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It isn't that Badou Nails has never been awakened by drunken shouting and pounding at his door; his neighbors pound it out at least twice a week, outside, in the hall where anyone [like the local skeevmeister next door] can watch on a Saturday afternoon. His landlady also pounds it out but in a way that makes his stomach acid rebel completely within his body and kill him from the inside out.

But its 4am, he'd dragged himself to bed, wet and world weary, about two hours ago and the eye boogers haven't had a chance to set in yet. It goes without saying the pounding is ignored until he just can't take it anymore. Guns in hand, hair sleep-mussed flat to one side of his head in the shape of his pillow, he sees who it is. And honestly feels like just walking back to bed.

But leaving a drunk and Passionate Party Poison outside would be a bad idea so he lets him in, where the other redhead all but sprawls over him, pink in the face and smelling of ass and ambrosia, in that order, he demands,

"Gotta get fries right now! If I don't, think my eyes're gonna fall out--" he stops, snuffles, and pats Badou on the cheek. "Sorry. Fergot. Still, need em! C'mon, you gotta have some potatoes, you're like, Irishish...?"

Badou sighs so loudly the entire apartment probably shakes, and as irritating as it is, he retorts,

"You gonna row away on my potato boat? Don't forget the mast made outta cheese sticks, man." Much as he just, wants to let Party give way to his kitchen he knows the entire place will probably burn. Or at the very least his novelty ash trays. So with a heavy ass and heart, not even giving the term Irishish a chance, he steers his buddy ol pal towards the kitchen.

It's a little difficult to keep an eye on both Party's wandering hands [more for the sake of his toaster after the last time] and the sorry state of the spuds but he manages with just one.

"You're outta yer mind," Party's saying as he leans heavily against a stack of papers Badou hasn't bothered to sort on one of the few counters. "Don't know shit about boats, maybe you've got English in you 'er something, bet ya even got tea." He spits it out like sweet ice tea isn't the best thing he's ever tasted, better than his own piss out in the desert.

"Its gotta be another potato on top, potato on potato action," he concludes decisively.

Over the sound of veggie oil coming to, Badou sputters, "What the fuck do you know about potatoes or boats, you live in the goddamn desert!"

Not to be outdone, Party snarls, lip upturned, "Don't you talk shit about my upbringing, only I can do that! danish clog."

The thing about Party Poison is he's a diamond in the rough, or the sand dune in Aladdin in the shape of the cave of wonder's Tiger ass. Also there's no arguing that logic unless you want your neck to do the little vein-poppy thing.

Badou just takes a deep breath and gingerly (hah) tosses the cut up potato wedges into the frying oil. Like magic its enough to get Party hooting loudly about dodging better than that. He must've been more tired than he thought because the sting of hot oil doesn't burn as much, his eye droops and the weight of Party against his back only startles him slightly.

With a rush of hot, stale air, he says just as breathlessly,

"Why're you hard?"

To the nose snuffling against the back of his greasy hair: "Dunno, its the drink. Or the boats."

"Fries turn you on. After all this time I thought it was me, but you just liked me for my fries."

"Who says I even like you? A spry badass like me's gotta get tail while he can, with the gust of the wind."

"Yeah well the gust of your tiny chub is chafting."

If Badou even had ketchup to eat with the fries is a mystery but Party probably would've wanted them with soy sauce and mayo or some weird shit. Nothing got done that day and by the time the sun began to rise, splinters of sunlight peeking in, these two chucklefucks were snoring away to greet it.