Viva La Brea: Morituri Te Salutant [TWS]
12-01-2011, 05:38 AM
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Somewhere in a bullshit town
The smell of burnt cheapass popcorn slowly becomes embedded in your mind as you lounge awkwardly on your girlfriendâs threadbare couch. Itâs early evening, somewhere around 9, right about the time when you start to get bored but itâs still too early to do anything interesting. The dingy room is mostly silent except for the sound of sirens blaring faintly on the streets below. You only know what time it is from the clock on the microwave you can see from the tiny kitchen; the blackout curtains bolted to the windows drown out anything resembling natural sunlight. This could be like home, you think, fidgeting with the flimsy box in your hands. A lot of things could be like home. Desperation, for one. Cheapass popcorn. You could get used to this. Itâs not so bad.
You stare blankly at the TV tuned to static in front of you as a feminine voice chimes in from the kitchen. âGeneric,â it calls, âWeâre out of antifreeze. What else goes is supposed to go in here?â
âUm, I think drain cleaner works too,â you say back, not entirely attentive. The static on the TV is especially nondescript tonight. You are fascinated.
âWhat if we donât have SCRREEEEEEAUUUUUGGGHHHHHgghhkkkkk.â
It takes you a few seconds to react, partially because movement seems like an unappealing option but mostly because your girlfriend makes these kind of noises a lot. Itâs a thing with her. She gets all touchy when you bring it up.
âOr you can use peroxide,â you call hesitantly. âBut watch out for the fumes?â
The kitchen is silent. Faintly, you can hear something dripping.
>_
Somewhere in a bullshit town
The smell of burnt cheapass popcorn slowly becomes embedded in your mind as you lounge awkwardly on your girlfriendâs threadbare couch. Itâs early evening, somewhere around 9, right about the time when you start to get bored but itâs still too early to do anything interesting. The dingy room is mostly silent except for the sound of sirens blaring faintly on the streets below. You only know what time it is from the clock on the microwave you can see from the tiny kitchen; the blackout curtains bolted to the windows drown out anything resembling natural sunlight. This could be like home, you think, fidgeting with the flimsy box in your hands. A lot of things could be like home. Desperation, for one. Cheapass popcorn. You could get used to this. Itâs not so bad.
You stare blankly at the TV tuned to static in front of you as a feminine voice chimes in from the kitchen. âGeneric,â it calls, âWeâre out of antifreeze. What else goes is supposed to go in here?â
âUm, I think drain cleaner works too,â you say back, not entirely attentive. The static on the TV is especially nondescript tonight. You are fascinated.
âWhat if we donât have SCRREEEEEEAUUUUUGGGHHHHHgghhkkkkk.â
It takes you a few seconds to react, partially because movement seems like an unappealing option but mostly because your girlfriend makes these kind of noises a lot. Itâs a thing with her. She gets all touchy when you bring it up.
âOr you can use peroxide,â you call hesitantly. âBut watch out for the fumes?â
The kitchen is silent. Faintly, you can hear something dripping.
>_