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The power of bullshit compels thee
May. 18th, 2015 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bluezone[ It's not going to be anything, he already knows that.
The last "demon" he'd chased out in this town had been the raccoons in an elderly parishioner's attic. Yeah, yeah, he'd blessed the house, anointed himself and the inhabitants, and had his beaten, five-dollar Bible tucked into the crook of his arm when he climbed up into the dusty crawlspace, but he'd already had a pretty good guess as to what it would be. Squirrels or raccoons, maybe opossums if his luck was really bad; shuffling through moldy boxes and ancient stacks of now-shredded newspapers, he'd found the nest he'd been expecting to find, and a trio of snarly, bitey raccoon babies.
He'd banged on the floor a couple times, shouted in his badly pronounced Latin, and then gone downstairs and announced that the house was clean; Miss Richardson didn't have a television, so he didn't expect her to get the reference. Then he'd gone back to his car, called the nearest forestry station to send a live trap over, and then gone back to the church to go back to bed.
That's his plan this time. This home has been abandoned for going on ten years, another victim of the failing real estate market in this miniscule former mining town. It's going to be vagrants or annoying teenagers from the big town two hours away, either fucking or doing drugs, and while he's got his clerical shirt and collar on, he leaves the Bible in the passenger seat.
He's grumbling on his way up the cobbled drive, annoyed for the six thousandth time that he gets asked to do this because the county sheriff's office is, of course, two hours away. He's sour when he bangs on the front door, annoyed by the lateness, annoyed by the humidity and mud from the recent rain - he'd exchanged slacks and shoes for jeans and boots today - and overall, annoyed that he has to be out here at all. ]
Hey!
I know you're in there! And I know you're doing stupid shit!
So either throw it out or hide it, because I'm coming in.
[ And so he does, leaning his shoulder against the weather-beaten door and shoving hard against it. ]
The last "demon" he'd chased out in this town had been the raccoons in an elderly parishioner's attic. Yeah, yeah, he'd blessed the house, anointed himself and the inhabitants, and had his beaten, five-dollar Bible tucked into the crook of his arm when he climbed up into the dusty crawlspace, but he'd already had a pretty good guess as to what it would be. Squirrels or raccoons, maybe opossums if his luck was really bad; shuffling through moldy boxes and ancient stacks of now-shredded newspapers, he'd found the nest he'd been expecting to find, and a trio of snarly, bitey raccoon babies.
He'd banged on the floor a couple times, shouted in his badly pronounced Latin, and then gone downstairs and announced that the house was clean; Miss Richardson didn't have a television, so he didn't expect her to get the reference. Then he'd gone back to his car, called the nearest forestry station to send a live trap over, and then gone back to the church to go back to bed.
That's his plan this time. This home has been abandoned for going on ten years, another victim of the failing real estate market in this miniscule former mining town. It's going to be vagrants or annoying teenagers from the big town two hours away, either fucking or doing drugs, and while he's got his clerical shirt and collar on, he leaves the Bible in the passenger seat.
He's grumbling on his way up the cobbled drive, annoyed for the six thousandth time that he gets asked to do this because the county sheriff's office is, of course, two hours away. He's sour when he bangs on the front door, annoyed by the lateness, annoyed by the humidity and mud from the recent rain - he'd exchanged slacks and shoes for jeans and boots today - and overall, annoyed that he has to be out here at all. ]
Hey!
I know you're in there! And I know you're doing stupid shit!
So either throw it out or hide it, because I'm coming in.
[ And so he does, leaning his shoulder against the weather-beaten door and shoving hard against it. ]
bluezone[ Liquor is awful.
Liquor is the most awful thing he's ever put into his body and this is coming from a teenager that saw it as a personal challenge when Maji Burger ported the Triple Bacon Hashbrown Special Burger with Jalapenos over from America. At least that time his ludicrous internal workings had been able to metabolize all nine of those monstrosities once he stuffed them down his gullet; here, draped back in a seat that had once been part of hovercar, Aomine can feel every single shot sitting and simmering in his stomach in a hot, nauseating soup.
He's had four so far. He's not even sure what it is; the names for every drink are unfamiliar and half of them are obscured by the scarred transparent top of the table, which is itself a relic from a time when it was trendy to have the flickering menus set in them. Most of the bar is that, a hodgepodge of old shit, re-purposed shit, discarded shit, and lighting that attracts both dust and six-winged moths in droves. Aomine is watching the moths in particular, noting that each one is in fact an alien, before remembering that he is the one that is the alien here.
He can't remember why he went along with this. Mainly curiosity, probably, but also a lot of pride; he's not a boy, after all. He can handle all kinds of shit.
...what were they talking about.
.......basketball? ] Barkley, he never got a ring, you know?
He should've won a championship, he had a great game. But not one.
Liquor is the most awful thing he's ever put into his body and this is coming from a teenager that saw it as a personal challenge when Maji Burger ported the Triple Bacon Hashbrown Special Burger with Jalapenos over from America. At least that time his ludicrous internal workings had been able to metabolize all nine of those monstrosities once he stuffed them down his gullet; here, draped back in a seat that had once been part of hovercar, Aomine can feel every single shot sitting and simmering in his stomach in a hot, nauseating soup.
He's had four so far. He's not even sure what it is; the names for every drink are unfamiliar and half of them are obscured by the scarred transparent top of the table, which is itself a relic from a time when it was trendy to have the flickering menus set in them. Most of the bar is that, a hodgepodge of old shit, re-purposed shit, discarded shit, and lighting that attracts both dust and six-winged moths in droves. Aomine is watching the moths in particular, noting that each one is in fact an alien, before remembering that he is the one that is the alien here.
He can't remember why he went along with this. Mainly curiosity, probably, but also a lot of pride; he's not a boy, after all. He can handle all kinds of shit.
...what were they talking about.
.......basketball? ] Barkley, he never got a ring, you know?
He should've won a championship, he had a great game. But not one.
zoneoutIt was coincidence. A cloudless night, with brilliant winter stars visible even through the nightlife glare; Seirin and Yousen had both blundered into the same izakaya after a spectacular Winter Cup game. The initial awkwardness soon melted away as Kagami's manhood was challenged on the field of grilled squid consumption. He was more than ready to stack his talents against the Yousen giants, and from there...
Surprisingly it was Araki who ordered sake first, and she drank it with a triumphant glare at the underaged Riko. How had it gotten out of hand from there? Someone had stolen her bottle - twice - and a couple of Yousen players simply said they were of age, and at their cruising altitude, it was tough to argue with. Among the cozy seats a scent of wood and paper, sauce and charcoal burning, the lifting sweetness of alcohol. The laughter became louder, the trash talk got more heated.
Murasakibara was there, taking up a seat and a half, lolling back against the wall. He drank when it was offered to him, neither caring nor feeling it. He didn't talk much. His conviviality was limited to clearing the place out of prepackaged mochi ice cream. From time to time he would look around the room without hurry or focus, searching for Kuroko (success rate: 30%) or maybe Kagami wolfing down something with a red face. Sometimes he looked at Kiyoshi Teppei. No expression.
Most of the time he just flicked little wads of folded-up paper chopstick wrappers at Himuro and thought about the game.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was a woman's hand on his shoulder and her thin, nervous voice (banked anger) penetrating his skull. "Hey.... Hey! Wake up."
He blinked stupidly at her.
The room had cleared out. There were only two of them left. The clock on the wall indicated 3 AM.
"Hey, you two need to get out of here. It's closing time."
At another table, on the other side of the room, he perceived the long limbs and thick, friendly eyebrows of Kiyoshi Teppei.
Surprisingly it was Araki who ordered sake first, and she drank it with a triumphant glare at the underaged Riko. How had it gotten out of hand from there? Someone had stolen her bottle - twice - and a couple of Yousen players simply said they were of age, and at their cruising altitude, it was tough to argue with. Among the cozy seats a scent of wood and paper, sauce and charcoal burning, the lifting sweetness of alcohol. The laughter became louder, the trash talk got more heated.
Murasakibara was there, taking up a seat and a half, lolling back against the wall. He drank when it was offered to him, neither caring nor feeling it. He didn't talk much. His conviviality was limited to clearing the place out of prepackaged mochi ice cream. From time to time he would look around the room without hurry or focus, searching for Kuroko (success rate: 30%) or maybe Kagami wolfing down something with a red face. Sometimes he looked at Kiyoshi Teppei. No expression.
Most of the time he just flicked little wads of folded-up paper chopstick wrappers at Himuro and thought about the game.
He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he was aware of was a woman's hand on his shoulder and her thin, nervous voice (banked anger) penetrating his skull. "Hey.... Hey! Wake up."
He blinked stupidly at her.
The room had cleared out. There were only two of them left. The clock on the wall indicated 3 AM.
"Hey, you two need to get out of here. It's closing time."
At another table, on the other side of the room, he perceived the long limbs and thick, friendly eyebrows of Kiyoshi Teppei.
uniform au that isn't about uniforms
Jul. 12th, 2014 01:12 amredzoneIt wasn't like they were super close friends or anything. In fact, if caught off guard, he'd still blurt out that he barely knew the guy -- even though, over the course of some months, that had become less and less true. Maybe it was by virtue of being the only two people for miles who shared an interest in basketball over baseball, and certainly the only people who could play worth anything at all. Maybe it was because the police department was absurdly close to the fire station, and because every time someone suggested a community outreach project, it was the two of them (on account of being tall, well-built, and straightforwardly idiotic), who ended up being stuck with the public and, consequently, each other. At any rate, they had ended up spending a lot of time with each other, somehow -- enough time that he could name Aomine's favourite idol de jour and had learned to make dinner for two whenever a game was on.
Still, it had been surprising just how hard it had hit him that day, when he'd gotten the news. Technically, he shouldn't even have known -- this hadn't been their jurisdiction, and the police department didn't like to spread news of incidents in progress, as it were. He'd been running drills when some unpleasant guy with a detective badge and glasses had appeared out of nowhere to tell him, just outside the gym, that Aomine had been in a situation, and that shots had been fired.
Like a fucking punch to the gut. Of course it wasn't really a surprise -- neither of them had a particularly safe occupation -- but still he remembered his blood running cold, remembered the acute feeling of helplessness. He'd have preferred a burning house at that point: at least that was a problem he could tackle head-on.
No burning house had presented itself, and before soon it had become obvious that Aomine was fine, that it was his gun that had been fired. Megane, with the air of a Greek prophet, had muttered something about traumatic events, but of course he'd been wrong. Aomine was made of tougher stuff than that. He'd been perfectly normal that evening, and every evening after, though clearly growing irritated with the sight of Kagami showing up at his door. Kagami had stopped after the third night, smug in the conviction that Megane had been, as expected, full of shit.
It had been a little over a week when the banging woke him from a deep, pleasant dream about skimpily clad hamburger waitresses. He stumbled out of bed half-awake, by force of habit more than anything else, and took a moment to ascertain where the sound was coming from: his door. A minute later, he was tearing it open -- hair mussed, his pajama pants slipping off one hip -- but at least awake enough to glare at whomever was insane enough to disturb him at this hour.
"Wha--"
Still, it had been surprising just how hard it had hit him that day, when he'd gotten the news. Technically, he shouldn't even have known -- this hadn't been their jurisdiction, and the police department didn't like to spread news of incidents in progress, as it were. He'd been running drills when some unpleasant guy with a detective badge and glasses had appeared out of nowhere to tell him, just outside the gym, that Aomine had been in a situation, and that shots had been fired.
Like a fucking punch to the gut. Of course it wasn't really a surprise -- neither of them had a particularly safe occupation -- but still he remembered his blood running cold, remembered the acute feeling of helplessness. He'd have preferred a burning house at that point: at least that was a problem he could tackle head-on.
No burning house had presented itself, and before soon it had become obvious that Aomine was fine, that it was his gun that had been fired. Megane, with the air of a Greek prophet, had muttered something about traumatic events, but of course he'd been wrong. Aomine was made of tougher stuff than that. He'd been perfectly normal that evening, and every evening after, though clearly growing irritated with the sight of Kagami showing up at his door. Kagami had stopped after the third night, smug in the conviction that Megane had been, as expected, full of shit.
It had been a little over a week when the banging woke him from a deep, pleasant dream about skimpily clad hamburger waitresses. He stumbled out of bed half-awake, by force of habit more than anything else, and took a moment to ascertain where the sound was coming from: his door. A minute later, he was tearing it open -- hair mussed, his pajama pants slipping off one hip -- but at least awake enough to glare at whomever was insane enough to disturb him at this hour.
"Wha--"
bluezoneThe transition of winter into spring was usually enjoyable enough, heavy jackets and long stays inside gradually giving way to milder weather, brighter skies, and a whole lot of school festivals that certain club members, exhausted from the rigors of wintertime competition and personal revelation, really didn’t want to be dragged into. Some of those certain people never liked that crap anyway, especially not when all they actually wanted to do was eat, sleep, or practice, but the people around them – teammates, team captains, team managers – had suddenly, for some stupid reason that couldn’t be fathomed, gotten the idea into their heads that school + festival + additional responsibility was not only good, it was mandatory.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.
The worst part of it was that Satsuki, of course, knew where he lived.
She also knew where Sakurai lived, which meant Aomine needed to think of another plan. Two days and two more failed attempts – one that involved slumming it in one of the dormitories and another that involved a rooftop during a thunderstorm – Aomine had to think of another, other plan, because he’d spent every free period painting (hideous) posters and getting yelled at when he made a game of tossing the failed results into waste bins across the room and on top of cabinets.
His final solution was just that: the sole, last-ditch effort before he just gave in and became the “cultural ambassador” for a themed project, the theme of which he couldn’t actually remember.
It was still wet, warm, overcast, and unseasonably windy when Aomine trudged up to the front desk of a surprisingly nice complex, told what had to be the world’s most gullible landlord that he’d lost the spare key, and then took the stairs up to the fourth floor. He tracked water inside in the process, and ended up leaving a bag, a jacket, and a soaked pair of recognizable basketball shoes by the door, because he was too tired and too grumpy to do more than nudge the door shut with his elbow and grope in the dark for the first thing that felt couch-shaped.
Ten minutes and a near-death experience later – who the hell put a basketball next to a huge glass coffee table? Only an idiot – Aomine was dozing on the couch, still in his damp sweats because slipping out directly after practice had been his only avenue of escape.