#roundelay

The Hippalectryon is a horse-like creature found in Greek mythology. The Hippalectryon is described as a fusion between a horse and a rooster with the head and front legs of a horse and the back legs and tail of a rooster. Not much is known on the Hippalectryon however they did appear on shields found in Greece. The Hippalectryon is also mentioned in Mother Goose poem called “Roundelay” 

"well, nothing's changed since the last time you asked me..." a roundabout, backhanded way of saying absolutely nothing, ask me a third time and i just might explode. this job and everything, everything about it continues to suck the life out of him. he would leave it behind, take all his unfinished songs and unwritten ideas and tell bungee to shove it as he leaves – if he didn't need it so desperately. he could at least tolerate the berating if his work were acceptable, but if it fails to meet the standards of a goddamn kids' show, it must really be unlistenable.

...but none of that is roger's fault. what right does he have taking his frustrations out on a man so effortlessly perfect, inside and out? ( he stands as a striking contrast to gordon's short temper, his even shorter stature and pudgy stomach. if nothing else, they stand to prove that opposites really do attract ) time and time again, he pulls gordon back from the edge, and time and time again, gordon bats his kindness away. why is he such an ass? he groans, presses his palms to his eyes before dragging his hands down his face.

❝ yeah! yeah, of course! i mean – y'know, mrs. nguyen, she owes me. my being here, my business? brings her more business. so, don't worry about a thing. this is all on the level, as they say. but, uh... oh, ❞ jimmy claps, holds up an index finger on each hand as he moves to the setup, pulling one of the chairs from the table. ❝ sit, sit! take a load off! god knows hamlin's working you down to the bone – bet he doesn't even give you a full hour for lunch, huh? what a jerkoff. ❞ latter bit is muttered to himself, a small huff of a laugh follows. once kim is sat he circles the table, sitting in the chair opposite her. jimmy smoothes out his tie, brushes his hair back, crosses his arms over the table, and smiles.

❝ so, ms. wexler, your menu for tonight includes – ❞ only now does he lift the lid off of the tray sat between them, revealing a neat pile of plain hot dogs, along with a single to-go container and a few packets of various condiments. ❝ and... you know, we’ve got relish, mustard, ketchup – a classic – and they even threw in some chili for these dogs, free of charge! i tell ya, the dog house – their strategy for customer retention, it’s certainly working on me! ❞ his hands wave wildly as he speaks, gesturing to the food on the table, maneuvering vaguely before coming to rest flat on the tabletop. he sighs.

❝ anything we want. ❞ echo comes uncharacteristically quiet, more to himself than to michael. almost his entire life, he's been able to do anything he wants : goes where he wants, takes what he wants – eats, kills, fucks whoever he wants – whenever he wants. with michael, there's always been something in the way, be it the wife or lester or the risk or any combination of the previously listed. but this "whatever we want" feels different.

lester has little to no control over them now ( as if he ever had any real control over them, or at least trevor, in the first place ), the wife and kids are gone ( for now ), the risk is practically nonexistent. for what feels like the first time in twenty years, they truly can do whatever they want. the realization brings trevor to his feet and before he knows it, he's standing over michael, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

why you got me running around town, trying to find some stupid piece of plastic, when i have a perfectly good tub i can use?

up until now, it seemed more like mr. white was just waiting for his chance to bitch at jesse rather than actually listening to what he was saying, but mention of the bathtub seems to grab his attention. he goes silent, and for a second, jesse half expects some sort of praise– for taking initiative, for using his problem solving skills to solve this problem of theirs, for actually taking care of his side of things while mr. white is too big of a pussy to take care of his. but he says nothing, suddenly walks away, and jesse follows, only to turn a corner and see a dark red liquid dripping from the ceiling, the droplets eating into the hardwood floors when they land.

with a timing that would be comedic under non-horrific circumstances, the ceiling above them– the floor beneath the upstairs bathroom– collapses, a slurry of acid, blood, and what little remains of emilio koyama coming down with it. it hits the ground with a sick plop and jesse jumps back, mouth agape as he surveys the damage to his home. he slowly turns back to mr. white, and it’s only now that he speaks again.

what the hell is wrong with you? i’m really asking.