HEY THERE, johnny-boy!

             ❛     DICKHEAD,  YOU  CAN’T  CALL  A  kitten  shit-meister.  that’s animal cruelty in itself. i’d  have  to take the thing from you.     ❜     mindy gave an apathetic roll of her eyes, returning her attention to the newborn. gently running the flat of her finger along its back,     ❛     …  looks like a … gav. russian for woof. ironic. cute.     ❜

     “Don’t call me Dickhead, Shit-Meister.” The nickname has justly transferred onto her--not that he cares to deign Shit-Meister anything feminine or beautiful or powerful. She’s a meister of shit.

            “hands to yourself or i’ll cut ‘em off!” he repeats what the other has said but with a very mocking tone. you know, the eyes kind of freak him out but he’s seen some weirder shit. justin’s mind does start to over-analyze, though. he immediately thinks this asshole is in cahoots with KORROK. god damn inter-dimensional fuck. justin doesn’t hesitate to step forward, hand once flat to back hand the other ( which he missed. a shame! ) was now balled up into a fist as he took a swing at the other. “I CAN’T STAND YOUR FACE, ASSFUCKER!”

    Johnny’s reflexes aren’t so sexy. He isn’t really a suave, ultra-intelligent slicker. He just has sickening luck, always in the right place at the right time. Even now, after he’s hit, he stumbles back, hands over his the blooming blue-black pain that throbs at his high cheekbone and squints up at Justin, eyes accusatory after the initial breathless gasp he took.

   When he grabs her she tries to hold onto the ground to keep herself out of the water, but she is unable to do so because of the literal slippy slope she is on. ❝No, no, no!❞ It’s bad enough that her shoes got messed up, now he is trying to ruin her clothing and hair! This is the final straw. Eve doesn’t put a fight and instead grabs onto him once she is submerged into the water. Her hands are around his neck and she clutches him, hoping to stop his breathing. ❝I’m going to kill you, you fuck!❞

    “No, you ain’t!” 

        Unimpressed. Dandy rolls his eyes at the others, frankly, unnecessary         tantrum. Although, saying that, Dandy has no right to judge someone         for throwing a hissy fit due to the fact that he was the king of throwing         tantrum’s. He had three in the 20 minute car ride alone.

        ❝Why would I fight you? You’re dirty and poor.❞ Throwing his tennis racket         to the side of the court and stretched. Sweat marks under his armpits, not         that he’d ever admit to them. ❝Plus, I’m sure if I was to touch you, you’d infest         me with whatever STD you’re carrying.❞

        Yawning, an indication that he is bored, Dandy stared across the net towards         the other. ❝I have an idea. Do you like playing games that don’t involve         drinking or shooting up? ❞

     Johnny walks up and climbs the net, throwing a leg over and falling on his ass at the stretch fabric heaving under his weight. Makes him feel fat and he growls at this incompetence on his part.

      “I’m clean as a whistle. Ain’t no one ever had sex with me, and I don’t shoot junk. Haven’t even tried. I drink on the rare occasion but I don’t like to cause it kills the brain. So don’t go accusin’ me of real nasty shit! I play TENNIS! I’m CLASSY!”

The laugh Joe responds with is a little louder than he would like.

Johnny’s just making a joke, he know this—he hopes this—but gee, it sure isn’t that funny to Joe. And then he’s grabbing Joe’s hand and they’re in the middle of a public space and Joe can feel his ears get hot and his hand is suddenly sweaty and what if someone he knows sees them and gosh, Johnny has a real cute smile, and—

“Ow! Ow, ow, ow!”

—a tight grip!

He strains to rip his hand away, and holds it in his other one, cradling it to his chest. The throbbing hurts, sure, but he’s more concerned with the subject of their conversation.

“That’s—not f-funny to joke about…” he grumbles, more referring to the homosexual thing than the murder, then orders himself a mint chocolate chip cone and pays for them both.

It feels impossible to shake the paranoia - he can’t stop glancing around at the few other patrons sitting in booths and at tables and they aren’t actually looking but Joe’s face is red and he’s sure they all saw them holding hands and now they’re all looking at Joe thinking the way that fellow stands, laughs, talks, blinks, eats makes him look like a f—

“You aren’t alone,” he interrupts his own thoughts, and tries to put on his best, most polite smile. “We’re friends, alright?”

And he wants to look at all the other customers and repeat that—Friends!–but he resists. No one said a gosh darn thing.

“If you’re ever in trouble, you can come to me, y’know?” He takes their ice creams from the girl behind the counter (while avoiding eye contact) and hands Johnny his. “And if I’m not around for whatever reason, Heavenly Father is always listening. I find praying helps when I need to talk about anything.”

    Johnny listens to Joe’s nervous sounds, nothing he isn’t used to. A smile of power and a surge of energy crawls up his chest like the effects of coffee, making him shake a little with newfound motivation. Motivation to do what? Who knows. Johnny isn’t good at much except hurting people. And if that’s how he’ll expend his energy, so be it.

     He leads Joe outside to the unbearable heat again and leans against the building. On the glossy window, the bright pink words “PARLOR” bracket his head, painted with the careful hand of some typography student from the fifties. Licking his ice cream, the same color of the paint, it’s all very pink and blushed-cheeks and blossoms and person-insides.

      “Listen, Joe, since you says you will,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up his head, “Ain’t no god or Mormon or counselor gonna change what’s in here,” he digs a finger into his temple, “I’m a stubborn fucker and I got the right view of the world, I do. It’s all in here and it ain’t changin’ because of some moral code I ain’t never adhered to. Life’s too short to limit yourself. AND DON’T GO ON ABOUT AN AFTERLIFE! We all rot!”

      When he says this, he wildly gesticulates, splattering his half-melted ice cream on the window.

           tired, light colored eyes immediately squint in the sunlight whenever his sunglasses happen to disappear from his face. he’ll look at the other with disbelief and what can best be described as shock. he’s taken back. his first reaction is to move to smack the guy on the back of the head.

                                         “you fuckin’ fool! give ‘em back, yo!”

Wooden cover is slammed VICIOUSLY down upon his hands   ,   the sound of collision near music to her ears. Pallid palm rests atop it   (   her weight pressing down as she leans   )   , fingers druming the sleek mahogany finish “ You’re one to talk , douchebag . You have the musical talent of a BRAIN-DEAD FISH . “

     It is not often he comes across someone who physically harms him, much less without provocation also physical. In fact, this might be the first time. No one has EVER retaliated against him for being in their space, unless he’s hurting them.