maskormenacelogs | ( closed ) I'm headed straight for the castle

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( closed ) I'm headed straight for the castle

WHO: Sarissa Theron & Darlene.
WHERE: a terrible bar somewhere in Mauritia Falls
WHEN: vaguely prior to November 5th
WHAT: hideousness, mostly
WARNINGS: language, terrible people, mature themes? TBA.

( Sarissa, famously, makes terrible choices. She has some vague idea that she should stop doing that before her birthday, since she'll be supposed to be acting all adult and grown up and proper after that, or something. Some might think that would mean she'd be trying to be adult in advance of that date, but Sarissa is taking the old get it out of your system approach. It has her checking out new places to tear up before she (tries, fails to) clean up her act a bit. This particular one has layer upon layer of posters, some torn and some intact, industrial music, and lights that walk the line of barely-functioning and atmospheric effects. She wasn't quite sure how much here was intentional, and how much was the place being on the verge of falling apart, but the drinks were decent and the poker players were mediocre.

Right now she's pulling a roll of notes towards herself, and blowing a kiss to the dudes at the table in a borderline alarming dive bar. They grumble and they protest, and when one stands to try and make a problem, Sarissa sets a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back into his seat with a sharp sort of smile. ) No need to be like that, mate.

( A wink, and she twirls her winnings between her fingers, pulling a few notes away to press them down on the bar. )

Round on me. Whatever won't make 'em blind, double bourbon, no ice for me, ( She says easily, before glancing at a woman with fantastic sunglasses and smirking a little bit. ) And get her whatever she wants. If she wants, that is.

( Not everyone wants a stranger buying them drinks, really. Fair enough. )

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[Darlene, pulled up to the bar and smoking a cigarette with incongruous elegance, slants a look toward her new best friend.

JK. Not her new best friend. Some chick with money to burn, which is cool. Darlene tucks her cigarette into the corner of her mouth so she can use that hand to lift up her nearly empty-glass, with a hollow rattles of ice cubes.]

Double kamikaze. Twist of lime. That's what I want, but I sure don't need some janky high-roller to buy it for me.

[She arches her eyebrows over her sunglasses, with a little smirk of her own. That wasn't quite a no, and to underscore that point, she takes a long slow sip of her dregs before inquiring, politely--]

So did your ship just come in, sailor, or what's up.

Ow, ( she replies, without even a trace of hurt to speak of, eyeing the empty beer bottle next to her at the bar and idly peering in at the mouth and before setting it back down. ) I'll have you know I'm at least a half-arsed high roller. I've come a long way since my janky days.

( There's something incredibly lazy about her "protest", coupled as it is with a slow grin. She takes a second, brushes back some of her hair (unstraightened, for once) and shrugs with a slow rise and fall of her shoulders as she slouches against the bar. )

I wasn't buying it for you, though. Your sunglasses, on the other hand, are amazing - I was hoping to charm them with my generosity and wit, or something. ( And then, conspiratorially: ) Don't worry. I'm gonna go fuck off soon as my drink's done, you and your sunglasses are safe.

Um, I wasn't-- [Worried, that is, and Darlene takes another sip of her drink for punctuation before she finishes that sentence.] --but thanks.

Mega tragic, but these are like one of a kind around here. Seems like the only thing that doesn't get some analog in this shithole world is cheapo four dollar novelty sunglasses.

[She tweaks at the arm of the sunglasses, right at the joint, brief Groucho that turns into a face-frame jazzhand.]

Brought to you by the finest of child laborers. De-freaking-pressing.

[One big sip; the ice cubes knock against her lips. Darlene puts her glass back down on the bartop and slides it over. Suave.]

Now your jank ass owes me a drink.

Oh, my bad. ( She practically exhales it, a quiet huff of laughter overtaking the words.

Okay, so this lady is hilarious. That's not so terrible, so far as burdens she needs to bear go. Sarissa picks up the glass, and sets it down with unnecessary emphasis before the bartender. )

Two double kamikazes, one with a twist of lime, ( a reminder, in case the bartender had forgotten somehow in between Heartattack over there, and this moment. ) And that bourbon.

( Please, she might be curious enough to try the drink, but she's not giving up her bourbon. Bourbon, rum, ouzo, beer, other drinks - that tends to be her order of appreciation, unless she's hanging out with Cosima and then suddenly her life is red wine. ) You ever had ouzo? My jank arse might get some later, and might share if you're extremely nice and charming.

( The way she says arse is neither so nasal as if she were American, nor the polish and precision of England's most famous accent, because apparently everyone from England is from nice parts of London and Surrey, according to media. It's more like "ahhse" - and yes, this description of how she says it is very important, Gawd.

More important, the way she says nice and charming is more along the lines of if you continue being hilarious, though Sarissa's focus is on the bourbon freshly set before her. )

I'll even make sure to pour one out for your sunglasses lament. ( So callous, so unconcerned. )

Dude, I live in New York. [Explanation enough; she pauses for emphasis.] I've had ouzo. Tastes like licorice whips got left in nail polish remover for like a few weeks.

Which is not me saying no, BTW.

[Would it be surprising if licorice whips distilled in nail polish remover was Darlene's aesthetic? Probably not. She takes another drag on her cigarette, classy enough to blow the smoke over her shoulder.]

If it turns out you can take it, and stop saying ass like we're in 'The Rescuers Down Under'. I get that you can't help it, but it is starting to feel like an assault.

[She lifts her chin toward the table of discontented gamblers, who are still grumbling over their cards, even as the bartender is hard at work mixing up those free conciliatory prizes for them.]

Okay, but full disclosure. Do they really suck that bad or are you a card shark.

( A little duck of her head, hands held out to the side as if she were a saint rendered in stained glass. It's a gesture that's all humble apology, with zero percent humbleness or actual apology. Sarissa looks up from the bow with a grin, lopsided and partnered with a bemused eyebrow raise. )

Yeah, when I say ass though the first thing I think of is a hoofed mammal. Though, technically I s'pose ass is in insult in English, too. It just sounds so wrong with this accent. Can you imagine Crocodile Dundee settling down and saying "asshole!" to the snake he nearly got bitten by?

( She's grinning, though, and nurses her bourbon before looking over her shoulder. The room smells of smoke, the acridity of split liquor, and the freshness of lemon being cut for the drinks about to be run out to her table of woeful frenemies. Lightly: ) Neither. I'm just lucky. Gifted, really. Too honourable to be a cardshark and too modest to speak poorly of my fallen comrades

( But she shakes her head very slightly, barely stopped short of an eyeroll. They were terrible. ) Why? Looking to steal lollies from babies?

( llll-ollies, which is a deliberate and obnoxious refusal to say candy, yes. )

[Perhaps the lame cultural ref should tip Darlene off, but she has been hanging out in this bar for like a few hours now, checking the network and idly tapping away at some other screw off work.

So instead, she fishes an ice cube out of her empty glass and crunches down on it. Deliberates, and decrees:]

Okay, you get an ass pass. If only so I don't have to listen to you talk about Crocodile Dundee anymore, because, wow.

[Lame. The bartender slides over a fresh drink for Darlene before he takes off to distribute drinks to the babies, and the one for lady high roller, too, with a clink against the side of her bourbon glass. Darlene picks up her glass and gives it an expert swirl.]

And to be honest, I don't steal lollies. Not my scene. Candy like that is way overrated. But I'm glad you've found some real peace with it.

Thank Christ. I was worried I'd get trapped in the eighties for the rest of the night. Never goes well for anyone.

( She shudders, somehow understated and dramatic at the same time. And as for the rest, Sarissa huffs out a laugh. ) Being a bastard becomes really naturally to me. I'm thinking of stealing an old person's walker tomorrow, if things get quiet.

( But, okay. Sarissa just tips back the rest of her bourbon, no pained face at all, an picks up her kamikaze, and holding it out towards her shiny new friend with just enough flair to be low-key ridiculous. Cheers. ) To you superior, non-candy stealing saintliness.

Fuck you, you just have shitty taste in eighties movies.

[But Darlene says it pleasantly, almost conversationally. No impressed faces over hard-knocking bourbon drinking, but the hint of a smirk tugs up the corner of her mouth as she clinks her glass against the proffered one, with force.]

And nice try with the flattery.

[She leans into the glasses, pointedly--then pulls back all at once, suddenly enough to slosh some liquor over the lip of the glass. After one quick drink, Darlene turns her hand, expertly, so she can lick the spilled liquor off her fingers.]

I can't deny it. ( Very matter of factly, with a shrug as their glasses collide. Collision seems like the only way to describe this entire encounter. ) I tell myself they're so bad they're good, but I'm a terrible liar.

( Her sip goes more to plan than her company's, and she quietly laughs. ) Smooth. I can't believe I forgot to mention how poised you are, too. My bad.

( Hopefully she strikes the right not of teasing rather than, you know. Outright dickishness. ) So, do you always hang out in the home of rain and Amish?

You can keep laughing at me if you want this drink poured over your head.

[Delivered sweetly, it still has the timbre of a threat. Darlene slings the glass back onto the bar, wipes her fingers on her tights.]

FYI that the home of rain and Amish has fuck-all to actually do, which is why I've been in here drinking since noon like some mega depressing alcoholic. Fulfilling some part of my predetermined genetic destiny, I guess. What about you? You're not here hustling, you're just that bored?

Don't think it's a look that'd suit me.

( So very casual and unconcerned, though she does raise a hand in a lazy, vaguely apologetic way. )

I'd like to point out that if I were being sleazy I'd say something about not being vored anymore. I'm very noble and chivalrous, but, so I'll spare you.

( Her smile is all self mockery. ) No, just thought I'd check out somewhere that wasn't oldpersonsville, Florida. Turns out you can outsmart dumbarses at cards anywhere.

Um, and I'd like to point out back at you that I am being super chill letting you get away with 'dumbarses', which sounds super forced. Do you not have your own word for it, or what.

But I agree on the part where Florida sucks. Why don't you move somewhere where Tinder isn't full of wrinkly dick? I promise you it exists.

Not here--

[She does a half spin in her chair, incorporating their surroundings with a broad sweep of her drink. The ice cubs clink against the side of the glass.]

--But somewhere. Dude, how do you even know what the Amish are?

Nope. And I'm like a lizard, or something. Need to lie in the sun in order to function.

( A sip of her drink, before she takes out an ice cube to crunch on. It means there's time to listen to Darlene before replying. Less flippantly, ) And one of my sisters is in Heropa. She's kind of the serious, reserved one, so I didn't want to just up sticks and leave her without family local, y'know?

( Well, whatever, that was a moment of actual sincerity, even if it quickly surprised away and it makes her grin. )

As for the Amish, we're pretty immersed in American pop-culture. I think something like... forty per cent of our shows and that are actually made in Australia, the rest is mostly from America and then some stuff from the UK. It's more expensive to produce stuff in Australia because of this kind of perpetuating cycle that winds up making most of our film industry talent leave the country to get work— Anyway, point is that a bunch of major shows have at least one episode featuring the Amish, somehow. There's this thing a teacher told me about in high school, actually, where apparently a lot of Aussie kids doing drama classes or that tend to automatically slip into an American accent because it's what they associate with performance.

( She is... talking about television shit, and now she does roll her eyes at herself, shaking her head with a self-mocking smile. ) Sorry. That probably wasn't an actual... question. ( Sarissa sighs, and taps the side of her head. ) Vault of useless knowledge.

Edited 2016-11-08 21:26 (UTC)

[Darlene listens, with a patience born mostly of the fact that she really has been drinking since noon. When her convo partner finally talks herself out, Darlene sits back and picks up her drink.]

You're a fucking nerd.

Yeah. ( The sigh is of resignation, and Sarissa tips back some more of the kamikaze. )

Don't worry, I'm looking into getting lobotomised, I hear it's very effective.

[She snorts in reply to that, as she takes one last drag of her lingering cigarette and then reaches over to crush it out in the dingy ashtray situated just down the bar.]

Dude, if you want to become a drooling vegetable, there are way cooler ways to do it.

You know, I've been told something similar before.

( A moment of quiet contemplation. )

Easily the worst pick-up attempt ever.

[Darlene laughs, mid sip, so it comes out like kind of a snort. She wipes her wrist over her mouth as she pulls the straws away.]

You wish.

Hey, 'scuse you, I meant the other time. ( Still, she lays a hand over her heart, playing the wounded party even though she's laughing. ) But that was hurtful. I'm gonna write some poetry later, and it's all gonna be your fault.

( A beat, and Sarissa leans in, vaguely conspiratorial and with an exaggerated air of Helpfulness: ) That was another joke. No wangsty poetry, promise.

Good, because poetry is like, sub-sub nerd. That's like high school English Club. And the last guy who wrote me poetry, I kneed him the balls.

[So. With great grace and poise, Darlene takes a long sip of her drink, which is already about half-gone. Slowly, her gaze tips down.]

Pretty sure you're kinda ball-less. But I'm an improviser.

Last I checked, yeah. Who knows what could happen here.

( Melodramatic eyebrows, unconcerned voice. )

Kick in the balls'll fuck with you even if you don't have 'em. But knees and ears and eyes'll always work in your favour.

( Her fingertips wave vaguely near Darlene's throat, lazy, though she stops short of making contact. )

For poetry maybe the eyes or throat - no reason to let them read it to you while they're bawlin' on the floor.

No shit.

[Darlene's mouth hitches up at the corner in a smirk.]

So what're you, some kind of Australian ninja?

Oh, no. I'm just one hundred and sixty-two centimetres tall and deeply irritating.

( She's a brawler, but not a good fighter. She just is physically and mentally incapable of just staying down. Part human, part air dancer - which, by the way, is a far classier sounding name than those inflatable flailing monstrosities at car dealerships deserve. )

Short loudmouths should have solidarity, right? ( Ooh, an idea, which occurs to her as she finishes off her drink and is evidently obnoxious, to be delivered with sarcastic enthusiasm based on the dramatic way she sets down her glass. ) We could start a union.

Okay, I do not do unions.

[Is that surprising? It shouldn't be. Darlene takes another gulp of her drink to underscore her ultimatum.]

Or clubs, before you suggest that one. I reserve shows of solidarity for actually important shit. But if you want to keep drinking, I'm down for that version of social interaction.

Damn. And here I thought you were some kinda girl scout.

( Good natured, unfazed, and with a nod to Darlene's glass, )

Drinking works for me. Want another one of those?

[Quickly, Darlene drains the last of her drink and sets the glass down on the bartop, with a smirk.]

You are so lucky I'm not a bitch about asserting my independence or whatever by buying my own drinks. Means you get to continue to enjoy my awesome company.

( Sarissa scoffs good-naturedly, inducating to the guy they'll have the same again. )

You're practically a saint. Everyone says so. Saint--

( Hang on. Leaning slightly closer, a conspiratorial whisper, )

Please tell me you've not told me your name and I'm not a forgetful dick?

[She rolls her eyes at this cheap lean-close-and-whisper routine, but she is smiling, a little, sort of, and she answers anyways:]

Darlene. If you start with the saint shit, we are gonna have a probably less awesome time. Pedestals, equally not my thing, comes on a little strong, so let's just be cool and get shitfaced.

Who're you?

Dunno. Might be worth it to see seas of pilgrims wearing the sacred sunnies in tribute, or some shit.

( Sarissa's smile is somehow a balance of projected ego and genuine, cheery self mockery. )

Sarissa. Most of what comes out of my mouth is bullshit. Amazing bullshit, obviously-- but definitely bullshit.

[The drinks arrive, the quiet tock of glassware hitting bar top muffled by the sticky residue of alcohol smeared all across the surface. Darlene doesn't look around. She's staring over at Sarissa.]

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Yeah, I know, "that's not a name." I've heard it before.

( Absently she picks up one of the drinks and takes a sip, unconcerned. )

It was a kind of long spear used by the Ancient Greeks. Not inaccurate, in that I tend to leave people with a stabbing pain sensation in their heads, so.

Edited 2016-11-16 21:33 (UTC)

Oh my god, I don't give a shit where your name-- ugh.

[An actual articulated word. Darlene grabs her drink and gulps a quarter of it, like she has to get a taste out of her mouth. Then she grabs her coat off the back of her chair and starts pulling it on.]

I cannot believe that the it's-a-small-world bullshit carries true in frickin' wherever the fuck this is.

[Loose-limbed, she shoves her arms into her sleeves, slaps her sunglasses back onto her face, and grabs her backpack up from the barstool next to her. Another quarter of her drink gulped, and she hops off the stool.]

Hey, but thanks for the drink.

( Whoah, now. )

Hey, hang on.

( Baffled, rather than offended or angry or anything so self-righteous. )

Not gonna stop you goin' but-- normally I have a vague idea what I did to piss people off. Means if I decide to apologise it's more sincere. Same goes for I decide to roll my eyes.

( Clearly it was something significant. She's equal parts genuinely concerned and joking when she continues, ) You aren't friends with the grocery store bloke are you? Pretty sure he got his revenge when he threw me into a display of tinned spaghetti, but the hate boner is strong in that one, I guess.

Two words for you, hon.

[She hitches her backpack up onto her shoulders, mouth pinched in an irritated frown.]

Dick. Spice.

[And with that parting shot, she turns on her heel to head for the door.

Is this an overreaction? A little, yeah. But it's a matter of control. She doesn't like surprises, especially not surprises that make her look a little stupid, surprises that should have been obvious, surprises that are in fact now obvious in retrospect. She'll get over it, probably, eventually.]

What.

( A moment of purest bewilderment, before it clicks. Darlene is gone before it's totally clicked, so there's no chance to really respond short of yelling across the bar or chasing after someone who had elsewhere or anywhere they'd sooner be, and Sarissa just exhales a laugh-slash-sigh.

Christ.

She blinks, sips her drink, and glances to the guy at the bar. Her nod says yeah, work on another one and his answering one says on it, and she tries to unravel the fantastic mystery of how she thought something was fun banter, and someone else - Anonymous, Darlene - was so offended that they had to immediately leave. )

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( closed ) I'm headed straight for the castle

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crawls out of bed, victorious laughter, etc

vicious laughters back at you

we're bad people

alt. theory, we are the best

you're right, that makes a lot more sense

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