"Man, this is some fucking Gilligan's Island shit," Pink chirped, glancing up and down the bar. He turned to Freddy--obscured in a reeking haze of cigarette smoke and staring into his drink--and briefly considered the Elbow-Nudge of Dubious Fellowship, version: 'seeking affirmation.' Instead, he picked up his own glass and drained it.
Pink decided, subsequently, that he definitely felt up to being light-heartedly talkative, in fact; sugar-sweet, motherfucking ass-kissingly goddamn conversational--
Wait, no; just gas.
He corked his exasperated sigh with an ice cube and tried again:
"No, like, 'alcohol is the opiate of the masses' idealist bullshit around here, huh?"
"More like 'alcohol is the item in limited supply that somehow still keeps us all sane'?" Freddy said, rather close to a deadpan as he picked up his drink and took a sip, nearly rolling his eyes at the distinct strawberry-banana flavor used to obscure just how foul the moonshine really was. He couldn't wait for the next island sponsored holiday party, because the first thing he was going to get was a real beer and a shot of Stoli. Then a screwdriver. And maybe even a shot of whiskey, despite the fact the last time he'd attempted that he'd actually ended up in tears.
Not something he was going to be sharing in a conversation any time soon.
"I think some nights I can actually hear my liver begging for me to get shit faced." He admitted, taking a drag and browing a smoke ring. He watched it fade. "At least bikini tops are deemed acceptable social attire arond here." He mused, watching a blonde walk by on the path sporting just that and a pair of tight blue jeans.
Pink snorted and leaned back in his chair to better appreciate the view, though made a conscious effort to look cool and unconcerned. --Keep your eyes in your head, buddy boy, he told himself. The last thing he needed was to make any enemies here, especially of the jealous boyfriend-type.
His gaze slipped back to Freddy, "Betcha' latex is in limited supply, too, am I right?"
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Pink decided, subsequently, that he definitely felt up to being light-heartedly talkative, in fact; sugar-sweet, motherfucking ass-kissingly goddamn conversational--
Wait, no; just gas.
He corked his exasperated sigh with an ice cube and tried again:
"No, like, 'alcohol is the opiate of the masses' idealist bullshit around here, huh?"
Reply
Not something he was going to be sharing in a conversation any time soon.
"I think some nights I can actually hear my liver begging for me to get shit faced." He admitted, taking a drag and browing a smoke ring. He watched it fade. "At least bikini tops are deemed acceptable social attire arond here." He mused, watching a blonde walk by on the path sporting just that and a pair of tight blue jeans.
Reply
His gaze slipped back to Freddy, "Betcha' latex is in limited supply, too, am I right?"
Reply
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