i'm the morty that rolls up his sleeves

    “ this place is creepy! ” he retracts his foot from the spongy floor, shuddering at the squelchy pop with which it comes free. “ aw geez, ew ...! a – AND GROSS! ” 

   yeahh i crapped out again but!! i’ll be back & working on these jus as soon as i get my shit a smidge more together and finish watching disjointed mah friends i promise u.

   *whispers*  i’m baack

   honestly, he could have dodged. he could probably even have landed a blow before you did but, jacked up on himself & his own seemingly superior street cred, slick fails to react until it’s too late. the illusion shatters. all of a sudden he’s just a scrawny kid weak from hunger and exposure, seeing stars as the hard steel of the shelf behind him slams into the jutting bones of his back.    slick yelps, sneakers slipping on the linoleum as he struggles against a grip he realizes has more than double his own weight behind it. “ o – ow, what the –  je – jesus christ, you’re –  you’re hurting me! ” he’s miscalculated — big time — and, realizing this ⁽ along with the fact that your threats may be very, very real ⁾, slick’s attitude readjusts like the well-oiled bully victim every morty is, deep down. “ aw – oh – oh my god, o – okay! OKAY! ” fumbling the speaker out of his pocket, slick raises it high enough for you to see before dropping it to the ground. you’re freaking him out with all the yelling and the handling and, honestly, it wasn’t all that cool a gadget to be worth this kinda crap. “ i – it was just a joke, man, just a joke, c’mon … ”     here’s hoping that’s enough to placate you … and that you didn’t see him shove those packs of AA quantum batteries in his pockets three aisles down.    he actually needs those.

   slick falls into place easily, head finding the familiar spot on your chest where it’s usually comfortable. there’s no real need for it anymore; you’re both warm, fed, well-rested, the tv’s huge and the bed you’re sprawled out on could fit four more of you easy but, somehow, the habit persists. not like slick’s complaining.   what’s a bromance without the cuddle in your pjs benefits?

   guess who took 2018 as a great incentive to CRASH N BURN

   “ but ... aren’t you politicians supposed to do, like, the opposite? you know, make stuff sound better than they are? pos – ... positive connotation? is ... is that the word? ” slick rubs his head, studying the martini in his hand and, realizing he doesn’t actually care, takes a swallow.    man, these sure are appearance only, huh?    he stifles a gag by sucking on the olive. “ yeah, man. i mean, stabbing someone’s basically how you ask for a ... a cup of sugar in mortytown. ”     ━━ whatever that stands for.                                                     it’s a pretty long list.

    “ h – hey, girl ...! ” slick almost loses his voice as sylvie stands, the sheer size of her almost enough to extinguish the ridiculously suicidal urge to pet anything vaguely resembling a canine. stretching out a hand nervously, slick lets her sniff his palm, squinting a little in the gusts of wind created by the excited wagging of her tail.     it’s a welcome distraction from the rest of your conversation.    his free hand plucking at the side-hem of his jeans, slick releases an awkward laugh. “ i – yeah. yeah, i’m fine – ow! ” his hand jerks away at the burning sensation of sylvie’s drool, which has managed to burn through his bandage. “ i – i mean sure, ᴴᴬ ᴴᴬ ... ” he has no idea how to explain himself, the knee-jerk response to deny your statement of his intentions when he jumped into the portal dying on his tongue. if not that, what was he doing? he hadn’t exactly had much hope of ending up somewhere better ...                                           ‘slick, why do you have to be so dramatic?’    an involuntary flinch flickers over his face.     “ i ... i get sorta reck – reckless, some ... sometimes. i’m sorry you – um, i mean ... thanks. for, you know ... for fish – fishing me ... out. ” 

   “ maybe i will. ” maneuvering himself out the door and putting down his load to fasten the makeshift lock, slick wonders just how a perfectly good joke somehow backfired. he’s going to have to find some way to repay you for that one.    virgin binch.     “ so where is this magical castle with all the free food and the huge-ass bed? ” slick echoes mockingly as he makes his way down the street, heading out of mortytown. “ i swear to god, man, if you’re high off your ass somewhere spouting this shit i’m gonna kick your ass. ” it'd serve you right, too, for getting his hopes up.

   he feels impossibly small as he pokes his head around the oak door, which, though massive, opens to his touch with ease. slick throat constricts, body hugging the jamb until the rick behind him ushers him into the study with a firm hand on the small of his back & pulls the door closed, leaving him standing there awkwardly, hugging his partially bandaged arm to his chest. eyes wander over the expensive inner paneling, the towering bookshelves, the gigantic glass windows behind you, the canine-like thing by your side ...    slick swallows.      “ h – hi ...” it’s little more than a squeak, & his cheeks redden as he hears himself. you’re just like him, just a morty, but there’s something over this entire scene that’s undoubtedly intimidating, if only in how vastly different your positions as alternates of the same person are, or could ever possibly hope to be.    maybe that’s why he suddenly has no idea what to say to you.     “ c – cool ... cool dog ... ”    you probably should have just left him in the garbage where he belongs.

   I HAVE NO REGRETS, SIR

   “ ow! ” retracting his hand, slick flinches away from you, eyes filled of reproach. “ i – i was just looking! ” why have all this cool stuff on display if you won’t even let a morty play with break look at it?