Post by fatmop on Feb 3, 2007 8:34:28 GMT -8
((Translation of title: none of the other boards I visit have dedicated RP sections for whatever stupid reason. I mean, VL is always in character, but there doesn't seem to be a place... whatever.))
“Ben was just saying-”
“Look, I didn’t tell you because-”
“Because what? Because you thought it’d hurt my fragile little emotional state? Why didn’t someone tell me as soon as it happened?”
“It was hard on all of us, Milton!”
Milton stood facing the doorway to the living area of his apartment, in which his wife stood, distraught. The computer behind him was running an instant messenger program, and the misplaced, almost jolly sounds of incoming messages only made the look on Milton’s face more ominous. The news of his best friend’s death, coming almost six months after it supposedly took place, was already working its way into everything he could think about.
“I’m going out,” he said abruptly, then walked resolutely past his wife, grabbing his old leather jacket on the way out.
There was a handball tournament playing on the television at the bar. No one was paying attention. Milton sat at a stool conspicuously away from any other people, with several empty bottles in front of him. His head drooped toward the damp wooden bar counter in front of him, with his right arm propped up on it so he could rub his forehead.
He had been there for three hours without incident before he finally forgot which pocket his wallet was in. Reaching into the left interior pocket in his coat, he pulled out a slip of paper in his own handwriting.
“Contact us if anything strange happens,” the note read, followed by a short list of four strange names: Pirathonite, Nicho, Reeverb, and Starschwar.
He stared blankly at it for a second, uncomprehending, then put it back in his pocket and pulled the wallet out from the front of the jacket. The bartender noticed him almost drop the wallet as he tried to pull out his card, walked over, and snatched it from his hands. “You ready to leave?”
“Give me one more,” Friedman slurred.
“Nah, I’m cuttin’ you off. Boss told me to.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of a young, blonde bartender who clearly was not his boss. “So, Visa?”
Friedman nodded. The words on the card played back through the theater in his mind, jumbled with everything else – thoughts about Viola, John, the complete lack of trust – until it finally settled on “Nicho.” What the hell did that mean? Somehow, he knew it wasn’t just a sloppy misspelling of “nacho,” but nothing else came to mind.
“Hey!” Milton’s head jumped back to a normal upright position. “We don’t need no drunks fallin’ asleep at my bar, you hear? Here’s some water, I’ve already called you a cab. And don’t forget yer wallet.”
Milton grabbed the wallet, ignored the water, and walked outside. It was drizzling, and his left knee was aching with the memory of pain that he didn’t remember or understand. By the time the taxi had brought him home, he had forgotten about it completely.
“Ben was just saying-”
“Look, I didn’t tell you because-”
“Because what? Because you thought it’d hurt my fragile little emotional state? Why didn’t someone tell me as soon as it happened?”
“It was hard on all of us, Milton!”
Milton stood facing the doorway to the living area of his apartment, in which his wife stood, distraught. The computer behind him was running an instant messenger program, and the misplaced, almost jolly sounds of incoming messages only made the look on Milton’s face more ominous. The news of his best friend’s death, coming almost six months after it supposedly took place, was already working its way into everything he could think about.
“I’m going out,” he said abruptly, then walked resolutely past his wife, grabbing his old leather jacket on the way out.
There was a handball tournament playing on the television at the bar. No one was paying attention. Milton sat at a stool conspicuously away from any other people, with several empty bottles in front of him. His head drooped toward the damp wooden bar counter in front of him, with his right arm propped up on it so he could rub his forehead.
He had been there for three hours without incident before he finally forgot which pocket his wallet was in. Reaching into the left interior pocket in his coat, he pulled out a slip of paper in his own handwriting.
“Contact us if anything strange happens,” the note read, followed by a short list of four strange names: Pirathonite, Nicho, Reeverb, and Starschwar.
He stared blankly at it for a second, uncomprehending, then put it back in his pocket and pulled the wallet out from the front of the jacket. The bartender noticed him almost drop the wallet as he tried to pull out his card, walked over, and snatched it from his hands. “You ready to leave?”
“Give me one more,” Friedman slurred.
“Nah, I’m cuttin’ you off. Boss told me to.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of a young, blonde bartender who clearly was not his boss. “So, Visa?”
Friedman nodded. The words on the card played back through the theater in his mind, jumbled with everything else – thoughts about Viola, John, the complete lack of trust – until it finally settled on “Nicho.” What the hell did that mean? Somehow, he knew it wasn’t just a sloppy misspelling of “nacho,” but nothing else came to mind.
“Hey!” Milton’s head jumped back to a normal upright position. “We don’t need no drunks fallin’ asleep at my bar, you hear? Here’s some water, I’ve already called you a cab. And don’t forget yer wallet.”
Milton grabbed the wallet, ignored the water, and walked outside. It was drizzling, and his left knee was aching with the memory of pain that he didn’t remember or understand. By the time the taxi had brought him home, he had forgotten about it completely.