It's a fun an' easy way to express your contempt and rejection of authority an' show solidarity with your fellow brothers of the leaf!
[he practically beams, like a patriot singing their country's national anthem]
Plus, it's like this unspoken ritual thing, y'know? Like you know in frats and those clubs with the fezzes, right, they always got that rule about That of Which We Do Not Speak? S'like that, 'coz you dunno who's a narc, but you also gotta tell everybody happy holidays!
[and there's the reason; secrets kept from other people but on the edge of discovery, with illicit substance abuse? sign him right the hell up]
[ and therein the reasoning. maybe everybody "knows about it" in different ways, in unspoken secrets, but whatever Fight Club Code it is that They Do Not Speak, Badou is indeed speaking it to him.
a holiday to get high seems stupid to him. holidays really are sacred, and everyday is a Get High Day to him. ]
All right, let's do it. The good shit's in that drawer.
[Badou gives a whoop worthy of his being made an honourary member of any aforementioned frat]
[he rolls backwards off the arm of the couch, boots thumping down hard onto the floor board]
[the drawer bumps open with a rattle, bag and papers drawn out]
[when the Undergrounder comes back to the couch, he sits on it properly this time. with absent motions, he grinds his cigarette out against the dead skin of his palm before tucking it back behind an ear (secured under a thick elastic strap - how ironic)]
[ he doesn't realize he's been smirking during the man's clattering absence, and he doesn't register how his fingers carelessly press buttons to turn down the outside noise of the TV and focus on-- ]
Unh, Prudence's and Plunger Dabble's Third Generation grandkids. It's got some bite to it. -- Ah, the bag with the red tab is laced; don't use that.
[with one lanky leg drawing into his thigh and making a perfect triangle, he nods solemnly, gesturing to the bags;]
Bite, huhn? Then I give ya, "Jaws in the Urinal."
[and then he promptly drops the tagged bag he'd naturally gravitated to (like some kind of bad-decision bloodhound)]
Laced? Who the fuck's gettin' their shit laced?
[twitchyquick fingers start rolling, and there are very few things in life one could say Badou is anything but haphazard in, but rolling a joint is one of them]
[ he chuckles as the bag is dropped. that one was going to be sold soon, anyway. an old Seller's Trick to lace shit to make it more addictive (and expensive) to keep the buyer coming back for a second dose at a cheaper price. like they were getting in good.
... it's not really Lying, Genkaku knows. plus he has Middle Men to push (and lie) for him now. ]
Y'heard'a that dealer that got shot up, yeah? Taliast? His kid's buyin' off'a me since Pops got hit.
[ -- and, watching the display, he grimaces. Ain't doin' it right, he almost spits out, but chokes it down. it's His Day, anyway. ]
[ the line of his brow quirks sharply. he knows that expression (can see it even when the man's only using the voice function and he's plunging for info), but Genkaku doesn't hand these things over with difficulty. ]
( ... )
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[REGAINS THE MOMENT]
April 20th. 4-20. That's the code for a mary-jue-anna bust, in pig's talk.
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...
[ hngh, sounds cool, but ... ]
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Okay. I'll bite.
Why. Just for the fuck of it?
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[he practically beams, like a patriot singing their country's national anthem]
Plus, it's like this unspoken ritual thing, y'know? Like you know in frats and those clubs with the fezzes, right, they always got that rule about That of Which We Do Not Speak? S'like that, 'coz you dunno who's a narc, but you also gotta tell everybody happy holidays!
[and there's the reason; secrets kept from other people but on the edge of discovery, with illicit substance abuse? sign him right the hell up]
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a holiday to get high seems stupid to him. holidays really are sacred, and everyday is a Get High Day to him. ]
All right, let's do it. The good shit's in that drawer.
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[he rolls backwards off the arm of the couch, boots thumping down hard onto the floor board]
[the drawer bumps open with a rattle, bag and papers drawn out]
[when the Undergrounder comes back to the couch, he sits on it properly this time. with absent motions, he grinds his cigarette out against the dead skin of his palm before tucking it back behind an ear (secured under a thick elastic strap - how ironic)]
Which strain's this'un?
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Unh, Prudence's and Plunger Dabble's Third Generation grandkids. It's got some bite to it. -- Ah, the bag with the red tab is laced; don't use that.
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Bite, huhn? Then I give ya, "Jaws in the Urinal."
[and then he promptly drops the tagged bag he'd naturally gravitated to (like some kind of bad-decision bloodhound)]
Laced? Who the fuck's gettin' their shit laced?
[twitchyquick fingers start rolling, and there are very few things in life one could say Badou is anything but haphazard in, but rolling a joint is one of them]
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[ he chuckles as the bag is dropped. that one was going to be sold soon, anyway. an old Seller's Trick to lace shit to make it more addictive (and expensive) to keep the buyer coming back for a second dose at a cheaper price. like they were getting in good.
... it's not really Lying, Genkaku knows. plus he has Middle Men to push (and lie) for him now. ]
Y'heard'a that dealer that got shot up, yeah? Taliast? His kid's buyin' off'a me since Pops got hit.
[ -- and, watching the display, he grimaces. Ain't doin' it right, he almost spits out, but chokes it down. it's His Day, anyway. ]
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[at the mention of the hit, his lips close over nicotine-stained teeth and twist wryly at the corners]
I read the coverage. The murder scene looked real familiar.
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Should'a. Heine didn't tell you?
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He don't waste words. I didn't need to know, so I didn't get told. What wasn't in the papers?
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