* HIATUS !

     Most would shrug him off and tell him to fuck off, which he’d happily oblige to, after all, there wasn’t much he could do once they told him to go. He didn’t want to end up shoved in a locker, or worse. Right forefinger scratches at his eye, a habit, one that shows he’s at a loss for words. ❝ Eeerrr… ❞ He doesn’t know what to say, and repeating himself is out of the question, ❝ Yer not the smokin’ type? ❞

❝ I can get hold of white widow. ❞

    ❝ ‘Ow fast can yer run if the bizzies come? What wer’ doing ain’t sound, yer know? Plus ma knows Iv’ been sagging off an’ she ain’t too pleased’ ❞ Fingers place the joint between his lips, two quick inhales, hold it in for five seconds, let it hit your lungs, then exhale. Now he’s handing it to her, he doesn’t know her, but anyone can make friends over a blunt, just don’t tell stories while holding it.  He coughs four times, hand hitting his chest, before looking at her once more, ❝ If yer ain’t choking, yer ain’t smoking. ❞

HERE.

     ❝ Ain’t that a bit antwacky? ❞ Question hangs, and his hand grazes over his lips, wiping away the wetness from them. Maybe he shouldn’t have dumped the cup of soda out right on his face, but he thought he’d be able to drink it faster if he did. Free hand points to an old vehicle across the street, it’s old, it’s rusted up, looks as if it’s been sitting there for the past four decades. To him, it’s trash. ❝  Think it runs? The ol’ bloke who owns it must be a blert, yer thinking it too I know it. If he bought it like that he must’v got jibbed. ❞

STARTER CALL.