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true detective s1 is chock full of excellent dialogue but the best exchange in the whole series is when rust is on an existential bender going on and on about how humans are just sentient meat blah blah blah, and marty listens thoughtfully for a moment before asking, very earnestly, "what's scented meat?"
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ok but what about a true detective zombie apocalypse au
marty in episode one like “i hate this man. but i don’t want to to kick him out of a moving car most of the time. maggie can we keep him”
rust like “well. if we’re getting technical; purely hypothetically examining the situation.. i don’t not like him.”
around episode four it’s more “i probably love this man more than anyone else on this planet. not like that’s particularly hard to do.” and “shit i think we’re best friends.”
but by the end of the series they’re both like “where’s my fucking husband i need a hug”
random TD headcanon: rust is one of those people who never finishes drinks, so he's constantly leaving half-empty water glasses and shit all over the place. doubly so once he finds out how much it irks marty.
not sure why this comparison is only just occurring to me, but carcosa and the house on ash tree lane have both reached the level of places-as-characters that get the same gut reaction of fear and respect from me for totally different reasons. i think because carcosa is a more outward projection of what the house internalizes, it's the carcinogenic sprawl of human nature at its worst, and the audacity with which it claims to contain, to tame something so much bigger than itself is truly impressive. it's haunted in the same way ash tree lane is haunted-- by the very idea of itself. ash tree lane is consumption of a different sort, it's the quiet horror of letting your own silence swallow you whole, the absence of a pulse to carcosa's overwhelming buzzing beat. and both of these nightmarish false-spaces are so much oruboroses of their own narratives, finite and corporeal. the house whose walls can't contain it is bound by the pages contextualizing it, reading like a manual for surviving a world in which the possibility of the house on ash tree lane exists; and carcosa, the forest with no trees where dwells a hungry god with no mouth, the infinite compressed into the span of a few acres at most, is squared away neatly on primetime news before we're allowed to see the full picture. because we can't. which is why we breathe life into our monsters in a way that operates, and even hinges on, our assurance in our own finite nature.
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marty hart is the human embodiment of a mopey zoo lion
Rustin "let me disdainfully laze on the hood of this car while curled over like my chest is collapsing" Cohle: a ridiculous slouchy bastard who absolutely could use the occasional gentle swat to get him to straighten up and also like several years-worth of back rubs to undo all those inevitable knots.
and of course he'd be too damn stubborn to see a chiropractor so he'd end up on the floor in front of marty's couch a lot getting his ribs beaten back into place with a little elbow grease and a lot of tiger balm.
marty (who still keeps his in its original box at the back of his night stand and takes it out to mull it over in his hands sometimes) asked what ever happened to rust's wedding band.
he shrugs. "lost it."
"lost it." and there's that warning flare of nostrils, the way marty puffs his chest out a little bit when his temper gets high.
"or pawned it. don't remember. hope i at least got something for it."
and marty is livid, looks damn near ready to break his nose, because, fuck, rust, that stuff's important, you don't just go throwin' it away. while rust is irritably trying to explain that, yes, it's valuable, that's why it's stupid for it to sit in a box forever. let the cycle continue, maybe someone else will appreciate it more, and what if he did sell it? jesus christ, it's not like every precious memory he's got vanished with the damn ring.
what he doesn't mention while marty's chewing him out about the sanctity of family and all that is that he's got a shoebox in his closet, resting on top of the ugly red steel rattletrap of his other memories, that's full of crayon drawings on the backs of receipts, pipe cleaner people, a 25¢ vending machine mood ring --all worthless junk he can't bring himself to throw away-- and a photo of the little girl it all belonged to dressed as a construction paper tree for her kindergarten class play. cause you don't just go selling the important stuff to anyone who asks.
