lightning rod

              ❛ YOU KNOW, pretty soon this’ll be your job. picking up the leisure activity while i tend to other matters. you’re really outdoing yourself, zappy, you’re making me INCREDIBLY proud. ❜

            fingers tap around  A I M L E S S L Y  on his screen, the light of the phone dimly illuminating the car’s interior. bowie’s not particularly fond of having to follow speed limits on busy toronto streets. it makes sense for him to hand the keys over to the younger of the tempest brothers so he himself can lounge in the passenger’s seat. the luxury car is another replaceable item in bowie’s brain, letting zave drive it is no big deal. after all, he’s less concerned with HOW he gets to where he wants to be, and more enthralled with exactly WHAT’S waiting for the pair at the end of their trip.

           a tattooed finger waves carelessly over in zave’s direction, cerulean hues fixated on the screen. ❛ LEFT at this light, ❜ he directs, gaze never leaving the phone. xavier tempest has a favorable light shone on him in bowie’s world, obviously a light that’s subject to change at any given moment— BUT HEY, it’s a start.  ❛ i know you’re not a seasoned fella in the art of the inconspicuous shipment, i know guys like you get all their shit handed to them. a ‘snap your fingers’ kinda guy. ❜ it’s a compliment, the way the golden-haired male phrases it, pearly whites BARED happily in a grin. ❛ i’ll show you the ropes. ❜ 

           he wads through a stack of bills in his pocket, feeling the paper between his fingers to ensure he has enough PLUS a little gift. he throws a wink in zave’s direction, knowing his protege could  V E R Y  easily get cold feet at any second—— although, he trusts zave won’t.   ❛ BE CHILL, alright? it’s nothing like what you see in the movies. i’ve known this group of hooligans for years. if anything seems off to you just say so. you’ll enjoy it though, they’re a FRIENDLY group, to say the least. ❜

                    @sparkplugzave

     They’re rushing past neon signs in a blur and Xavier can’t recall the last time he felt so ALIVE. 

     He rarely gets to drive anymore, and certainly not in cars as nice as this: the flirty purr of the engine, the luxurious leather at his fingertips. His parents’ old station wagon had nothing on this beauty. Zave could drive around in this baby for hours–especially with the man currently at his side.

    “Aw, S’no big deal,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “I’m happy to lend a hand.”

     And he means it. Despite his best efforts, Bowie’s PRAISE brightens his whole face, his non-existent tail wagging like a happy terrier in his seat. Hanging out with Bowie is different than with everyone else. Whenever they go out for the night, it’s an adventure, something to pump raw adrenaline through his veins. And unlike the rest of Toronto, his friend in the passenger seat believes in him. He doesn’t tear him down or make jabs about his mistakes. Bowie sees him as something more than just a redneck fuck-up from the country, and Zave is determined to keep it that way for as long as he can.

     Xavier tries to fight the incredulous snort that escapes him. Sometimes he wonders if Bowie just keeps mistaking him for someone else. “Yeah, you know me.” With a shake of his head, an amused smile graces his lips. “You’re a good teacher, though. I trust you.” Following his friend’s instructions, he pulls into an abandoned lot and parks the car. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” When he glances over at Bowie, his brown eyes are dancing with excitement in the glow of the streetlights. “CHILL is my middle name.”

❛   NEW  ME,  SIS  !  i  don’t  fuck  with  you,  i  don’t  fuck  with  you  and  i  sure  as  hell  don’t  fuck  with  you.  next  !  i  knit  now  bitch,  do  you  know  a  cute  bitch  that  knits  ?  fuck  no  you  don’t,  but  i  do  !   ❜

     "Y'know, you're lucky I got a company car today. Otherwise, I don’t know how I’d be gettin’ your ass back home.”

     His grumbled words serve as his greeting as the girl crawls into the spotless white Jeep he’s driving. Watching her pile in fills him with a strange, fuzzy sense of nostalgia, and he can’t help but think about the last time he did this--when she was his brother’s girlfriend, the closest thing he had ever known to a sister. Now she’s just ALENA, and he’s still not quite sure what that means.

me: BALLIN

me: BALL IS LIFE

me: BASKETBALL NEVER SLEEPS

           ❛❛ ———– ℛight, so, then, yeah, I actually didn’t get that stand-up gig, because I couldn’t stop laughing before I could get to the punchline. And apparently doing a whole bit that depends on the crowd knowing the full story behind that Delta Promotions fake Zombies con is too  “ e s o t e r i c ?? ”   So I was kinda bummed for a few minutes.  But then I went into work and found out that we got the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s CHARLIE BROWN CHRISTMAS album on vinyl and I think my soul started singing??  I mean. It’s like. majorly 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑧𝑧 but I can’t name a seasonal album that warms my little heart better.  And, amigo, I can name alotta seasonal albums. Did you know Woody Guthrie has a whole Hanukkah album?  The Klezmatics actually recorded it. Woody Guthrie’s Happy Joyous Hanukkah.  I have it, if you ever wanna borrow it.  Anyway.  I just came over here ‘cus I wanted to ask. y’know.  whatcha doin’.   ❜❜

            it looks like they were trying to enjoy the peace and quiet of this public place before local freckle-faced motormouth Joy Ben-Zvi spotted them and started telling them about her week, and her sister’s week, and the slam poetry reading happening at the club nearby, and how cool it is that their local dollar store is selling daisy car decals as if it’s the 70′s all over again, and did you know glitter is bad for the environment?, and the full oral history of the harmonica, and how this generation should really bring back water beds, and how hard it is to find a bongo repairman in this city. 

             approximately zero (0) people in the vicinity asked her to speak. 

     Xavier is two sips into his piping hot double-double when Miss Motormouth invites herself over to sit with him. And he can’t exactly say he’s surprised to see her--she seems to have a penchant for showing up in the most random of places--but he can feel the minutes of his lunch break ticking as she talks, and he’s pretty sure his lunch is getting cold.

     "Not much, Whitebread,” he says. “Just, uh, drinkin’ a--" he thumbs the rim of his Styrofoam cup with a small frown, "iced coffee.” 

     He wishes he could be more annoyed with her, but something about her cools him down. In a way, she’s almost CATHARTIC, as if she’s expending all of her own energy so he doesn’t have to. The energy crisis is solved! 

     The words leave his mouth in an intoxicated mumble: “You are so fucking hot.”

     The party music that’s BOOMING from downstairs is drowned out by his own drunken stupor and raging hard-on. Normally, the poisonous girl in front of him won’t shut up, but for once, her forked-tongue is silenced by his own, and he realizes that she’s actually pretty attractive when she isn’t spewing her usual toxic wit. And maybe it’s her lips moving sloppily against his–or his dick straining against his jeans–but he thinks, Maybe she’s not so annoying, after all. 

     His calloused hands drag down the smooth, bare skin of her waist before breaking away to quickly whip his t-shirt over his head. The thought that he possibly might regret this floats through his mind for the briefest of moments before he brushes it off. Her bitter words are no match for her hot bod, and in his inebriated haze, he can’t think of a better way to end his Friday night.

     There are few better scents in this world than bacon sizzling on the stove–

    —–or there WOULD be, if the damn burner would TURN ON.

     Xavier lets out a growl and kicks at the oven with his socked foot. This is getting real old, real fast. He sighs and starts fiddling with it, blowing into the dirty burner piece in his hand, when he hears dull footsteps coming from the hallway. Like clockwork, his routine Saturday morning call reverberates throughout the tiny apartment: 

     “HEY! EGGS AND BACON, LET’S GET SHAKIN’!’” 

    The man sets the burner down in anticipation, resetting the stove and turning it on, and is gleefully greeted by a small, licking flame beneath the grate. “Oh, hell yeah!” Turning around to partake in a surely celebratory dance with his little brother, he glances at Zeke’s face and does not find the cheery, sunshine expression he is hoping for. 

     “Well, you’re some grouchy,” he grumbles. “Where were you at last night? You look like right shit, boy.”