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rainbowfic2016-08-23 12:06 am
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2016-08-23 12:06 am
Meme Party 47
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Lilith Faire Aug 22nd Second Stage: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/sugarland/ithappens.html)*
Characters: Spenser, Mischa
Colors: Meme party 47 (tl;dr)
Word Count: 800ish
Rating: PG-13, implied R?
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser decides to keep things brief, for once in his life.
Note: *I’ll happily take this off if a mod takes issue, I finished it at about 11:55, but formatting/tagging/posting/etc. ran me over the deadline. Fucksocks.
The Story I Never Told
I was sitting in a gas station parking lot, wondering if I should head over to the furniture across the street, pretend I’m buying a couch, and help myself to the pot of stale coffee they leave out for customers. Then again, they’d probably see right through my act. I don’t look like someone who can afford a spanky-fucking-new couch. And I’m not a person who can afford a spanky-fucking-new couch. I can’t even afford a cup of coffee right now, hence the couch fraud plan. Then again, it’s my fault that I’m this goddamn broke right now. I made a bad choice. I had to buy a car. Which, to be fair, probably cost way less than one of those new couches, so it’s not like I’m rolling in it on a good day. I sat and thought about all of this.
About the gross coffee for rich people. About what I did to my old car. About how long this car is even going to last, because it’s one of those franken-junkers where all the doors are different colors.
I stopped thinking all at once, because someone knocked on the window, and I ducked my head in panic, like one of those kids in old safety reels who dive under plywood desks to escape the encroaching nuclear fallout.
Through the glass, I heard laughter.
“You big dumbshit! It’s just me!”
It was, apparently, just Mischa. The adrenaline dropped out of my brain all at once, and I swore I could taste it running down the back of my throat, lightening my head and upsetting my stomach. I felt like I was about to puke my fucking guts out in defense, like one of those little dick-looking sea slugs.
“Oh. Mish! Hey... Holy assfucking Christ, lady! You scared the shit out of me.”
I swallowed my stomach. Mischa laughed again.
“Yep, just me… Here to kill you with my hook!” She scraped her short nails down the window. “...Anyway! Open the fuckin’ passenger door! Let’s sit and catch up.”
I unlocked the car.
“Welcome! Just so you know, I wasn’t expecting company and didn’t get a chance to clean.”
I grinned. She laughed again, and plopped herself down in the seat.
“So… This is a new car for you! Other one up and crap out?”
*****
When I crashed my old car, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was too angry, too excited for the satisfaction I’d chased for so long, blood hot and up for revenge.
He hadn’t paid me. I floored the gas and fucking T-boned him. Fair’s fair, I guess. Our cars ignited. He ran for safety. I ran for the kill.
I flung myself across the hood of his car, too fast for the flames to cling, too fast to outrun. I had a pipe wrench in my hand, and my aim was true. His head cracked twice; once against metal and once against concrete.
When it was all over, I realized that my shitty little car was burning away. The shin-deep pile of paper cups and plastic bottles, heaped in front of the seats, made fantastic kindling. I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t even put it out. My good sweatshirt was in there.
I cut my losses, started hitchhiking, and let it burn.
The steering wheel bruised my ribs, and the force wrenched my back. I was sore in places I couldn’t locate for a week and a half. Craig was furious at me. I had to buy a new car.
And, somehow, I’d still won.
*****
But, Mischa didn’t need to know that. And I didn’t know how I could begin to explain. I’d have to tell her all about the freelance hitman job, and the website, and the special browser that Marshall used to look at fake serial killer forums and buy drugs, and how I got fired from the monster truck place, and the wrench I threw at my co-worker’s head. It seemed ponderously long, way too fucking convoluted to make sense by the time I got it all out of my head.
Maybe I’d tell her, someday. When the memories lose enough nuance for a narrative to gel in their place. For now, I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
“I, um, crashed it.”
She shook her head, chuckling slightly.
“...Again?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah. Real fuckin’ shit driver, y’know?”
Without consulting me, she buckled her seatbelt.
“Jesus, you got that right. Not too shitty to get us to the diner, though. You eat yet? Need coffee?”
She didn’t need to ask twice.
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Lilith Faire Aug 22nd Second Stage: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/sugarland/ithappens.html)*
Characters: Spenser, Mischa
Colors: Meme party 47 (tl;dr)
Word Count: 800ish
Rating: PG-13, implied R?
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser decides to keep things brief, for once in his life.
Note: *I’ll happily take this off if a mod takes issue, I finished it at about 11:55, but formatting/tagging/posting/etc. ran me over the deadline. Fucksocks.
I was sitting in a gas station parking lot, wondering if I should head over to the furniture across the street, pretend I’m buying a couch, and help myself to the pot of stale coffee they leave out for customers. Then again, they’d probably see right through my act. I don’t look like someone who can afford a spanky-fucking-new couch. And I’m not a person who can afford a spanky-fucking-new couch. I can’t even afford a cup of coffee right now, hence the couch fraud plan. Then again, it’s my fault that I’m this goddamn broke right now. I made a bad choice. I had to buy a car. Which, to be fair, probably cost way less than one of those new couches, so it’s not like I’m rolling in it on a good day. I sat and thought about all of this.
About the gross coffee for rich people. About what I did to my old car. About how long this car is even going to last, because it’s one of those franken-junkers where all the doors are different colors.
I stopped thinking all at once, because someone knocked on the window, and I ducked my head in panic, like one of those kids in old safety reels who dive under plywood desks to escape the encroaching nuclear fallout.
Through the glass, I heard laughter.
“You big dumbshit! It’s just me!”
It was, apparently, just Mischa. The adrenaline dropped out of my brain all at once, and I swore I could taste it running down the back of my throat, lightening my head and upsetting my stomach. I felt like I was about to puke my fucking guts out in defense, like one of those little dick-looking sea slugs.
“Oh. Mish! Hey... Holy assfucking Christ, lady! You scared the shit out of me.”
I swallowed my stomach. Mischa laughed again.
“Yep, just me… Here to kill you with my hook!” She scraped her short nails down the window. “...Anyway! Open the fuckin’ passenger door! Let’s sit and catch up.”
I unlocked the car.
“Welcome! Just so you know, I wasn’t expecting company and didn’t get a chance to clean.”
I grinned. She laughed again, and plopped herself down in the seat.
“So… This is a new car for you! Other one up and crap out?”
When I crashed my old car, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was too angry, too excited for the satisfaction I’d chased for so long, blood hot and up for revenge.
He hadn’t paid me. I floored the gas and fucking T-boned him. Fair’s fair, I guess. Our cars ignited. He ran for safety. I ran for the kill.
I flung myself across the hood of his car, too fast for the flames to cling, too fast to outrun. I had a pipe wrench in my hand, and my aim was true. His head cracked twice; once against metal and once against concrete.
When it was all over, I realized that my shitty little car was burning away. The shin-deep pile of paper cups and plastic bottles, heaped in front of the seats, made fantastic kindling. I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t even put it out. My good sweatshirt was in there.
I cut my losses, started hitchhiking, and let it burn.
The steering wheel bruised my ribs, and the force wrenched my back. I was sore in places I couldn’t locate for a week and a half. Craig was furious at me. I had to buy a new car.
And, somehow, I’d still won.
But, Mischa didn’t need to know that. And I didn’t know how I could begin to explain. I’d have to tell her all about the freelance hitman job, and the website, and the special browser that Marshall used to look at fake serial killer forums and buy drugs, and how I got fired from the monster truck place, and the wrench I threw at my co-worker’s head. It seemed ponderously long, way too fucking convoluted to make sense by the time I got it all out of my head.
Maybe I’d tell her, someday. When the memories lose enough nuance for a narrative to gel in their place. For now, I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
“I, um, crashed it.”
She shook her head, chuckling slightly.
“...Again?”
I shrugged.
“Yeah. Real fuckin’ shit driver, y’know?”
Without consulting me, she buckled her seatbelt.
“Jesus, you got that right. Not too shitty to get us to the diner, though. You eat yet? Need coffee?”
She didn’t need to ask twice.
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PS, modly judgment: nah, it's all good, count it for your points.