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Log Title: Smores

Log setting: It is Saturday, May 19th, 2001. It is evening and the moon is waxing gibbous. There are 9 hours until sunrise. The log starts outside an off-grid 7-11, but mostly takes place in the mansion of Doug’s lover, Shay.

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Glass

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The taxi screeches slightly when it comes to a sudden halt by the street near the 7-11, as though they'd nearly passed it by. A moment or two pass as money passes hands inside the car, and then the door swings open and Trace hops out eagerly, casting a dirty glance back at the cab driver before hurrying towards the familiar figure of his friend eagerly. "Hi! Wow, good to see you," he murmurs with relief.

"Another quality cabbie, huh?" Batiste grumbles, reaching out to grab you in a sideways hug, shoulders bumping together. He releases you a second later, heading for the 7-11's doors, holding them open for you. "We've got to get stuff for smores, too. We're going to have a cookout."

Trace giggles. "Smores? Oh, cool! I haven't had smores in ages..." Though his marshmallow intake has been WAY up recently, he still seems very pleased at the idea. "And... a cook out? Tonight? Heh." So much for responsible Bat preserving their money for the apartment! But he doesn't voice that, of course, all for pleasurable expenditures... even if he's not entirely hungry. Still ought to be fun.

Jean-Batiste starts wandering the aisles to collect the ingredients. Two pressure-treated un-logs. A bag of marshmallows. Four Hershey's bars. A box of graham crackers. "Well, just a smores cookout, I guess...oh." He sets all that down, and scoots to the back to buy a super-sized bottle of Lemon Ice gatorade, adding it as well. As he waits for the clerk to ring it up, he grins at you. "How you feeling?" he asks.

"M'okay," Trace shrugs easily. "What about you?" His words are just a little distracted, as he's eyeing up a medium-sized bag of Cheetos (crunchy, of course). He picks it up and wanders after you, with a smile that sheepishly asks for permission.

Jean-Batiste's feeling completely benevolent - he waves the Cheetos into the pile, and pays for it all, grabbing up the plastic bag so you don't even have to carry your own snack. "C'mon, they're waiting for us..." He grins back at you, and breaks into a jog.

Trace hurries after you, and the door chime clatters as, after you exit, the door swings towards him and he shoves it back again, jogging out into the street.

"I'll pay you back fer them Cheetos," Trace adds once he's caught up with you.

Study--Rorick Mansion
Perpetual shadows dominate this room, usually caused by scattered candles. Two overlarge fireplaces dominate opposite walls, east and west, and stand cold, empty and unlit. The windows to the south are shuttered, the shutters themselves thrown open to a view of the large, but currently uncared for gardens beyond.

There are large rectangular discolorations on the walls. Portraits hung there for years recently removed. The largest of these discolorations being above each of the fireplaces.

The granduer of the architecture is set off, contrasted by the very simple furniture placed here. A threadbare couch and chair, a scattering of unmatched end tables and a low lying coffee table complete with numerous liquid rings.

Jean-Batiste slips back into the study, carrying a plastic bag with the 7-11 logo on it and wearing a wide grin.

Glass is sitting on the couch, drinking what looks like a honey-coloured champagne from a wine glass. "Hi."

Trace beams as he trails closely after Batiste, drawling again in the Bondage Salesman voice, "All our goods are shipped in 7-11 bags, to completely preserve your anony--" The word clenches in his throat as he focuses on what Glass holds, and he flushes and looks down. When he speaks again, he accidently forgets to use the accent. "Anonymity." He tugs at a braid, then turns to find something to busy himself with... He walks quickly over to Batiste and peeks into the bag, sliding a hand close to take one of the firewood logs.

Glass gestures at the bottle before him, and the empty glasses, "It's apple juice, man. I don't like alchohol either."

Trace blinks and looks over, grinning sheepisly. "Heh, am I so obvious? I mean, y'know, it's cool... I wasn't gonna say nothin'. If it's apple juice, kin' I have some?"

Jean-Batiste laughs softly when Glass announces the content of his glass, visibly relieved. "See, it's okay..." he murmurs to Trace, nudging his shoulder with his own. He heads for the fireplace, taking it upon himself to be Chief Firestarter for the evening.

Glass says, "Yeah, have a glass. Sparkling apple juice. It's the best."

Trace trails after Batiste, worrying at the edges of the paper wrapping of the log he snatched out of the bag. "How many logs ya puttin' in t'start with? Jest one?"

Glass grins, "I found fondue forks in the kitchen, for the marshmallows."

Glass says, "And I rolled a joint. But Ali had to go."

Jean-Batiste pulls out a newspaper - which he bought at the 7-11 but his player forgot to mention - and starts tearing off pages and crumpling them up, building a pile out of them. He looks over at Trace, grinning. "We'll put them both in, I think. Get them both burning at the same time..." Then to Glass, and more grinning. "Awesome. That's just too cool...roasting marshmallows in a fancy fireplace with fancy forks." He has to giggle a little at it all. "Did you smoke the joint already?"

Glass shakes his head, "No. I was waiting for you." He picks the joint up off the table and gestures with it, "We should start the fire first."

Jean-Batiste finishes crumpling up newspaper - using -way- more than he probably needed to, but he's a bit of a pyro at heart - and lays out the smore supplies. Graham crackers, marshmallows, and Hershey's bars. He then starts unwrapping the un-wood log that Trace isn't working on.

Trace's grin picks up a little more. Hey, finally -- weed he knows how to smoke! That bong kick everyone was on was really getting on his nerves. He tears the paper off his log like a kid ravaging the wrapping paper on a Christmas present. The pieces are tossed everywhere, fluttering and spiriling about as he makes a very deliberate, cheerful mess. With a blissful grin he announces, "I'll clean it up, don't worry..." He hefts up the log and admires it.

Glass grins, "You gonna light both?"

There's extra crunchy Cheetos in there, as well. Batiste's player is a neenerhead.

Jean-Batiste stacks both the un-logs beside the fireplace, and grins at Glass. "Yeah, both of 'em...get just a huge fire going, you know? It'll be great, just like a real cookout." And without further preamble, he sets the un-logs atop all the crumpled newspaper, adjusts them just -so-, and leans over to light the newspaper at all four corners. Back corners first, of course. No need to light himself on fire - yet, at least.

Glass watches as smoke starts to pour out of the fireplace. He stands up and pulls the metal rod that opens the damper. The flames start to brighten up and the smoke goes where it should.

Trace starts to get up to go get that glass of sparkling apple juice he was promised, but stops and settles himself back down again, peering in curiously. Paying the Chief Firestarter and the resulting flames due respect and all.

Glass grins at Batiste. "Pretty good."

Jean-Batiste almost panics when the smoke starts pouring out of the fireplace, and looks around with that 'Ohmygod, I'm going to burn down a -mansion-' sort of terror. Glass saves the day, though, and he grins sheepishly at him. "Thanks..." He sits back a little, poking all the newspaper under the un-wood with the fire poker, then tosses in a few more wadded-up pieces just to have fun. Oh, there's Lemon Ice Gatorade, too. Batiste's player is just forgetting everything, tonight.

Glass holds up the joint, "A toast to the fire gods," he says, before lighting it.

Glass hands the joint to Batiste.

Jean-Batiste opens up the Gatorade, and drinks down about a quarter of the bottle in one go, then reaches for the joint with a grin. "To the fire gods, may they let us have our smores in peace." The fire gods are a little like dryer gods, only instead of taking socks, they like to eat marshmallows, he figures. He takes a toke off the joint, then offers it to Trace, smoke leaking out of his grin.

Glass blows smoke rings.

"Fire gods! Yeah.." Trace smiles, glancing back to the newborn flames and then to Glass' offering. He gets up and moves to the bottle of sparkling apple juice, picking up one of the glasses and setting it before him. The bottle is tipped -- glug, glug, glug as the liquid is choked on the neck -- and by the end a tiny thread of panic has twisted its way around his stomach and his hands are shaking a little... but the glass is soon full and he quickly sets the bottle down and brings the juice to his lips for a sip. Apple juice. It's the taste that calms him right down again, and he moves back to the couch and perches on the armrest, shifting the glass to the other hand to take the offered joint. "Why thank you, First Beast!" he grins.

Jean-Batiste exhales and giggles softly. "Why, you're welcome, Second Beast!" he replies, gulping more Gatorade before he starts unwrapping all the smores supplies, preparing them for the sugary feast about to commence. The un-wood starts to crackle, the flames dying down a little as the newspaper runs out - not to fear, they'll be tall again in a few moments.

Glass leans down to blow gently on the flames.

Trace pulls on the joint contentedly, eyes closing for a moment, and with his breath still held he gets up to carry the joint back over to Glass. Nearly there, he exhales, the cloud floating up to mingle with the remaining wisps from the fireplace mishap. He crouches and holds it out. Fire ignorant, he comments, "Think that blowin' will help? The fire's not so big no more."

Glass straightens up and accepts the joint, "Probably not much," he says before toking.

Trace trots back over to where, soon, the sacred assembly of smores shall begin. "You want me t'help with these?" he grins. "But then, yer the cook, Batiste. The ones you do're gonna be *gourmet* smores!" He laughs and snitches two of the spongy white lumps, popping them both into his mouth at the same time and then displaying a big, double-cheek-puffed grin. Fuck the heroin; this boy's gonna have a serious marshmallow overdose one of these days.

Jean-Batiste and Trace will be rich and famous artists just in time to start paying for dentist bills, indeed. He laughs, reaching forward to try and poke Trace's sugar-filled cheeks, then turns to Glass and holds a hand out hopefully for the joint. "Well, how many fondue forks did you get?" he asks, giggling for a moment. How amusing, to roast marshmallows on a fondue fork.

Glass laughs a little and sits down on the hearth, handing the joint to Batiste.

Glass says, "Four." He hands one of the long fondue-forks to Batiste.

Trace gets up and heads on over to the fireplace, taking the bag of marshmallows with him as he goes. He's wondering what fondue is, naturally, but is too content with his sweet mouthful to make an effort asking. He reaches out a tentative hand for a fork of his own.

Jean-Batiste pays attention to the joint first, toking again on it, eyes closed for a second when he first starts holding his breath. He doesn't grin this time, concentrating more on holding the smoke in, passing the joint on to Trace. Time for smores. He holds the fondue fork like a sword, waggling the tip at Glass as he picks up a marshmallow and prepares the impale the poor thing.

Glass laughs smokily.

"Uh mu mouf foh of moufmewwos," Trace protests with amusement in his bright, hazel eyes. As the joint burns in his fingers, he makes quick work of chewing up the gooey remains and swallowing before quickly taking a hit. The smoke rushes in sweetly, marijuana and marshmallows... oh yeah, life's good. After a moment, the joint is passed back to Glass. He holds it just a bit longer, but the moment it really starts to burn, he releases it and takes a cool sip of apple juice.

Glass giggles and tokes on the joint.

Jean-Batiste giggles madly, too, asking Trace, "Yu mouf foh what?" then giggling more. He gulps down more Gatorade, then leans forward against the side of the fireplace, cruelly stabs the marshmallow on the end of the fondue fork, and leans in to start toasting the piece of candied fluff. "Hey, Glass?" he asks a few seconds later. "When's your birthday?"

Glass says, "March."

"Why're you askin' everybody 'bout everybody's birthdays?" Trace wonders as he shoves a marshmallow onto the end of his own fork and holds it up near the flames.

Jean-Batiste grins at Glass and asks, "March when?" He turns the fondue fork a little, starting to roast the other side. While watching the white surface turn brown, he shrugs easily and says, "Just like to know, you know? So we can have birthday parties, and stuff. Or at least wish people happy birthday, or whatever..."

Glass says, "Six."

Trace looks over at Glass. "Wow, so you just had a birthday and you didn't even tell us! That makes you what... twenty three?" He's not paying attention to his marshmallow as he speaks... Flames lick the smooth, white side and catch, quickly spreading over the marshmallow entirely.

Glass murmurs, "No. Twenty two."

Glass looks at the fire and the roasting marshmallows.

Jean-Batiste looks back over his shoulder at Glass, grinning enviously. "Wow...must be cool." He sighs, watching Glass for a few seconds, then looks back to see...well, the fireball that Trace's marshmallow has become. "Shit, Trace!" he giggle-yelps, leaning forward to try and blow the sugary torch out. Doesn't really help much, just fans the flames.

Glass says, "What must be cool?"

Trace iiees! He doesn't try to blow it, but instead grabs Batiste's shoulder and yanks him back a little so he can shakeshakeshake the marshmallow frantically. But that doesn't quite extinguish it either.

Glass laughs.

Jean-Batiste laughs, exclaiming, "No, you gotta blow on it, shit!" He grabs Trace's hand and leans forward again to blow the blackening marshmallow out. It takes about four tries, because he's laughing so hard. Look at that. A black, bubbly mess. "I think the fire gods are unhappy," he mumbles, still grinning.

Glass says, "That's their sacrifice. Throw it in the fire."

Trace giggles. "Aww... But I bet crunchy marshmallows are *great*!" He smirks and touch-tests the charred lump, and when he decides it's cool enough, tries to pry the thing off the fork. The crisp black coating crumbles like ash and hot gooey slime oozes out onto his fingers. He shakes his hand once, twice, and finally on the third sharp flick of his wrist the sticky, blackened marshmallow lets go of his fingers and is flung into the fire with a hiss. He sucks his sticky, slimed fingers for a moment before giggling, "Enjoy my sacrafice, fire gods!"

Glass grins. "Ooooo! Fire Gods! Ooooo!" He chants.

Jean-Batiste absolutely cackles with laughter, and starts imitating those crazy Ewoks when they were worshipping C3P0. "Aaaaah-o. Aaaah-o." He gives it up when he starts laughing too hard, and leans in against the fireplace again to finish roasting his marshmallow. "You can have mine..." he promises Trace. "It's almost done." He grins at Glass, then. "First you were the spirit of the bed, now you're a fire worshipper...geez." He laughs more.

Glass says , "I'm the spirit of the burning bed worshipper."

Trace laughs, "Yer a serious trip, Glass." He reaches for a new marshmallow and jabs it onto the end of his fork, and while he's still giggling a little, he's quite determined to watch it this time and be sure that this one is sacraficed to the holy Marshmallow Appetite of Trace rather than any firegods. O, heathen child!

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