pissing against the MOON.

          closed  starter  for  @ofmontys          ›          A  SUFFERING  TOO  TERRIBLE  TO  NAME  BECOMES  A  PLAGUE   /   ARE  YOU  THE  ONLY  ONE  STILL  MOURNING  ?    *    it  feels  that  way  .  lux  ,  over  the  past  few  days  ,  has  become  a  ghost  .  there’s  rarely  been  a  moment  that  she  wasn’t  in  her  home  .  to  think  that  the  first  place  she’d  really  show  her  face  is  a  party  is  absolutely  absurd  ,  but  she  does  it  .  and  maybe  it’s  a  mistake  .  even  the  mere  smell  of  alcohol  sends  a  sense  of  disgust  through  her  features  .  it’s  been  so  long  since  she  dealt  with  it  ,  since  one  of  her  parents  came  strolling  through  the  door   ––––   only  to  pass  out  on  the  floor  at  three  in  the  morning  ,  leaving  lux  to  pick  up  the  pieces  that  they  left  shattered  in  their  paths  .  seeing  a  familiar  face  helps  ,  and  a  relieved  smile  seems  to  meet  previously  scolding  lips  before  lux  approaches  monty  with  a  slight  skip  in  her  step  .  ❛  having  fun  ?  ❜  shoulder  bumps  his  arm  gently  once  she’s  close  enough  ,  body  turning  to  face  the  male  with  lifted  brows  .  ❛  bet  this  partying  thing  is  old  news  to  you  ,  though  .  i  assume  this  is  what  you’ve  been  doing  since  night  one  .  ❜

        fun is a relative term. monty vaguely registers his lips tracing the words –– whether or not they actually make vocal traction is something he’s willing to toss to chance. this church reeks of teenaged stupidity and monty, though very much a participant, finds himself observing his mischievous cohorts with careful eye.  trust is a sentiment quite foreign to west ham’s youth :  he doubts an unforeseen blip in their sociopolitical structure can change that. monty raises a solo cup to his lips and issues himself two pills –– prescription, remind him to thank julia harker, 52, for her brave fight against post-op aches & pains. our well-seasoned champ washes his concoction down with one easy gulp and drops his emptied vessel to the floor. the cup clacks beside his left boot before rolling under one of the pews. out of sight, out of mind –– if only religion worked that way.

       “ mm. have a gander who’s shown, ”  monty responds before offering lux his gaze. eye contact –– she’s worth it. in his eyes’ travels, he catches one of his peers teeter over the edge of a pew and ingloriously infuse the remnants of their lunch into the new testament. body of christ, gift of heaven. a smirk blooms across rum-bittered lips. “ you’re not wrong. when in west ham. with a considerably lower body count, though. ”  half of the town’s youth will barely scrape through tomorrow. fools.

       he won’t mention the countless hours spent scouring the monroe estate, searching for clues. he won’t mention repeatedly dialing his cousin’s mobile onto to be greeted with a cheery, robotic: we’re sorry !  the mailbox you are attempting to reach is full !   he won’t mention it. even to lux. it isn’t worth the risk.

       “ how ‘bout you, eh?  peached you showed. ”  he asks, nudging her shoulder with his own. it chances registry as weakness, physical affection. she’s worth it. “ are you having... fun ? ”

Lennon LOVED a good party, after all she was the sorority party planner so she knew she stuff. However, since she didn’t end up having to plan this one, it also meant she got to go a little more wild than normal, so she scanned the party looking for someone specific, someone who would definitely have what she needed to have even more fun tonight. Then she spotted him, and she made her way through the crowd. “Monty! I need something to make this night even more crazy, you have what I need?” 

@ofmontys

this party screams end of the world. it screams we’re sad and alone and petrified, so let’s get shitfaced and maybe that will save our sorry souls. how utterly pathetic. monty knocks back another drink and revels in it all. quivering souls. borrowed time. sacrilege in sacred walls. he wonders if west ham’s devout youth can feel themselves wilting in god’s graces. he bloody hopes so. dark eyes dart to the church entrance, through which an armada of omega nu’s hoist yet another keg. his brothers. 

someone tumbles down the church steps, but manages to somersault at the finish. that performance deserves applause. monty hastily dips his housekey into a bag of powder and snorts –– that’ll do. solidarity in motion. the tumbler stands, and he’ll heighten along with them.

he’s been called upon intermittently all night. pockets full and mind at ease  ( thanks to his aunt’s vicodin ) , he’s made a pretty penny tonight. in capital as well as trust. and that investment will do plenty well in the days to come; he’s sure of it. so when another person calls his name, monty’s got his pitch at the ready. when he sees it’s lennon weaving toward him, however, he figures he might as well skip to the good stuff. between forefinger and thumb, he holds a minuscule bag of free-form molly. mdma, composite. his blend. engineered for one bloody hell of a trip.

he hasn’t quite anchored a cost yet –– as far as customers go, lennon’s loyalty is second to none.

“ maybe. ”  he’s wasted –– the cheshire cat grin gives it away. “ how fucked y’lookin’ to get, love? ”

oliver had all but given up trying to call round and see what the hell was going on. his parents weren’t answering. all of his sisters (or at least the ones with phones) weren’t answering. it was futile. obviously. his cigarette was poised between his index finger and thumb, rolling it between the two as he looked at the unlit end. it was only when he was spoken to that he blinked, taking a long drag to try and hide how out of it he’d been. however, upon seeing who had spoken? it didn’t seem to matter so much. of course it was monty and of course he looked just as… well as monty as ever. 

“fuck knows.” was the first response out of his mouth. screw crouching, he was all for just straight up sitting on the floor. he sat down with a light huff of breath, taking hold of the cigarette he’d held between his lips to lower himself to the ground. “want a drag?” he asked, holding it out to the other. “unless you have anything stronger.” he eyed the other, knowing they’d definitely gone down that path before. exchanges of goods and services. totally professional. “cause i’m up for that too.” he smirked a little. “but uh.. hoagie? subway? i dunno. i’d google it but there’s no fuckin’ service.”

monty smirks. his lips lift slowly, fluidly, from corner to corner. his countenance  e a s e s  into its characteristic flippancy. “ fuck knows is right, ” he supplies, eyeing the dark horizon as he takes oliver’s cigarette into his fingers, raises it to his lips, and drags. monty’s always been one for the night –– he admires how unlit land bleeds out to the skies, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. he ponders how many early pilots have been duped, and wishes he could break out of this town to explore their wreckage.

“ anything stronger, ” he parrots with a scoff.  the crossword goes forgotten, tossed to the ground with a satisfying plack. “ y’know me? ”  monty lazily lifts his chin to gaze at oliver through half-lidded eyes. he licks the nicotine from his lips, before brushing shoulders with the other male, cigarette outstretched with steady hand. 

with his left, monty dips into the breast pocket of his jacket, forefinger and middle finger gliding against midnighted leather. they surface with several small bags: painkillers. weed. cocaine. molly. the easiest shit to conceal tonight. and the easiest to sell to west ham’s worried and wounded.

monty dangles the assorted substances with a knowing smile. he’s got heavier supplies stowed away –– for when this town’ll surely need it. his next words sound a low purr, ghosting past barely-parted lips.

“  pick  your   p o i s o n ,  castillo .  ”

MONTY‌.

She’s taken to observing everyone else from her spot on the church steps, deciding it was a safe place to keep dry from the remaining moments of the storm. Silently she took note of who steps up with ideas and who gives into their paranoia, quickly seeing the slowly shifting power dynamics that were starting to sprout only moments after realization had settled upon everyone. There were some in denial, making up excuses that were so blatantly false that she couldn’t help but let out a laugh, causing her to ignore the confused looks she would get as she did so.

So lost in thought as she observed the people in front of her, she didn’t realize she had neglected to keep an eye on the figure besides her until they spoke up. His question puzzles her at first, causing her to turn towards him with a questioning look until she catches sight of the paper in his hand. Where he had even got a pen was a mystery to her but she didn’t question it, instead choosing to ponder his question. “ I suppose there’s hoagie. I’m pretty sure that’s considered a sub. ” She allows a silence to settle between them, her gaze returning to the crowd as she speaks up again. “ I’ve heard my mom use hero and wedge before but New Yorkers are odd so I don’t know how relevant those terms are. ”

monty’s no fool –– he knows better than to buy in to any hopeful bullshit spewed from semi-inebriated lips. no doubt the imbeciles in the church are theorizing. an early april fool’s joke. a social experiment. a second rendition of punk’d. monty’s registered whisperings of varied explanations and they’re all fucked. now isn’t the time to find hope. they can run about looking for signs all they like –– he’ll be smarter. better. 

“ new yorkers are fuckin’ mental, ” monty supplies without looking up from his paper. he pens in h-e-r-o without a hitch.  “ hm. ”  the first and last letter align with his previous answers. if the young man wasn’t so preoccupied by determining the whereabouts of his cousin, he might smile.

“ you’re good –– remind me to keep you around. ”  monty’s focus lifts and he manages a half-hearted expression, something short of a smile.  “ how’re you, eh? ” as if on cue, a glass somewhere shatters. teenaged hollers chime in for the chorus. monty returns to his puzzle, tongue darting along thin-pressed lips.

                                       scottish word for “fated one,” typically to death. three letters.

                                       f - e - y .

MONTY . 

she  had  been  in  the  church  with  several  others  just  trying  to  figure  out  what  was  going  on.  they  were  all  searching  for  the  same  thing  ––  ANSWERS.  they  wanted  to  know  where  their  families  and  friends  had  gone.  they  NEEDED  to  know  where  the  rest  of  town  had  gone.  she  finally  decided  that  enough  was  enough.  she  couldn’t  handle  this  wondering  anymore.  she  needed  to  shut  off  her  mind.  

emmeline  was  caught  off  guard  by  a  voice  as  she  exited  the  church.  “another  world  for  a  sub  sandwich?”  asked,  just  repeating  the  question  to  herself.  “what  about  a  hoagie?  or  a  uh  ––  what’s  the  world  ––  like  a  –––  po’boy  i  guess.  is  that  even  a  real  thing?”

monty hums and chews on his pen for a moment. “ hoagie... ” he counts the letters and is met with a non-compliant number of spaces. po’boy, though, that might work –– if the west ham chronicle would allow an apostrophe to occupy and entire space on its own.

“ how’re you so well-versed with these things, eh? ” he asks, cocking his head to the side.        “ po’boy? sounds like an indirect way to reference a hooker. ”  cue a light chuckle, a shake of his head. “ it’s four letters... starts with a b, if my other answer’s right. take a look. ”

he’s normally not this forward, nor this open. but this crossword’s been nagging at him for the past half hour, and once he completes it, it’s on to the comics –– the good stuff. all rewards warrant patience, but what kind of monster would he be if he just flipped to the paper’s end? this world would be nothing without order. undermine proper paper etiquette and where would the rest of society fall ?

the thought brings a flicker of amusement to his gaze.

“ maybe everyone’s left ‘cause they’re too bloody embarrassed for this crossword creator. ha. there’s a thought. ”

          with tonight’s looting complete, monty finds himself crouched against the front-facing wall of west ham’s church, yesterday’s newspaper trifolded against a jean-clad thigh. booted toes tap indistinct patterns against pavement; a red pen dances between nimble fingers. he notes approaching footsteps and leans his head back against cool brick, eyes half-lidded with mock frustration. 

          “ what do y’reckon’s another word for sub sandwich? ” 

         the convenience store was entirely uninhabited, and if quinn thought about that for too long, it would absolutely terrify her. maybe parents weren’t picking up their phones for a good reason; maybe there was a boring town hall meeting she’d forgotten about. maybe they were all at some weird bar getting mid life crisis wasted. there could be explanations for that. but an unmanned gas station was just freaky, no matter how you looked at it.

          she arrived back at the church only a few moments after disappearing, working on a bag of sour gummy worms. despite her internal panic, quinn maintained a cool demeanor. she looked almost bored, but mostly unimpressed. “not that this isn’t super fun and all, but this humidity is doing awful things to my hair. can we move this mass hysteria inside?”

         “ you think this is truly mass hysteria... ”  monty shakes his head and clucks his tongue, cigarette pressed against the corner of his lips. he speaks between clenched teeth as if he can’t be arsed to remove it, as if denying the burning tobacco its proper home might upset the balance of the universe and throw the stars into disarray. he cards a hand through ebony locks and allows wandering eyes to meander across the church lawn –– good thing he’s not responsible for cleaning up this shithole tomorrow. 

       because maybe the rest of the town’s just snoozing. maybe the cops’ll open an investigation into who’s stolen $125,000 worth of narcotics from west ham’s drugstore. maybe.

        “ i reckon this barely even scratches the surface. ”  and it’s true. nervous teens getting shitfaced doesn’t begin to hint at what chaos may follow. mayhem flickers mahogany behind deep russet eyes. it’s a bleak prophecy. bone-chilling. the breeze picks up, and monty delights in thinking it has something to do with his halloween-esque augury.

      only now does our foreboding messenger wedge the cig between two fingers and pull, out, out, out, allowing his exhaled breath to spiral skyward. monty watches before his gaze lists back to quinn.

      “ have a drink. loosen up. humidity’s not gonna bloody kill ya. ”  or maybe it just may; that’d be a sight. death by sodden air. tragic. “ if you’d like to go inside, be my guest. ”  cue another drag. a light chuckle. “ but isn’t this night air so free? ”

“ ah, well. acceptable forms of payment include but are certainly not limited to :  booze, food, arms, real estate,  f a v o r s ... i’m not picky. but for this lot? ”  monty shakes a small plastic bag between forefinger and thumb, lips decorated with an iced smirk. “ the price’ll be a bit... steep. ”

or, alternatively:  hello, hello, hello! delighted to be here! the name’s linc ( she/her ) and i’m comin’ to you live from the ever so lovely est timezone with the one, the only, the absolute bloody douchecanoe,  monty monroe !