when Cassidy met Butch

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

based on this

It’s a Tuesday night. Summer, the air hot and stifling, robbing breath from your very lungs. The kind of night there’s no relief and your AC had better be working overtime or you’ll be stuck in front of your open fridge, shirtless, in a puddle of your own butt sweat.

The year is 1985 and Team Rocket’s enterprise is Pokemon trafficking and the pathetic lifestyle of college students who have resorted to crime instead of poetry readings on Wednesdays. Cassidy should be studying for the quiz tomorrow but can’t stop looking at the trainee uniform of Team Rocket where it sits neatly folded on her desk. It’s such an ugly shade of burgundy, a practiced method of rooting out the weak. Between the training and the bruises, the spit and the supersonics from too many Zubat, Cassidy has never once humored the thought of giving up.

Not until now. Her life’s path is laid out before her at a crossroads: fight for the runway for the rest of her days or steal Pokemon from a bunch of kids while wearing burgundy. Her stomach growls in solidarity. She sighs and rolls off the bed and onto the balls of her feet. No use making a decision now, not on an empty stomach.

Since its way too hot to cook, Cassidy decides to order out. To further cheer herself up (we all have to find ways to distract from spending money we could plausibly have saved) she adds some special instructions.
She spends the next 20 minutes waiting, laughing herself silly. Maybe she should be a comedian instead? The air is blessedly cool when she enters that stone building that is Olive Garden, sending gooseflesh prickling across her skin. The smells of generic Italian waft into her nose. Clearly her instructions had been shared throughout the staff because the looks she gets are a mixture between annoyance, curiosity, and pity.

But the employee who scurries out with a bag clutched between his fingers and a thick, drawn on mustache, obviously didn’t feel that way.
He beams at her. “Eeeyyyy, I got-a your-a order, bappada boopity!”

Cassidy takes one look at this green-haired, apron-wearing, sharpie mustache’d guy with his horrible accent, she busts out laughing. Her stomach hurts, patrons are staring. This is the best service—5 stars!

“I didn’t think anyone would actually do it…” she wheezes. She didn’t think some poor sap on minimum wage would be equally bored and miserable enough to speak in their best Italian accent when handing over her food.

He looks way too proud, his grin is enormous. “A-nooo! I was really a-looking forward to it. I was-a the only one-a brave enough to do it!”

This guy looks familiar. Those bangs look familiar. Cassidy squints at him. He must think she does too, because he’s looking just as closely at her—and not just because she’s incredibly hot in the mismatching tracksuit.

“Haven’t I seen you at the poetry jams?” This is the young people’s slang for Rocket training. “Didn’t think you were into comedy too. You’re a pretty well-rounded babe.”

She isn’t flattered. She knows it very well. Flipping a curtain of blonde over her shoulder, she cocks her head. “I just had some free time. In my boredom I figured I might as well do something vaguely evil and hope it inconvenienced you.”

That grin doesn’t falter. Lord, there are sparkles in his eyes. “No. If anything, it made my day a spicy-a meatball.”

He’s not the ugliest and he can keep up. He might make a decent grunt. Cassidy thinks his name is Baruch or something?

“Speaking of my spicy meatballs, I had better get going.” Maybe it’s the lead-foot of fate that keeps her there despite just announcing her departure, or maybe there’s gum on her shoe, molding her to the spot.

“I’ll see you around? At the jams?” His poopy brown puppy dog eyes plead at her.

Her mouth curves into a smile. “I think so. Mob movies are my favorite.”

The moment breaks. Fate begins to spin like a gear in motion. That week, Cassidy is announced a new training partner.

“My name’s Butch.”

Close enough.