, and it seems that the most detail has been put into this little creature. He's just sitting, his paws before him and his tail curled around to the side, head cocked slightly, in a cartoonish pantomime of impish inquisition. What most clearly seperates this fox from his brothers, however, is that this particular creature looks straight out of the page at you with bright green eyes.
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"I like foxes," the boy says sheepishly of his work, again feeling the need to explain himself to you. "I draw 'em sometimes, when I'm in the mood. I saw one in real life once... It was beautiful." He smiles.

As you flip, Caddy tries to peek at some of the other drawings unsuccessfully. Rats. "Ooohh..." she breathes when the foxes are finally revealed, an approving smile blossoming over her face. "Those are cool. And...look...he has green eyes like me!" That makes her laugh, as she motions to the elaborate fox, bending down to squint at him. Better get a closer look at this. "He's the best fox..." she declares, certainly. Because he has green eyes, of course.

"He is the best," Trace nods in agreement, grinning. "He's like the one I saw.. Right in those bushes there. He sat outside the fort's entrance an' looked at me, the funniest look, and then turned an' trotted off." He shakes his head in bemusement at the recollection, but soon snaps out of the dreamy memory. With a chuckle, he slips his hands under the book's cover to snap it shut and announce, "Yer turn again."

Caddy glances at the bushes earnestly, half expecting to see the creature peeking out at her. "That's cool...I like foxes..." the redhead mutters quietly as she flips open her book again, quickly, to the exact page she wants. Must have the contents memorized. "Well..I don't know..." she mutters doubtfully, looking at the picture and then back at you. This is something she has reservations about showing, apparently. "But...I don't know if you'll like it...it's kind of...weird." Embarrassed and very shy, she reluctantly reveals her drawing. "It's kind of like...I don't know. I mean. I don't know why I drew it, really. It was kind of like, this thing I had. About my neighborhood? It's not really...as cool as the first one."

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Fat rain droplets splatter on an abandoned street. Quiet, just before dawn. Every house along the surburban street is unlit and solemn. Trees dot the slick street carelessly, pines and oaks. Everytown, USA. That still quality that suburbs get before the flurry of day activities take place. Soccer games, luncheons, tests, letters to the editor. Done in dark charcoal like most everything in the book. Even though this is more of a genre painting, there is something surreal and almost depressing about this lonely street. Desperation and mediocrity being conveyed.
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"That's not weird," Trace decides, brows furrowing a little as he gives the picture careful study. "It's cool..." He explores the portrayed street with attention. "I never lived noplace like this. We had a trailer..." Though he doesn't seem ashamed of it; perhaps even glad for the little portable dump, considering the heavy bleakness with which you've displayed this little slice of middle class America. "Was this your street?"

Caddy smiles a little, laying her book on the ground as she regards the picture, less uncomfortable now that you don't seem to be condemning her. "A trailer?" she queries, raising an eyebrow and glancing at you briefly. "Well, we had a lot of those where I lived. But yeah, this was my neighborhood." She extends a pale hand and points to one of the cookie cutter dwellings, not looking terribly different from the rest of the abodes. "That was my house. But...well, whatever." Uncomfortable. She quickly shuts the book, a tight smile on her face. "Uhm....okay. It's your turn."

Trace studies the house you point out with interest, but there's not much to set it apart, really. A drone among many. So he lifts his eyes to yours once the book is shut and says with half a smile, "What kinda picture you wanna see?" He starts flipping through his book again. "Most've 'em are portraits, really. I use my sketchbook lotsa times fer memories... Like my own kinda photo book, y'know? On the street, people drift outta ya life so easy. Jest slip away. But with this, I kin' carry them with me..." He grins now. "Anyway, whatchya wanna see? 'Nother happy picture? An' evil one? R'what?"

Caddy crosses her legs Indian style in spite of her skirt, planting an elbow on each knee to support her chin with her palms. "I dunno..like...show me...a.." she ponders, shrugging lazily, shoulders rising and falling in a hunch. "Show me...something evil," she finally concludes, tight smile being replaced by a grin. "But not like bad evil. Like...you know? Bad bad evil. Cool evil. Like..." Hmm...this is hard to define for her. "You know what I mean?"

Cool evil? No, Trace is not quite sure what you mean, extactly. Or rather, perhaps he does, but he's not sure anything in his sketch book would fall into the 'cool evil' catagory. "Uhhmm..." Flipflipflip. His eyes dance over page after page. He stops and giggles brightly, closing the book a little so you can't get a peek yet. "How bout..." He licks his lips, fighting cottonmouth and then laughs again. "I gotta picture in here called 'The Many Deaths of Flagg'. Would that be cool evil?" He tips his head to the side. "Well, s'pose it depends on whether or not you like Flagg." He looks at you, curious and amused.

Caddy's eyebrows shoot up at the title, her grin turning more appreciative. "Yeah, lemme see...." she says, almost viciously. "I hate Flagg." Declared with conviction. This is obviously a matter she's given a lot of thought.

Trace nods a little, grinning, and the page is opened all the way and set before you. "Then maybe y'll 'pershiate this 'un." This picture is a collage of many different mediums and most likely added onto every so often, rather than all drawn at once. Red bold letters centered at the top of the page read 'The Many Deaths of Flagg'.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~
You know, looking at this picture, one might get the impression that Trace just really isn't too fond of Flagg! Just maybe. Malicious little cartoon sketches decorate the page, mostly just drawn in pencil, but Trace's favorites have been inked and colored in with whatever was was handy at the time, be it markers, pastel, chalk, or colored pencils. Poor Flagg has been pin-cushioned with knives, scissors, lawn shears, and other nastysharp implements of destruction. He's had his head split open with a big axe, so that there's a nifty cutaway display of his severed brains and skull. He's been beheaded, and is holding his head so his bulged eyes can stare at where the open gash in his neck is still splurting blood like a fountain. Sometimes the images aren't so comic though. Sometimes they're unnervingly gruesome and humourless. A picture shows him gutted, his intestines spilling out into his hands. Another shows his throat slit, his chin blood-slick and bubbling with strangled, useless breaths. Vengeance, hatred, vented all over this page. The safest place for it, tucked away in his sketchbook, flushed out onto paper, so it can't fester and boil in his heart.
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Now this is art. Rembrandt? Who needs him? "Wow..." Caddy says, bloodshot eyes roving over the creative demises depicted. "That's great!" A gale of laughter spurts out between her lips as she points at the buggy eyed Flagg. Look at him! "Trace...that is so good..." she breathes, trying to press her laughter down. But that just makes it worse. Tears are actually bubbling in her eyes, hands wrapping around her frail waist. "I mean....fuck. That's really good. You should show this to him."

Trace giggles too, as you start. He can't help it; your mirth is catching. "He's just so fun to kill," he explains between laughter. The last of your words makes him quiet again though, still grinning but also blinking with confusion. "Uh. Show him?" It has never occured to him, really. "But." He looks down at the page. "But I have no courage around him," he admits with a sheepish shrug. "He knows how t'get to me, an' I never stand a chance." Back to the page. He touches one picture, Flagg with two plastic sporks gauged into his eyes, blood tearing down his cheeks. He grins at a sudden thought and says, "Maybe I oughta leave it for him somewhere... Like during sometime I'd go to see Grace, I could just discreetly drop it somewhere while I was leavin', or tack it on his door."

Caddy sniffles, looking over to you with tear stained cheeks. Just so fun to kill. That sets her off again, giggling hysterically. The pot is probably helping. "Well...I mean. Yeah. 'Cause...well...he should see this. You should, put it in his little fuckin' hole. Under the stairs or something. I mean, he wouldn't know you did it...." And great art should be appreciated by everyone. "I mean...Trace! I just think it would be funny..." she says, almost serious in tone now, though a grin still plays across her lips. "'Cause he really sucks, you know? I mean..." Well, wait a second. Granted, Flagg isn't the most popular person...but people usually have a reason for such intense hate. "Well..why don't you like him?"

Trace's broad grin melts into a more wistful smile and then, though he doesn't frown, drops away from his expression entirely as he looks down at the pictures. "I... coz of.. Grace," he finally admits quietly, tinting with a gentle flush that prickles his cheeks. "Coz... she wants him. Maybe loves him. Even though he treats her like shit, an, an' leers at Star, an' tortures me. An' he knows that I... I feel so... I mean, Grace, she's just... an angel, and I'd die for her, and he knows it an' tortures me f'that. He fucks with my head, an' won't leave me alone, coz he thinks it's so funny." He hunches his shoulders with acute embarrassment. He looks up at you, still pink-cheeked, and holds the picture out to you. "Would you wanna... add a death of Flagg to the picture? Y'can, if you hate him too. I got a pencil in my bag." He tries an encouraging smile.

Whoa. Heavy. Mirroring you, Caddy's grin melts away as she listens, face growing more sober. "Oh..." she murmurs, a blush coloring her pale cheeks as well. Shoes are so intresting, don't you think? The girl transfixes her green eyes on her boots, squirming a little awkwardly. What do you say to things like that? Can you really say anything at all? "I...uhm...Yeah..." she offers lamely, reaching out to pat your shoulder halfheartedly. "But I mean...if Grace likes him...well, okay. Whatever." Another dismissive shrug as she gazes at the sketches once more, the lost grin finally reappearing. "Yeah! Sure. If you'd let me. I'd draw one."

Yeah, Trace probably shouldn't have blurted all that out. It just sort of poured out without his consent. Damned weed. He rubs at his hot cheeks shyly (Trace is a giiiirl with blush on!). But your returned enthusiasm helps his to resurface as well, and he grins a little and plops the book down in your lap, then rummages around until he comes up with a pencil. The plain yellow #2, half worn down, is passed to you with all the mock-somber ceremony he can muster, but it's soon lost when he gives in and laughs. "Happy murdering!" he pipes.

For the pleasured look on Caddy's face, you might really start to wonder if she wasn't a bit sadistic. Awkward feeling having seeped away, she accepts the pencil with flourish, tilting her head down to the sketches. "What should I kill him with?" she ponders loudly, tapping one finger against her chin in thought. "There's a lot of way to die..." she points out, looking back at you with a grin. "I mean..oooh...I know. I can choke him on those fucking goggles he wears." Gleefully, with happy bright eyes, the redhead hunches over and starts to go to work on her own rendition of Flagg's demise. Death by goggles. Snicker.

Your pleasure in poor Flagg's silly undoing is entirely echoed in Trace, who leans closer to make sure he gets a good look at this latest addition to his collage of brutality. Your decision gets the bluecap laughing gleefully again, as he curls slender marked arms around himself and cranes his neck to watch. "That's awesome, Caddy," he approves heartily. "Stupid fuckin' goggles."

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