{ we didn't start the fire } clarke + kafka blitz
Jan 1, 2017 1:10:25 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jan 1, 2017 1:10:25 GMT -5
k a f k a
Thirsty Thursday -- and the place is running dry, not a half-assed person in sight.
I sit slouched on a bar stool, picking cat hair from my clothes, fine strands of fur finding its way between threads and onto the floor with the dust of ghostprints and a layer of evening gray. Because one way or another, factory smoke always manages to get into everything already shitty. Ripred, I've always wanted a real fucking fur coat, but this isn't it.
I'm always catnip for Kira these days -- which is, like, bullshit -- 'cause now I'm stuck with getting the wrong kind of pussy.
For eternity.
Or at least until he's got time again for hisharem strays. I've got less-than-zero clues on what he's been up to lately. But because of my stunning selflessness as a stunning citizen, I'm not entirely sure how I got roped into working three jobs -- and then some for someone else.
Anyways. Mister-sir-dumb-fuck-face is highkey yelling about wiping down the counters or something, "not paying me to sit around" or whatever. Except I totally can't do that because there's a girl dying on the counter next to me, perishing for as long as I've been staring at the clock. Which was, like, five minutes into my shift? Maybe a generous ten?
I feel like this is a sufficient enough reason as to why I don't need to wipe the counters, and why I can probably just skedaddle out right now. But Bruh-bitch-a-lot isn’t having it.
"Yah." I prod her gently.
And then not-so-gently when she doesn’t respond.
Maybe she’s actually dead.
Hey, wouldn’t that be wild on a weekday night?
"Yo. We’re closed," and she stirs a bit to my words. "Go home, go to bed," leave. But she smells like liquor, like the kind of sins I always concocted up whenever they leave me at the helm of the bar. And drunk people do things like lose their pants, and scream shitty secrets, and fall into holes. But they do not ever, ever listen to a single reasonable thing being said.
I sit slouched on a bar stool, picking cat hair from my clothes, fine strands of fur finding its way between threads and onto the floor with the dust of ghostprints and a layer of evening gray. Because one way or another, factory smoke always manages to get into everything already shitty. Ripred, I've always wanted a real fucking fur coat, but this isn't it.
I'm always catnip for Kira these days -- which is, like, bullshit -- 'cause now I'm stuck with getting the wrong kind of pussy.
For eternity.
Or at least until he's got time again for his
Anyways. Mister-sir-dumb-fuck-face is highkey yelling about wiping down the counters or something, "not paying me to sit around" or whatever. Except I totally can't do that because there's a girl dying on the counter next to me, perishing for as long as I've been staring at the clock. Which was, like, five minutes into my shift? Maybe a generous ten?
I feel like this is a sufficient enough reason as to why I don't need to wipe the counters, and why I can probably just skedaddle out right now. But Bruh-bitch-a-lot isn’t having it.
"Yah." I prod her gently.
And then not-so-gently when she doesn’t respond.
Maybe she’s actually dead.
Hey, wouldn’t that be wild on a weekday night?
"Yo. We’re closed," and she stirs a bit to my words. "Go home, go to bed," leave. But she smells like liquor, like the kind of sins I always concocted up whenever they leave me at the helm of the bar. And drunk people do things like lose their pants, and scream shitty secrets, and fall into holes. But they do not ever, ever listen to a single reasonable thing being said.
