RUBIES! DIAMONDS! GEMS!

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         Reginald most definitely appreciated the shoulder rub, even while throwing up. He’d have to make that up to the guy some way someday. Maybe a blowjob? Generic, admittedly; that was always the rat bastard’s first fucking thought when it came to showcasing gratitude. He wondered if it was hard to give someone a massage through thick Corinthian leather. This thought only made Reginald all the more grateful.            “Vernon!” He chirped, after being seated & somewhat cleaned up. Though that was a stretch to say, with the slick, greasy state of his curly hair & suspicious moist areas on his face. Sweat. & gimme lots of it, Charlie. “I’m very smart. I’m quite intelligent. I went to Stanford.” So close but no cigar. Not that a degree from a year ago at all flattered nor matched his present state of being.                   With his trembling singular hand, he tried very hard to open the combination, but alas, those damn combination locks tend to be meant to be held in one hand & opened with the other. More sweat. “C-C-Could you be a lad and open it, mate? This bloody claw of me’s don’t do much good.”                    He took this time to approvingly nod at & admire the case.             “Yeas, genuine imitation alligator leather... you know, I knew a crocodile once? Fellow’s name was Rico, he gave me a margarita.”

robert watching reginald absolutely blow all his hard earned money on scams & alcohol 

            He didn’t really remember how he’d lost it.                   “But, I’ve been takin’ care. Me boyfriend’s comin’ to pick me up in a stagecoach here soon. Afraid you weren’t invited to the party——                    ——ay, bolderdash; you’ve got me talkin’, clever bassahd. Lemme pull the tricks on you. Are you havin’ a good evenin’?”                          He really thought he did something there.

       Reginald had some sacred notion about the whole exchange, but as the going-ons in Reginald’s mind tended to be, it was undoubtedly far different from the sacred-ness Romeo perceived. He wiped his mouth & spat out some blood, then wiped his mouth again, before he was greeted by a wad of secondhand gum. He chewed this indifferently, as though A. it wasn’t... secondhand fucking gum, or B. no longer cinnamon, but rather blood, flavoured.            “Oh, iff no pwahblem, mate. Anyfing fow a fwiend.”                   The “R”s disappeared along with the rest of the mess.       After a hearty ten-ish more chews, the flavour & texture finally caught up to his body, & he gagged a little, spitting the red-now-redder wad on the ground behind him, gagging again & spitting out more blood. Another wipe. That was about the rest of it, at least.              He narrowed his eyes. “Aw yeaw? Yaw tewwing me da bwoody maffiah haffn’t had peopwe knocking at hiff door leff and wight aww yeaw?”                    There’s that damn going-on I was telling you about.

     Have you ever been to a friend’s house, & they own a stinking dog— & the bloody canine just stares at you, for maybe ten seconds, before it goes absolutely hog wild and starts barking, trying to bite and maim and attack you? Reginald was in the stare phase, making the most eerie, direct eye contact with Virote he possibly could. If there were no other people around, he most definitely would’ve launched himself forward & tried to bite and main and attack him, but there were people around, & Reginald had enough sense to consider jail time, so he stayed down.          “’Ello, chappie.” Very calm. Very civilised. “Reckon you’re on the witcheroos again?”