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Log Title: Everything Gets Trashed -- Part the Second

Log setting: The house on Moss Street. It's night, Monday, February 4th, 2002, around 7:30pm.

Log Cast:
Trace
Jason

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A little under an hour later, this whole 'let's reclaim the recorder' venture is looking less and less romantic. Usually Trace doesn't have much problem with all things gross and putrid and unpleasantly aromatic, but this is ridiculous. Up to his knees in garbage, his lips are currently curled in a disgusted sneer that's verging on permanent towards the end of this task. "Tear it open, s'the last one." And while something in his voice says 'finally', there's also a note of hope that this bag does indeed contain the prized instruments (and even the PSX could be hocked for cash). "Could be it.." he encourages, trying not to be dubious and give into that thread of despair wrapping around his his gut. With a weak, somewhat bitter laugh, "Jest our luck, it'd be in the last fuckin' back we check, right?"

Jason's humor isn't even as enduring as yours. That close call with the diaper bag nearly sent him into a trash-throwing rage, actually. But the last bag, reclaimed from the bottom of the scraps and crap in the dumpster bin, hasn't got him terribly optimistic. "Doesn' look like the ones Ben uses," he mutters quietly, but there's that hope in him too that this is it. Even if it is though, Chez Walker-Ashley is in for a trashing. Pun fully intended there. Out here in the middle of the alley that's decorated from wall to wall with scattered bits of trash, Jason tears open the top of the bag and peers inside. He stands still over it for long moments, and then steps back to let you see. Baby clothes. Better than baby /shit/, mind you, but not exactly what he was looking for. Darkened eyes lift to you, swimming in storm clouds. And then the bag gets a swift kick, sending little jumpers and bibs flying out across the alley. "Fuck! Shoulda figgered they were fuckin' /lyin'/ again! Couldn' tell us a fuckin' thing ta save their fuckin' worthless lives!" Venting. Gotta get this shit out. "Gonna check the trash? We'll fuckin' check the /catbox/ if we gotta." Because They are NOT winning. Not this time. Not ever.

"This is jest fuckin' wrong," Trace scowls, and is clearly not talking about the immorality of tossing the catbox about. That bag was the last hope. Now it's clear, you're totally right. They lied. "They fucked us over. Walker'd probably laugh his ass off if he were t'see what we jest went through cozza his goddamn 'advice'. Man, *fuck* this!" With a growl, he thrashes about heatedly until he finds the dangerous diaper bag. After all the shit he's been through, and his high tolerance for the foul in general, it's worth it, scooping up that soiled diaper (though carefully, touching just still-white plastic). Angry strides carry him to Chez Walker-Ashley, where he promptly mushes the rotten Pampers against the house, splatt! Grim satisfaction smooths his scowl away as he steps back to admire the diaper, now plastered to the siding. "Alright," he announces, "time t'check the house f'yer recorder, n'get our bran' new bong."

Jason watches the diaper-smooshing with a sort of grim satisfaction. Yes. Foulness. Foulness for all involved. That's the plan for the day. He actually was thinking of porting that disgusting pile of baby-poop inside, but discarded it when he realized he'd actually have to smell it for that long. The wall's a nice place for it though. "Modern art..." he comments dryly, then wades out of the piles of coffee grinds and banana peels. Doubt Caddy'll be pleased to have the boys tonight. "Baby needs a brand-new bong," he sing-songs out in a low voice (and amazingly hitting the notes - s'like riding a bicycle). He shakes a Something off his boot and trots towards the other end of the alley. "C'mon, we'll go in the back..." Cue Mission: Impossible theme music.

Yes, this Mission, should we choose to accept it, will definitely require a shower after the good guys win and the credits roll. "What if they're home?" he wonders as he paces after you, eyes darting now towards every passed window, looking for movement and tell-tale silhouettes. "I mean, I know we're both good at sneakin' an' kin be quiet, but at this point they'd *smell* us..."

Jason lifts his eyes to the first and second storey windows, looking from still frame to still frame. "Think they'd come down if they were, ain' like we were quiet towards the end there." And then something twists his face into something... It's gone. "Mebbe they jus' laughin' their asses off right now 'n waitin' ta call the cops. Fuck it." That's his new empowerment motto, by the way: Fuck it. He gets to the back door and looks around, trying to discern any signs of occupation. Then back over his shoulder to you, "Go 'round the fence, I'll check it out. If they home, then they can only nail me, see? If not, I'll wave ya in. Kay?" A little smile to you. "'Sides, I kin run faster 'n you, so..." A wink. Jason's the sly one, even caught in the world. Don't you worry a blue hair on your pierced little head.

Trace gives you a look that's about to bloom protest, then glances towards the direction you indicated, towards that fence. When he looks back to you, there's not protest any longer. Instead he offers compromise. "I'll go halfway there. Won't go so you kin' take alla fall. We're doin' this lootin' t'getha, an' a cap'n goes down with his ship, so." He grins a little. "I'll go half way there, so's I kin' get a head start if you gotta take off, so maybe I kin keep up with ya, til' we're outta sight anyway." He turns to execute this plan, pacing away from the door and also giving you room to work. For the doors *are* all locked. Walker was quick to explain that, even if he *had* already checked beforehand when he went to deliver his note to Ben.

Jason looks like /he's/ about to protest, but.. well, he can't. Street honor - it's rare in most, but he's not about to argue with it now. He gets a slight smile and murmurs, "Aye aye, Cap'n." And then he's kneeling before the door, a pick and t-bar coming out from the case that was stuffed in his back pocket. It takes him a little while with the thing - the lock's kinda not cooperating - but soon enough both the doorknob and deadbolt are unlocked. Stuff the tools away, deep breath, and here goes. The door's opened as silently as possible - he cringes at the tiny creak that the unoiled hinges give - and then his slender form disappears inside. Nothing but silence and absolute stillness for long, tedious minutes. Except for that police siren that approaches. And then goes away again as it passes. Then nothing. No yelling, no gunshot, nothing. It begins to seem as if he'd been swallowed by the house, the dreaded Chez Walker-Ashley. But then a bloom of dark red hair appears around the door again, green eyes searching out where you are. A slight smirk and his slender hand beckons. All clear. Let the havoc begin!

Jason quits the stoop of the grey house marked 613 and steps inside.

Trace's enthusiasm is running thin here as he stalks into the house. Home? This is a battlefield tonight. He peers in bravely, neck craning to look in through the kitchen. "Alright.. Doan' look like nobody's home." A glance up. "An' no floorboards 'r nuthin' creakin' upstairs." He paces in and the bong is immediately spotted, next to the throne of his 'royal magesty'. He starts to grab for it, but aborts the movement at the last minute and simply makes a note of its location. There's other matters to be attended. "Someone oughta check n'make sure it's not still where y'left it. I'd be feelin' stupid we dig through MORE fuckin' trash 'n it's all up there."

Jason gives a smirk-grimace at your suggestion. "S'not, I checked upstairs. No one's home, though. 'Cept the cat 'n snake 'n the fuckin' turtle. He also spotted the bong when he came in the first time, but apparently forgot that was one of the objectives of the raid today. Focus, man, focus! He looks into the kitchen, to the trash. Obviously doesn't think it's there, but, hey, dumping it out should be fun. So, that's exactly what he does. Just trots right on over, picks it up... and dumps it out on the counter and over the floor. He wrinkles his nose. Food, trash, scraps. "Ain' here!" he calls over his shoulder to you.

"Kay!!" Trace hollers, but he's already on his way towards the other trash can he knows, the can upstairs that collects the waste from both the bathroom and bedroom. Thumpthumpthump, up the stairs, and there's a twang of sharp nostalgia as he ascends. The three of them charging up to take control of the waterbed..... He and Bat, recently blood-brothered, tumbling and ending up in a bruised, bloody heap and laughing their asses off at how funny it was they were too high to navigate the stairs.... Even the incident of Jordan's 'accident' is remembered fondly. Yeah, these stairs have a lot of memories. But affectionately remembering the good ole' days is definitely not the objective here, and he brushes off the thoughts with a sharp twitch-rattle of his head. No fucking watercolor memories. This is wartime. He grips the wastecan in the bathroom and carts it out, flinging the contents down onto the waterbed for inspection. Blink. Blinkblink. He's not even sure why he's still staring, but he is. Razors and needles... The latter especially sends off alarm bells and he turns and forces steps away from the bed, back down the stairs. "Jason?" he calls down to you. "Mebbe' you should look through the trash upstairs..."

The disturbed tone in your voice brings him faster than you'd imagine. Swift, near-silent footfalls up the stairs (pools of blood imagined on each one) and Jason's by your side. "What?" he asks with controlled urgency. "What is-..." And he sees the needles and razors and all that. His lip curls in disgust, but he asks softly, fingers brushing against yours, "Want me ta look up here, 'n you can take the livin' room?"

Trace nods, grateful and somewhat flushed with embarrassment at his weaknesses. He hurries on down the steps again and putters around downstairs, looking for havoc to wreak while you handle the nasties discovered in that upstairs trash bin. After some rummaging around, the hockey puck is located with a surge of triumph, but that quickly fades as he discovers it empty. Bah. It's tossed down in disgust. The fridge plunks open and he roots around, digging out his old tub of marshmallow cream. The top's pried off, tossed down carelessly, and he digs a hand in and sucks his fingers clean. Hmm. Lips are smacked, experimentally. Still good. He tosses it down onto the ground, and in passing wipes slimy hands on the couch, before calling upstairs, "Anythin' more I should be doin' down here..?!"

There's a dull sort of crashing thud as one of the dresser drawers full of clothes is yanked out and dumped over by one far too weak to handle such a heavy load. "Ungh! Uh... waitasecond..." Another thud. If you're looking toward the stairs, you can watch a couple pairs of underwear come fluttering down the stairwell. And then a 'Woo hoo!' "I've struck green!" he calls down. "And, wait, don't come up yet." Something dark in that tone. The upstairs toilet flushes. "You check the closets 'r drawers or anythin?" he calls down after a moment.

Closets! Drawers! Rightawaysir! Coz Jason's right, there's *plenty* more mess he can make in this valiant 'search'. Though really Trace has given it up as a lost cause at this point. Sure, as he moves to the Evil Broomcloset, he does glance around for a whole five or six seconds for vaguely recorder-shaped objects, but that done he makes a big happy mess of tossing the cleaning solutions and mop heads and vaccuum attachments over his shoulder for a more *thorough* look! Clunk, thwomp, clatter, items fly and land in a clumsy symphony behind him. That done, he wanders out and looks around. Hmmm.. Back into the kitchen. There's drawers to root through! But he picks up the half-tipped marshmallow cream and carries it in with him. Two fingers dipped inside a few times, a few quick streaks and slashes, and soon he's etched out in quick, jagged letters 'UTOPIA?' and underlines it. Then it's back to rooting through drawers. Spices and silverware are tossed onto the floor at whim, and drawers swish open and shut methodically. After some more rummaging from downstairs, you hear him gasp and call, "Hey Jason!! Come check this out when y'getta chance!"

Which almost exactly coincides with Jason's own exclaimation of "Holyfuckin'shit!" from upstairs. He'd been busy tossing clothes out of the closet (he's looking, honest!) and had moved on to the rest of the bed's drawers and the headboard. The mirror was peered at, and then tossed over his shoulder to land on the floor, cracked into three pieces. Anyhow, as other shit was shoved off onto the floor, he reached into one of the cubbies and, lo and behold... "Fuck that!" he announces as he comes jumping down the stairs. "Look at /this!/" He bounces around the corner into Utopia hoisting, yes, a nice shiny new S&W .38 special. Hehheh. Pow! Pow!

"No way, you gotta see this!" Trace insists, fumbling with jamming the shells in clumsily. He's obviously nowhere near an expert at firearms, but this also doesn't look like the first one he's played around with either. He manages to get the thing loaded anyway, just dropping two shells in the process. Okay, and when you jump in with YOUR new prize, Trace drops his gun in surprise. It clatters loudly, making the bluecap jump, badly startled. Thank god it doesn't go off. Just what they need, a bunch of cops swarming the place. He smiles sheepishly up at you, but the expression quickly shifts to a disbelieving grin as he sees you found a similar toy. "Oh my god!" he laughs and shakes his head. "What the fuck're they doing with *two* guns? Shit!" He stoops to pick up the one he found, looking down at it. "Whatta we do with'em?"

Well now, isn't /that/ embarassing? Jason looks at his gun, then to the one you dropped. After the initial surprise, and then reactionary giggle at your butterfingers, he scowls slightly. "Yer jus' tryin' ta comp'nsate 'cuz my dick's bigger," he says petulantly... And then giggles even more. Okay, so guns do inflate the whole male ego thing, but he's not THAT bad. He trots on over to you, twisting his .38 this way and that to check out all sides of it. He suggests playfully, "We could shoot something?" And then gives you a broad smirk. "Don' suppose they'd miss 'em, do ya?"

Epilogue:
Upon returning to Chez Walker-Ashley, things are immediately Not Right. First of all, besides any police cars that might have come at the shots, the front door is /wide/ open. Just inside, there's a white outline of a smallish figure sprawled out, a la homocide scene, painted in acrylic paint on the hardwood floor. The 'head' is covered in a pool of still-drying red paint. Just beyond, the hall closet has been opened and ransacked thoroughly, with just about all its contents strewn about. Also the 'puck' is open, laying in the middle of the living room floor.

The kitchen is no better, with the trash having been upended over the counter and floor. Blobs of marshmellow cream are glopped in a couple places too. Written in the stuff on the table in jagged letters is the word 'UTOPIA?' The fridge, which hangs open, seems to be relatively untouched. Except for the several bottled waters that each have a bloodied razor or used needle from the upstairs trash in them. Eww. The silverware drawers have all been opened and tossed about, as well as the spice cabinet.

Upstairs, things are just as messy. The closet has been opened and thoroughly rummaged through and several dresser drawers have been dumped out in a hasty search. All the drawers under the bed have been yanked out and emptied and the contents of the headboard have all been tossed about. The bathroom trash has been emptied on the waterbed as well. Valium pills have been scattered about, but the snuffbox can be found open, in the toilet. The mirror's also on the floor, broken into three pieces.

Outside, a possible reason for this could be in the alleyway, where the dumpster out there had been thoroughly emptied and all the trash bags torn open and spread across the entire alley. Apparently nothing was found but trash, and in frustration, a very much used diaper was splatted against the wall of 613.

Finally, the waterbed has been shot twice. Water soaks the wood and pools on the surrounding floor.

Things missing: The bong, for one thing. The small baggie of weed from the Drawer O Wonders. And, possibly most notably, Tiens' gun and its ammo from the kitchen drawer.

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