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scubatankfilledwithfarts) wrote2015-04-15 04:53 am
scubatankfilledwithfarts) wrote2015-04-15 04:53 am
Entry tags:
Tell it slant
don't leave a Jigen Daisuke with your children
To put it simply, he stood out. And not just like a sore thumb, but a thumb that’s been slammed into a car door about five times. A mafia thumb. [thumbs have nothing on lives, though, and how many have been left with nothing but a thumb?] Which doesn’t even cover the blood seeped through the sleeves of his jacket. Because honestly, who wears a borsalino to a grocery store like that?
He stands off to one side before the automatic doors, one hand stuffed in a pocket while the other hangs uselessly at his side, occasionally twisted in the fabric of his slacks.
He’s waiting for something. Someone. That much is clear, by the way the shadows beneath the brim of his hat turn ever so slightly towards each new flurry of motion that heads his way. It’s in the impatient line of his shoulders, in the downturn of a mouth that hasn’t smiled or broken into laughter often. [except most people don’t know how to look closer: they mistake the single laugh line around one corner of his mouth as a wrinkle, a premature fissure in the cracks of his being]
Of course, they don’t realize any of this aside from: he’s there, he’s not square, and must be bored while he’s waiting without even a snack! So it’s time to make a profit and maybe make him stop frowning. Doomed little creatures as they are, as palpable as the woman’s anxiety is every time her gaze flickers to him beyond their table, she doesn’t catch them in time.
Jigen Daisuke doesn’t stand a chance when three girl scouts decked out in pigtails, braids, little puff buns and green vests are suddenly upon him. He feels the eyes as soon as they burn into the very fabric of his coat, fingers trail along the small of his back for his firearm where it’s tucked safely, because surely such an intense aura is an enemy—
But no, it’s children. He’s so flabbergasted it takes the spokes girl, a little thing missing her two front teeth, two tries to get her spiel out enough for him to stop sputtering ‘haaah?’ at her, brim of his hat tilting up for the girls to discover he does indeed have a face under there.
“So? Daisies gotta sell liiiike….twelve boxes to get the next level!”
“Nooo, we’ve gotta sell twenty, dummy. The mint thins are the best, even if they look like little pancake turds.”
“You’re a pancake turd—the Samoas are the yummiest ones. They’re selling the best too. The pie charts said so.”
Three imploring gazes lock on to Jigen in a manner deadlier than any assassin ever has, even after chasing after Lupin the Third over the horizon. Sweat beads between the brim of his hat and his forehead. They even swiveled their gazes on him simultaneously, their big, big eyes far more dangerous to his health than lasers ready to cut him in half on a table.
[And just what the hell pie charts? Do these kids already know how to do pie charts? Did they teach them with pie? What the hell are these overbearing teachers doing--]
At the table behind them their mother? Troupe leader? Has since hopped off her seat and made her way over, one delicate hand [oh oh, oh, in the face of defending these little babies, precious to the future, that hand will turn into a claw and rip out the hearts of monsters] outstretched , fingertips brush a patch of green—
Her breath freezes in her throat, squeeze her windpipes to wheeze uselessly into humid air, when the man, the mafia man, stoops down to be at eye level with the girls.
A scream is half-loaded on her tongue when he plucks a nondescript leather wallet from his pocket and begins to paw through a few bills inside. Quite a few bills. She feels her own eyes sparkle to match the girls’ as they peer at him, doe eyed.
“How much will this buy? Count it up for me.” What he holds between two fingers is a fifty dollar bill. His lips curve up into a small smile, and she feels herself blush, just a little, before she comes to her senses.
“Thirty!”
“You can’t count that high…I can’t.” Snubbed and haughty all the same.
“Thirty five.” The final answer. This cues up two dangerously, treacherously wobbling bottom lips and shiny eyes.
A trickle of sweat slides down Jigen’s face. He sighs, but there’s hardly any heat loaded behind it. A gust of wind would have more power against this onslaught.
Apparently not soon enough because Thing One has already dashed back to the table to make the first trip, boxes crushed between teeny arms, and Thing Three has already accepted the bill. He doesn’t seem too perturbed, though. Just chuffs out a chuckle, shakes his head, then adjusts his hat over the bridge of his nose with a tilt of his fingers.
“I’m sorry about them…the other troupe leader has them all fired up for the badge. They’re really good, though.” When he says nothing, her eyes narrow on him, one hand cocked on her hip as her charges dash to and fro.
“Gorging yourself on cookies isn’t going to help the alcohol problem, you know. Being hungover and sugar high just makes you even sicker…and shouldn’t you have a little more discipline when it comes to little girls?”
The noise he makes—she can’t be sure, but it sounds like a sputter through ragged lungs, there’s a hint of wide dark eyes flickering at her with disbelief in their depths.
“I don’t have— I can handle my booze better than some college frat kids, thanks.” His mouth is downturned again, and that wrinkle is on the run.
“Are you sure about that?” Chimes in a new voice from behind them, summoning the brat pack like a demon circle and an endless stream of latin.
If this man is in the mafia than the one before her decked out in blue is definitely the gopher. Or maybe…the boss, judging by the way the man beside her shifts, his shoulders visibly slump.
[Lupin to the rescue…he’s going to hear this for at least four days but it’s better than accidentally making someone cry or having to bat away acute questions with equally vague answers]
[women, even little ones, are dangerous]
“The last time I had to hold back your beard for you. Might need some more training eh, Mister Soft Serve?” The man continues, spindly fingers poking through the tab of the first box, and pouting when all he gets is the stink eye from two girl tiny girls while the third fists her fingers in one blue sleeve.
Oh, could her eyes get any bigger.
Mister Jester, Mister Potential Boss, takes his eyes off the woman’s chest long enough to look down at the girl and become ensnared. The woman can see the hard line of his shoulders, rucked up and tense, soften. He’s not goo, not like the other one, but a slow grin scrawls across his mouth.
“How many did that mister buy? I’ll double it.”
Over the squealing of the girls and the thunder of her own heart [How is she going- WHAT is she going to tell Suzie? Just how will she rub this in Cassandra’s face? She should have made this a vine or something], she can hear the second man address his companion.
“I think I’m going to puke right now, from the sight of this.”
“Next time I have one of these sugar highs and a hangover, I’ll aim for your shoes.”
As troupe 66 squeal and squirm over their victory, cold hard cash crinkling in the little money box, the two strange men make a quick exit with a bag of groceries and too many boxes of Girl Scout cookies between them.
And their pride? Well. At least one of them can admit they’re both weak in the knees.
To put it simply, he stood out. And not just like a sore thumb, but a thumb that’s been slammed into a car door about five times. A mafia thumb. [thumbs have nothing on lives, though, and how many have been left with nothing but a thumb?] Which doesn’t even cover the blood seeped through the sleeves of his jacket. Because honestly, who wears a borsalino to a grocery store like that?
He stands off to one side before the automatic doors, one hand stuffed in a pocket while the other hangs uselessly at his side, occasionally twisted in the fabric of his slacks.
He’s waiting for something. Someone. That much is clear, by the way the shadows beneath the brim of his hat turn ever so slightly towards each new flurry of motion that heads his way. It’s in the impatient line of his shoulders, in the downturn of a mouth that hasn’t smiled or broken into laughter often. [except most people don’t know how to look closer: they mistake the single laugh line around one corner of his mouth as a wrinkle, a premature fissure in the cracks of his being]
Of course, they don’t realize any of this aside from: he’s there, he’s not square, and must be bored while he’s waiting without even a snack! So it’s time to make a profit and maybe make him stop frowning. Doomed little creatures as they are, as palpable as the woman’s anxiety is every time her gaze flickers to him beyond their table, she doesn’t catch them in time.
Jigen Daisuke doesn’t stand a chance when three girl scouts decked out in pigtails, braids, little puff buns and green vests are suddenly upon him. He feels the eyes as soon as they burn into the very fabric of his coat, fingers trail along the small of his back for his firearm where it’s tucked safely, because surely such an intense aura is an enemy—
But no, it’s children. He’s so flabbergasted it takes the spokes girl, a little thing missing her two front teeth, two tries to get her spiel out enough for him to stop sputtering ‘haaah?’ at her, brim of his hat tilting up for the girls to discover he does indeed have a face under there.
“So? Daisies gotta sell liiiike….twelve boxes to get the next level!”
“Nooo, we’ve gotta sell twenty, dummy. The mint thins are the best, even if they look like little pancake turds.”
“You’re a pancake turd—the Samoas are the yummiest ones. They’re selling the best too. The pie charts said so.”
Three imploring gazes lock on to Jigen in a manner deadlier than any assassin ever has, even after chasing after Lupin the Third over the horizon. Sweat beads between the brim of his hat and his forehead. They even swiveled their gazes on him simultaneously, their big, big eyes far more dangerous to his health than lasers ready to cut him in half on a table.
[And just what the hell pie charts? Do these kids already know how to do pie charts? Did they teach them with pie? What the hell are these overbearing teachers doing--]
At the table behind them their mother? Troupe leader? Has since hopped off her seat and made her way over, one delicate hand [oh oh, oh, in the face of defending these little babies, precious to the future, that hand will turn into a claw and rip out the hearts of monsters] outstretched , fingertips brush a patch of green—
Her breath freezes in her throat, squeeze her windpipes to wheeze uselessly into humid air, when the man, the mafia man, stoops down to be at eye level with the girls.
A scream is half-loaded on her tongue when he plucks a nondescript leather wallet from his pocket and begins to paw through a few bills inside. Quite a few bills. She feels her own eyes sparkle to match the girls’ as they peer at him, doe eyed.
“How much will this buy? Count it up for me.” What he holds between two fingers is a fifty dollar bill. His lips curve up into a small smile, and she feels herself blush, just a little, before she comes to her senses.
“Thirty!”
“You can’t count that high…I can’t.” Snubbed and haughty all the same.
“Thirty five.” The final answer. This cues up two dangerously, treacherously wobbling bottom lips and shiny eyes.
A trickle of sweat slides down Jigen’s face. He sighs, but there’s hardly any heat loaded behind it. A gust of wind would have more power against this onslaught.
Apparently not soon enough because Thing One has already dashed back to the table to make the first trip, boxes crushed between teeny arms, and Thing Three has already accepted the bill. He doesn’t seem too perturbed, though. Just chuffs out a chuckle, shakes his head, then adjusts his hat over the bridge of his nose with a tilt of his fingers.
“I’m sorry about them…the other troupe leader has them all fired up for the badge. They’re really good, though.” When he says nothing, her eyes narrow on him, one hand cocked on her hip as her charges dash to and fro.
“Gorging yourself on cookies isn’t going to help the alcohol problem, you know. Being hungover and sugar high just makes you even sicker…and shouldn’t you have a little more discipline when it comes to little girls?”
The noise he makes—she can’t be sure, but it sounds like a sputter through ragged lungs, there’s a hint of wide dark eyes flickering at her with disbelief in their depths.
“I don’t have— I can handle my booze better than some college frat kids, thanks.” His mouth is downturned again, and that wrinkle is on the run.
“Are you sure about that?” Chimes in a new voice from behind them, summoning the brat pack like a demon circle and an endless stream of latin.
If this man is in the mafia than the one before her decked out in blue is definitely the gopher. Or maybe…the boss, judging by the way the man beside her shifts, his shoulders visibly slump.
[Lupin to the rescue…he’s going to hear this for at least four days but it’s better than accidentally making someone cry or having to bat away acute questions with equally vague answers]
[women, even little ones, are dangerous]
“The last time I had to hold back your beard for you. Might need some more training eh, Mister Soft Serve?” The man continues, spindly fingers poking through the tab of the first box, and pouting when all he gets is the stink eye from two girl tiny girls while the third fists her fingers in one blue sleeve.
Oh, could her eyes get any bigger.
Mister Jester, Mister Potential Boss, takes his eyes off the woman’s chest long enough to look down at the girl and become ensnared. The woman can see the hard line of his shoulders, rucked up and tense, soften. He’s not goo, not like the other one, but a slow grin scrawls across his mouth.
“How many did that mister buy? I’ll double it.”
Over the squealing of the girls and the thunder of her own heart [How is she going- WHAT is she going to tell Suzie? Just how will she rub this in Cassandra’s face? She should have made this a vine or something], she can hear the second man address his companion.
“I think I’m going to puke right now, from the sight of this.”
“Next time I have one of these sugar highs and a hangover, I’ll aim for your shoes.”
As troupe 66 squeal and squirm over their victory, cold hard cash crinkling in the little money box, the two strange men make a quick exit with a bag of groceries and too many boxes of Girl Scout cookies between them.
And their pride? Well. At least one of them can admit they’re both weak in the knees.