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@theartofmadeline

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@mickey-vaughan
--- EVERYTHING BELOW; ARCHIVED. ---

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~~*~~
Shawn nodded along to what he was saying without really hearing it. Something about waiting until he is awake to give him anything which made sense. It was a fitful sleep her father was in, but it was still sleep. "Yea," she finally answered and dropped her hands to rub on the jeans she'd never actually changed out of for the night, "Yea let's just...umm...you want some tea? I'll just...make some tea..." She headed back down the stairs for the kitchen without waiting to see if he followed.
Even trusting that Mickey kept secrets, she still wasn't very comfortable with sharing hers. Since that's what this had to be. The kettle already sloshed with some water that she had used earlier to make some tea and she lit the burner under it. "Chamomile ok?"
Mickey wasn't even sure that Shawn heard him -- she barely glanced his way, seemingly not really able to focus on him or her surroundings. Like some type of ghost that wandered through her home doomed to repeat the same ministrations over and over. Once again, it tugged on those sympathy strings inside. Mickey wasn't a heartless man. He could see the lady was struggling and he sure didn't like to see it, either. But what could he do to help, aside from what he was doing already?
Distract her, maybe. Maybe she'd like to see some card tricks.
"Yeah, sure," Mickey agreed, standing aside to allow her to pass. It looked like he might be there a while. Which was fine, wasn't like he had much else going on this early, early morning regardless. Besides, he wasn't too keen on leaving Shawn by herself when she was in this upset state. People acted funny when they were like this... Was just better she had a pair of eyes on her, just to make sure she got over the hump of depression. The male followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen, setting aside his bag for now but not before withdrawing a deck of cards from it. "Whatever you're making for yourself is good with me," he advised, taking a seat. "You like card tricks?"
"I wish listening to you talk to a machine that doesn't talk back is the weirdest thing I have seen tonight." He replied, hues watching the other lose money. Shaw gambled but not in quite some time, he would rather blow his money on vehicles that could probably rack up some bills depending on how bad the wreck was at a hospital. But that was half the fun, the thrill of living life on the edge. "I'm guessing luck isn't on your side again?" Shaw shook his head. "They're all kind of a scam if you ask me." Even though no such thing was said his way. "And ending up making him the laughing stock here. Maybe there is a nurse here and he could call it even, doesn't even have to be a real one -never know Halloween is coming up. People still dress up." Shaw noted but sighed, a clear indicator he was going to agree with another round on his dollar. "One round and you owe me. Don't be surprised if I add some interest in there either."
"You should see the rituals I gotta perform just to make sure luck is in my favor," Mickey claimed. "And sometimes, even that doesn't work." He scowled back at the machine. "I'm starting to think they got it rigged, man. I've been putting twenties in this thing for how many years now and it still ain't paid me more than two hundred that one time... It's been saying I could get seven hundred thousand for eight months now... My ass." And yet, it clearly wasn't enough to dissuade Mickey from putting his money away in it for that one slim glimmer of hope it may some day pay off.
"I ain't laughing at him," he commented, once again looking towards the guy making a fool of himself. "Looks like it did the job." Mickey laughed. "Game is game, right? I once paid a friend to deck me in the eye all so this girl would help me after. Figured she'd hold an ice pack to my head while we talked or whatever. She literally 'ew'd' and side-stepped me." He ought to have some shame in that story, but honestly, it was too damn funny. He knew how to laugh at himself. "Yeah, sure, interest and all," Mickey agreed, flagging down for another refill.
"Forty bucks says you can't even make the board." Lane eyed Mickey for a hot second, there was no way. They were a little ways away, and Lane just-- had zero faith in Mickey's throw. Had he seen him play before? Sure. Did he remember any of it? Absolutely not, but if he had thrown a something killer he would have had at least a highlight, right? He wasn't sure, but he had the money and who even cared? "I don't remember you being any good at this." He said, looking from the board back to Mickey, "and I do like free money." The smile creeped up to his cheeks. Did he know that for sure? No. Was it a poor attempt at shit talking? Absolutely.
"Bet!"
The word was out of Mickey's mouth before he could even stop himself, and then inwardly he wished he could kick his own ass. If he missed this shot, he would be twenty bucks in the hole with Lane and that was never a good look.
"Yeah, yeah -- I'm plenty good at this," he claimed, brushing off the other man's shit talking. "Now scoot on back, you're in my zone." Mickey shooed Lane off further, even though there was more than enough room for the guy to toss without any interference. But he didn't trust Lane not to try and smack the bag out of the air or something, because there'd been no rules made to say they couldn't attempt that. At least, if Lane was the one about to shoot, that's how Mickey would play it, anyway. So if he would, someone else would too. Lane? Who knew!
He faced the board, tossing the bag back and forth between his palms. Feeling its weight. Taking a ridiculous amount of time as he squinted and swung his arm back and forth, like he was needing to get a precise aim -- all this showmanship and still hadn't taken a shot yet.
Julie knew Mickey dropped by whenever the door opened and a swell of heat rushed in. Mickey always had a way of opening that door and lingering there just a hair too long. She looked up from her foils with a brief shake of her head at the usual complaint. "Can't have a beauty salon smelling ugly or we'd be out of business," she said in her practiced response; a few of the stylists chuckled at the familiar exchange.
The sound of Mickey's bubble gum popping ricocheted through the salon like a gunshot. Julie rolled her eyes catching her client giggling in the mirror, then looked stuck out her hip at the question. "I swear, you say stuff like that just so I compliment you," she teased, picking up one of the rolled hand towels to toss in his direction. This was all in good fun. Mickey and Shaw were like the brothers she never had or wanted. "Quit touching all my bottles, Mickey Vaughan. You'll make the labels turn and then my front desk girl has to fix it."
"Oh I don't know about that -- not too much competition out here in these parts," he said, with an overly exaggerated twang to his tone, "so I reckon these folks will make do with what they gotta, bad smells and all." Mickey offered a grin as he gave the piece of gum several quick chews, intentionally presenting a comical look.
His brows rose. "Oh, so you're saying you think I've got great skin?" Mickey assumed, that forced southern accent mostly back to normal now. "I guess blood, sweat, and tears really is the winning combination." The man startled some at Julie's sudden chiding, nearly causing one of the bottles to topple off the shell. Luckily, he was able to catch it -- albeit clumsily -- in time and placed it back on the shelf with alacrity. Then he noticed the label wasn't facing out like she just complained would happen, and Mickey quickly twisted it back forward again before lifting his hands up and away from the shelf. "Okay, okay, I won't touch anything, geez."

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"I can't do anchors if they won't sink like they're intended to," Jasper joked. He would do a damn anchor if a client insisted, but in general tried to avoid them like the plague. Every artist had something they disliked -- if they claimed they didn't, they were just liars.
It was the way Mickey unceremoniously shoved his sleeve up before slamming it on the counter that made Jasper laugh. Looking at his friend's arm, Jasper nodded. "Yeah, I think you could. Everyone looks better with tattoos -- it's like a universal body contour," he nodded. "Although, I will say if you get a tattoo and immediately go into a hot tub it'll fade it or make it patchy. You could also possibly get an infection, but y'know, options."
"What d'you got against anchors and why?" he questioned, a bit amused by the other man's distaste of the option. "People come in here getting anchors all the time or something?" That's what Mickey would assume, anyway.
Mickey cast a doubtful look towards Jasper. "I dunno about that, man. I've seen some work that makes me question who was drunk -- the artist or the client. And face tats.." He made a face. "Maybe Mike Tyson pulled it off but those people are rare." The hot tub warning caused him to chuckle some and shake his head as he looked down at himself. "Do I look like someone who spends all his time hanging out in hot tubs?"
"Nice shot." Xila mused as she watched Mickey snatch the gum wrapper off her floor. If that wasn't a little bit of instant karma, what was? She glanced towards the door and sighed to herself. She did think she should be a little more careful when it came to locking that door. But then again, it was only Mickey. She was lucky for that.
"Anyway, there's nothing up my ass. I just maybe haven't had my medically prescribed cup of caffeine just yet. Which makes me a danger to everyone if we're being completely honest." She smirked at him before leaning back on her palms and staring up at him from the floor. "Mmm." She nodded yes when he asked about her stock. "Is today not Monday?"
"Funny." Mickey pulled a face at the woman as she mocked him for missing the basket. He had always been a poor shot, though. "Isn't that the same thing?" he questioned, both brows rising up. "The expression means the same -- you got a bee in your bonnet, a pebble in your shoe?" Mickey's hands circled together briefly. "Take your pick, really. You damn near took my head off for coming through the door."
Was this an exaggeration? Absolutely! Xila was nothing more than annoyed, at best. But Mickey liked to mess with her.
"Am I in danger here?" he asked, holding up his hands like she was threatening him. "Because I don't need any problems, lady. I'm an innocent chap, just come by to help." Mickey couldn't be serious if his life depended on it, sometimes. One of these days, she might just push him in the road. "And actually, I got something that's better than coffee?" Here, his lips pulled into a different kind of smirk. "If you're looking for a real pick-me-up, that is. On the house, even." The man shrugged his shoulders when she reminded him it was Monday. "I lose track of time."
~~*~~
This was the side of her father's illness that she didn't want people to see. That her father didn't want people to see. He still had his pride and, while Shawn didn't agree with his reasoning, he wanted to keep people as in the dark as possible. At least about what they could. It was obvious he was dealing with something and they couldn't hide it completely. But he did prefer to hide how extreme it really was. While Shawn called Lizzie for some of the symptoms, she always called Mickey with it got this bad. He knew discretion. He kept secrets. More than even she knew.
"Hi," Shawn whispered as she dropped her hand from where she'd been chewing on her thumb nail to fold her arms across her chest. The slight curls in her hair far more prominent now where they stuck up at odd angles around her face. Dark circles under her eyes from the lack of sleep lately. "He's asleep again, sort of. I think he mostly just passed out from exhaustion at this point...but the swelling in his legs is getting really painful and his meds aren't helping for some reason."
Mickey offered a sympathetic nod, because he wasn't quite sure what else could be said. It was clear that Shawn was upset and possibly assuming the worst -- perhaps preparing for the worst? But he wasn't so sure of that, yet. "I ah--" he lifted the bag up some for her viewing, and gave it a pat, "might have some stuff that could help. With the pain and the swelling."
He walked in closer but then stopped before her. "Unless you want to wait for him to wake up again? Since he's finally settled down.." That might even be better. Most people were able to ignore their pain and suffering while they were asleep. "I could just show you what to use, when he gets back up. That way you won't need to call me back here." Mickey's lips pulled into a grimace. "Not that it bothers me or anything," he was back to rubbing the back of his head, "I just mean.. you won't need to wait for me to show up, next time."
Waylon choked on his laugh and quipped, "My sister would say that women can't tell distance because men lie about height and length so often." Absolutely his sister β that niece's mother β would say that in response. Granted, his sister also scraped the fuck out of her wheels. It ran in the family on that side apparently. He glanced down at the truck and shrugged. "This is an old truck we're using for a reason. The wheels are already shit, so like, if she does that we're good. Other cars were the real obstacle today. Overall, she'd only barely pass the driving test, but I'll get her there."
As concerned as he was over the vehicle -- which, regardless of its age, Mickey could see the use in and felt it could always get repaired to its former glory if someone just bothered -- the joke brought on abrupt laughter. "That's hilarious," he guffawed, wiping at his smile and snorting. That was clever as shit. And totally true. Every man out there damn well knew it that they tended to exaggerate to save face all the time. His laugh did die down after a moment, but his lips kept tugging back up, like it was difficult to keep himself from going into another round of it. Like one of those times when you caught something funny enough it caused you to go on for five minutes and almost die for lack of oxygen, and then struggled not to keep giggling in the minutes since. "You're a nicer man than me 'cause," he finally got out, shaking his head, "I'd be using someone else's car entirely." And they would be nowhere near anything he owned, too. "When's the test?" he gave a dubious glance at the curb once more, wondering how long the two had been practicing. If she just started, then maybe Mickey could understand how bad it was... But if this was already weeks in? Geez.
It was the middle of the night -- nearly 2am -- by the time Mickey got his ass to Shawn's with his bag of goodies in tow.
@shawnbetancourt
She was lucky that second call finally woke him up, otherwise her old man would be shit out of luck until later that morning. He'd had a couple of beers before he dozed off, so by the law's eyes he wasn't exactly sober on the drive over, but Mickey himself felt as bright-eyed as he needed to be to focus on what the woman needed from him.
Mickey parked around the back and plucked his bag from the front seat before he hopped down from the cab and headed up to the back door. Shawn claimed it would be unlocked so he could let himself in -- she'd told the truth. The man eased into the small two-story house and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. Familiar with the environment already, Mickey made his way to the stairs and climbed them to the second level, where her father's room was. He paused, catching sight of her in the doorway. Even in the dim lighting, he could see the concern and stress etched on her features. "Sorry," he rubbed the back of his head, referring to how late he got there, "I got your message.."

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"Twenty bucks says I could make the shot from here, on the first try."
@lanesthrlnd
Mickey tossed the small resin bag in the air briefly and caught it, with an impish grin towards Lane. Truth was, he shouldn't put up any money, especially on this, because not only was he down to his last twenty for the rest of the week (unless he made a couple calls, which he probably would), but the man was a terrible shot.
Cornhole was not his game. Nor was basketball, or any other game that meant Mickey needed to have some decent hand-eye coordination to make some trick shot. He was a poor shot. Even with a pistol. He knew he was a poor shot, and yet here he was, laying down money he couldn't afford to give up all on the hopes that luck would be on his side, this once. It was truly his vice. He could turn any old innocent thing into a gamble, because winning was such a high.
As he pushed through the salon's door, Mickey paused and sniffed the air. "It smells too... pretty.. in here.."
@julie-hollis
A complaint he routinely made, any time he bothered to stop in and check on how Julie was doing with her supplies. It was about that time of the month. Maybe a few days too soon? But to be fair, Paxton's days seemed to have picked up in traffic lately and Mickey figured, the local businesses may be feeling the strain on demand sooner than later than usual. Did the smell honestly bother him? Nope, not a bit. As someone with their hand quite firmly in the dirt and around any number of plants (exotic or otherwise), fragrance existed. He just liked playing a nuisance.
Blowing a bubble that popped loudly, Mickey chewed the piece of gum back into his mouth as he beelined towards the woman. He only paused at the rack of items nearby, where he began to touch and finger his way through the bottles on the shelf. "Hey, you really think this'll moisturize my skin and make it glow?" he questioned, picking up one of the bottles and shaking it. "I've been feeling like aged beef under this sun lately," he complained, running a hand over his stubbled cheek.
"Doc! DOC!"
@marlodalton
Mickey quickly crossed the road -- holding a hand out to stay the car trying to pass until he was safely across -- and chased the woman down another block before he was able to cut off her path. "Listen, doc, I need your help with something," the male begged, looking this way and that way, as if he was about to impart some very important information that nobody else needed to overhear.
There was some random squeak sound and scuffle within the man's jeans jacket. "Look--" Mickey held open one side of the jacket so he could dig within its deep pocket and suddenly produced a white ball of fluff, no bigger than his own hand really. "What the hell is this?!" Mickey thrust the tiny dog forward for the veterinarian's inspection. "It won't stop following me around! And I'm pretty sure it got into some of my garden." Which may not be the best thing, actually. There was one leaf on a certain plant that looked like it'd gotten chewed on and if that was the case, this -- dog?! -- was about to be three sheets to the wind.
And who knew what that'd do to the thing, being as small at it was?! The teacup Pomeranian stared up between the two of them with big eyes and yawned. Mickey made a face.
ππππππ
Name: Michael "Mickey" Vaughn
Age: 36
Occupation: Horticulturist
Affiliation: Grower for the Cowboy Mafia
Gender & Pronouns: Man (he/him)
Faceclaim: Michael Vlamis
πππππππππ
tw parental death, gambling mention, drug involvement
Life for Mickey has always been a horse race, or perhaps that was the 'middle child' syndrome in play. Closer to his mother, yet yearning to be the apple of his father's eye. They loved their children, but - the way he tells it - they always had their favorites, of which he was not. Much of his youth was spent in desperate grabs of attention.
Boy scouts? Hiking? Camping? ATVs and motorbikes? Track? Baseball? It seemed he had a hand in just about anything the old man prized or enjoyed, even if its interest didn't linger long. As soon as his eyes turned away, Mickey was on to the next.
Cooking? Music? Dance? Painting? Pottery? All things mother clapped and cheered over. Mickey fostered an eclectic background involved in plenty of things, to the point nobody quite understood anything about him. It was strange, this need to be stick out and be important. His peers weren't sure how to read him or what he was truly about.
One could say, a jack of all trades and yet an expert in none.
Until, that is, Mickey discovered a talent with the earth and sheer curiosity. And, maybe, a certain lack of ethics.
Funnily enough, this all started from pumpkin seeds. It escalated to experiments, to see the influence of what could grow, to what size, how quickly, and for what purpose. This, finally, was something Mickey liked. A bit off the beaten path of where his family thought he'd pursue some typical life they'd approve of, but not outrageous? Just... different. This difference was everything he'd searched for.
The more learned, the more invested. Mickey's entire career altered its course to nourish this green thumb. When his father got sick, it became an opportunity; surely, the secret to health was in the plants somewhere. To this day, he's convinced he's the reason the old man made it another two years longer than doctors figured.
His father's long suffering battle is what got Mickey wrapped up in this world. He started growing things that weren't exactly legal, at first to aid the man's pain and health. Then, it became an quick and lucrative way to make a few bucks. Mickey didn't have to hold a 9 to 5 to get him places anymore.
Once his father passed, he moved on. Found himself in Paxton almost ten years ago now, where the land was cheap yet ripe with fertile soil. Mickey made himself useful with the farmers and ways to make their crops grow fast and big and plentiful. And it wasn't long before his other green thumb talents caught wind and the community sought more.
If it wasn't for an unhealthy interest in gambles, Mickey might not have gotten as caught up as he has. But right now, it's easy to enjoy having a hand in the pot, like people around here really need and notice him. There might even be some pride in it... Or is that cockiness? Hard to say anymore. All Mickey knows is, it may not all be right and maybe he's gotten a little in over his head, but the money is flowing and they let him grow.
ππππ πππ
They started their journey with the Cowboys over a decade ago. Originally, the meaning of the Cowboys was something near and dear to them. Now, theyβve begun to see the consequences of the Cowboyβs drug trade. Theyβve started to feel like they need to do something to fix the damage they caused, but their love for their job and their power is addicting.
Starter for anyone and everyone
Where: Outlaw Ink
When: Present
The thing about Jasper was he controlled his schedule. After spending years on and off the road, he liked the freedom of being able to come and go as he pleased in his personal and professional life. Now, he was back and it would take a few weeks for people to realize he was open for appointments again. This gave him time to putter around the shop and reacquaint himself with the town for the first week. While he found out later than most about Oceanview and Randall Kastings, it seemed everywhere he went, even the line at the grocery store, wanted an opinion. Everyone seemed required to have one at least. When the bell tolled an arrival, Jasper came out from the backroom to meet them halfway. "If you're here for a statement about what's going on in town, no comment. If you need the restroom, the owner's out and I'll act like I didn't see you if you're quick," Jasper said with a faint smile at the end. "If you're actually here for a tattoo -- I don't do anchors."
"I dunno, man..." Mickey gave the other a once-over, in jest. "I'm not too confident in you now that you just admitted you can't do anchors." He walked in, shrugging off his jeans jacket. It was draped over the chair he then took a seat on and pushed the sleeve of his left arm up. "You think I could pull off a sleeve?" he asked then, looking over. "Be honest, alright? This shit doesn't wash off and if it turns out I can't, and I get the whole arm done, you're the first person I'm coming for." It was a -- mostly -- empty threat, though Mickey was genuinely interested in Jasper's opinion.

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Open starter
Where: Paxton Oracle
When: Morning
Xila liked to stick to her morning routine. She was very methodical that way. Truth be told, she was a bit miserable without it. Her mornings usually consisted of two eggs sunny side up on a piece of toast. Hot coffee. Sweet but with very little cream. Simple enough. But when she did her groggy morning shuffle to the kitchen, she found there were no eggs. No coffee. What was the point of even trying to have a good day at this rate? So she decided to forego breakfast altogether. Obviously, there was very little salvaging this morning so she decided to head down to the shop early and squeeze some solo yoga in before she could be tempted to crawl back into bed and give up on today.
Paxton Oracle appeared to be your typical metaphysical shop. It was eclectic and gimmicky all at once, the smell of incense sticking to every surface. But it was spacious with wide windows and plenty of natural light. One of the perks that came with living above her own business was that Xila could use the space however she pleased. Unfortunately, this meant she had left the front door unlocked when she had gone to fetch the mail earlier. When she heard the bell over the door jingle open, she nearly groaned. Surely, someone wasn't looking for a tarot reading first thing in the morning? "What part of me in the downward dog position suggests that we are open?"
"I dunno, maybe the unlocked door?" Mickey headed further inside despite the woman's unfriendly demeanor. "What crawled up your ass today?" He dug into his pocket and brought out a piece of gum, which he took care in unwrapping before the stick was popped into his mouth. Mickey attempted to shoot the leftover wrapper into the nearby bin, but missed. "Damn it," muttering to himself, he crossed over and snatched it from the floor, and tossed it in.
"Didn't you say come by Tuesday?" the man asked, as he perched and observed her. "Eh, maybe it was Wednesday... Could've been Thursday, who knows? I had time today, though." Mickey's lips tugged into an impish grin as he chewed. "So, here I am." His arms fanned out at his sides briefly. "Low on stock, I assume?" Mickey flicked the air in front of one of her herb bottles.
starter for: everyone
location: prairie pies
The day at work had seemed never-ending; it was one of the relatively quiet days in the Santiago mansion, Hector off on some business trip for the past couple of days. The house staff always seemed more relaxed on such occasions, talking a little longer and laughing a little louder without fearing the dominating glare of their boss. His mother, though, was the opposite. Crankier than ever, she had to be begged to take her medicine, and every attempt of conversation ended with her snapping, usually something in unintelligible Spanish. Lizzie didn't blame her- with Alicia gone, it only made sense that she would rather keep her family close. The Halls seemed to be doing exactly the same.
Said Halls were more pleasant on her phonecall to let them know she was coming home and their request was much easier to satisfy than that of her elderly employer- pizza. She happily obliged, her own stomach protesting, dropping by their favorite spot and one of the very few open ones this late.
"Excuse me, are you waiting to order?" she asked the only person standing in front of her in line, trying not to sound too impatient.
"Dang, lady, I just got in here," Mickey said, shooting an annoyed look back at her. "You in some kind of hurry?" But it was clear by the way the man faced forward once more, however, that he didn't exactly care if she was or not. He got there first, and he wouldn't be rushed through the process. That would be her problem, if she couldn't wait. There were other establishments around she could get food at.
Now that he knew there was someone in line being a little too impatient, Mickey decided to take his sweet time. Did he already know what kind of pie he wanted? Sure did -- in fact, he rarely changed his order away from the large usual double sausage, double cheese. But she wouldn't know that. "Hmmm," the man pretended to consider the menu above.