#carlton.

brock is leaner than his redneck walk had him believe. and it’s not venom, it’s the worldliness of appearing as a simpleton to get the first punch in, which brock, being the bottom feeder he was, had. at the life foundation. that was carlton’s mistake.

maybe brock’s not all clean as a whistle upstairs. maybe there’d be resistance if carlton blew into one of his ears geeently to mind the draft, and now he strains his neck up to entertain his own joke.

the tendons holding his throat from collapsing grab against the pressure. his head snaps up BOO!-fast, nudging brock’s nose on its cartilage with his own before brock slams him back down.

the very fact of nature is that mothers are hosts; they’re the baby food. in better cases, it’s a tooth for a child, a defanging tit for tat. the more children you have, the more compounded the risk of getting loose in the mouth. but you take it.

you take it, of course, for the future. you give up your hair and the calcium in your now-geriatric’s bones if it goes on for too long without a moment of respite.

riot has been feeding on him continuously. is that a surprise or an inevitability?

❛easy, brock, eeeasy. can’t take a joke, can you? you’re handling a couple billion dollars, give or take.❜

you fucking idiot.

he’s only met anne weying dolled up wrapper-tight like a christmas present once or twice. she was one of the corporate ants at a corporate fundraiser he never looked at, only past. he can still recite the last third of her social security number and how many hours of absence her sick leaves had amounted to. those were all hours someone else had to cover. money down the drain.

but he’s closer to venom now than he was to study. he can almost feel his thrum.

he’s been told his eyes are unnerving, like a lizard’s. must be the all-black, the nonnative threat of just existing in a status that allows him not to blink to appease social cues.

brock’s face has got a comical lot going on at all times. it pulls and betrays his feelings, and the stubble looks gritty and fittingly unprofessional.

that stubble scrapes like a carpet against a bristle brush when a paper-thin slice of mercury shaped like the devil’s tail rests under brock’s chin. if he pushes up or brock down, he’ll burst like a sack of blood.

that’s shiny new. he didn’t know he could do that.

eyes ticking in interest between brock’s, from his nose to his forehead to his mouth, carlton murmurs: