The grandeur of life's design and the fleetingness of it all never seemed more apparent than when you were doing something to destroy said life: with a gun to your head you sensed everything and anything that ever was, your entire mind realizing that it could be ended in a few fractions of a second due to a miniscule twitch from your muscle.
Of course, Dirty D didn't turn to fire arms to gain this enlightenment, instead his weapon of choice had a plastic end stuck in between his lips, coated with a small layer of saliva, a long brown paper shaft burning away as a taste similar to charcoal entered his mouth and slid down his throat and the scent of vanilla exited from the device.
If there was a more homo erotic way of describing smoking a black and mild, I don't think I can come up with it, I'll tell ya what.
It wasn't as if he smoked regularly, quite the opposite, he tried to avoid the vice, his band mates tended to do it, but he never caught on to that fad. Drinking and fast food did enough to kill him slowly, why bother with tobacco and cigarettes?
Says the boy smoking a black and mild.
"Sasha, I'm headin' home, my hours are up, so yeah, gonna start headin' out."
Sasha, his manager, fuck buddy, y'know, the standard deal, she gave him extra hours, they had casual sex, he got his pay check: standard deal, really. He imagined everyone employed in the living hell that was the Promenade -funny how spending every waking moment in the teenage hot spot could drive you to hate it- had a similar experience to him: a boring trip to the parking lot, a cliché filled journey through stores to talk to people you don't like and buy shit you don't need with the money you barely have.
Large gobs of spit escaped dirty, hairy lips as he continued walking through the mall...
Maybe, maybe today would be different.
The Dirty Version
The Dirty Version
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
(Continued from Sparse)
Harold didn't like the mall too much. It was noisy and crowded and filled with people he would rather drop an A-bomb on before he would even consider talking to them. Not that a mall was a good spot for an A-bomb, or even a very strategic target, but he digressed. Besides, violence was simply not his schtick. Too much chance of him hurting himself while attempting to hurt other people.
Speaking of hurting yourself...
Harold had to admit, of all the people he had wanted to see smoking in a crowded mall, "Dirty D" Perez was one of the people on the bottom of the list. The man was a hairy, smelly, mediocre layabout with no future, and Harold hated people like that. However, the man would be lucky today, because the pudgy geek had been previously shaken, and was not willing, not immediately anyway, to go and start offending people again.
So, instead he did something inconventional. He said, "David Perez! Fancy meeting you here. Got the time to talk, or are you going somewhere?" Harold imagined that in less than fifteen minutes, he'd be wanting to be elsewhere, but for now, he would be civil. He could stand to last for that long.
Harold didn't like the mall too much. It was noisy and crowded and filled with people he would rather drop an A-bomb on before he would even consider talking to them. Not that a mall was a good spot for an A-bomb, or even a very strategic target, but he digressed. Besides, violence was simply not his schtick. Too much chance of him hurting himself while attempting to hurt other people.
Speaking of hurting yourself...
Harold had to admit, of all the people he had wanted to see smoking in a crowded mall, "Dirty D" Perez was one of the people on the bottom of the list. The man was a hairy, smelly, mediocre layabout with no future, and Harold hated people like that. However, the man would be lucky today, because the pudgy geek had been previously shaken, and was not willing, not immediately anyway, to go and start offending people again.
So, instead he did something inconventional. He said, "David Perez! Fancy meeting you here. Got the time to talk, or are you going somewhere?" Harold imagined that in less than fifteen minutes, he'd be wanting to be elsewhere, but for now, he would be civil. He could stand to last for that long.
"Uh,"
David began slowly as the -quite frankly- gigantic Harold Fisher approached him, greeting him and asking if he wanted to talk. David, was, to be quite honest, put a bit on edge as the guy talked to him: first of all, Harold was a cunt. The biggest cunt, the type of guy to pull some poorly thought out Chewbacca defense, make everyone in the room hate each other, ruin anything resembling a civil tone and also make people forget what they were arguing in the first place. A Grade A, USA Certified, Cunt and someone who David had heard more than a few bitch about how annoying he was.
Rarely did someone say it to the kid's face because he was a monster, the kid was as loud and annoying as a locomotive and roughly the size of one: who fucks with that? Today though, David Perez would be the hero, give him the rope-a-dope, the Roy Jones special. Pound him like yesterday's beef. Shove his foot so far up Harold's ass they'll nickname him Tube Sock.
"Eh, nothing much is up with me bro, just chillin' in the mall, thinkin' about going home, got a date with my bed ya see, gonna sleep away and the night and do fuckin' jack shit on the internet," he smiled a bit, "Probably lurk myspace for a couple hours, but yeah, I can take a break from my busy schedule to talk to you, no worries."
He gave the boy an enthusiastic high-five. That's the way David, you show that fantastic jizz guzzling cunt whose boss, maybe if you high fived his face the semen would leak out of his fat cheeks, yeah, that'll happen.
"Anyways, cut with the David Perez schtick, David's fine or D or whatever ya feel comfortable with," he smiled good naturedly, "Live in a Cuban house, I hear: DAVID ALEXI ANTONIO PEREZ! And I immediately think I did something wrong, y'know, a reflex."
((David Perez continued in So Fresh, So Clean))
David began slowly as the -quite frankly- gigantic Harold Fisher approached him, greeting him and asking if he wanted to talk. David, was, to be quite honest, put a bit on edge as the guy talked to him: first of all, Harold was a cunt. The biggest cunt, the type of guy to pull some poorly thought out Chewbacca defense, make everyone in the room hate each other, ruin anything resembling a civil tone and also make people forget what they were arguing in the first place. A Grade A, USA Certified, Cunt and someone who David had heard more than a few bitch about how annoying he was.
Rarely did someone say it to the kid's face because he was a monster, the kid was as loud and annoying as a locomotive and roughly the size of one: who fucks with that? Today though, David Perez would be the hero, give him the rope-a-dope, the Roy Jones special. Pound him like yesterday's beef. Shove his foot so far up Harold's ass they'll nickname him Tube Sock.
"Eh, nothing much is up with me bro, just chillin' in the mall, thinkin' about going home, got a date with my bed ya see, gonna sleep away and the night and do fuckin' jack shit on the internet," he smiled a bit, "Probably lurk myspace for a couple hours, but yeah, I can take a break from my busy schedule to talk to you, no worries."
He gave the boy an enthusiastic high-five. That's the way David, you show that fantastic jizz guzzling cunt whose boss, maybe if you high fived his face the semen would leak out of his fat cheeks, yeah, that'll happen.
"Anyways, cut with the David Perez schtick, David's fine or D or whatever ya feel comfortable with," he smiled good naturedly, "Live in a Cuban house, I hear: DAVID ALEXI ANTONIO PEREZ! And I immediately think I did something wrong, y'know, a reflex."
((David Perez continued in So Fresh, So Clean))
"My man got too familiar and I’d ended up having to whoop his ass, man, you know. Because he would step across the line. Habitually. He’s a habitual line stepper.” -Charlie Murphy
V8 Relationship Thread
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
Slidin'
Lookin' for the opps, they been hidin'
I grew up 'round drugs, sex, and violence
We turnt off they street, we heard sirens
Since a juvenile, I been wylin'
(OOC note: for those of you who didn't get the memo the first time, my character is only pudgy. PUDGY. Get it? He's not ginormous, just out of shape.)
Somehow, Harold got the impression that this man's response was hardly sincere. If anything, he felt like the guy was trying to be friendly just because of manners, hardly a good reason at all for trying to be nice. If the guy felt like Harold was bad news or a horrible person, he would have done well to outright say so. As it was, the pudgy man saw Perez's raised hand, and simply shook his head with a disdainful sniff. "I don't slap hands, 'D.' It's unhygienic. Especially, I imagine, with someone like you."
Not that Harold had much to say of hygiene. He kept himself showered, but his hair was hardly ever brushed, and his clothing was often untidy and helter-skelter. T-shirts over jeans? Sure! T-shirts half-tucked into jeans, or only tucked in at the back? Why not? Or in this case, T-shirt not tucked into a pair of jeans with faded knees, topped with a pair of sneakers with loose heels and grass stains from mowing the lawn the day before yesterday. What with this arrangement, it would have seemed downright absurd that someone like Harold would be lecturing others on what was hygienic, not that he noticed at all.
In this circumstance, Harold had run out of patience faster than anticipated. He didn't like people with accents, he didn't like ethnic slang, and he certainly didn't like people bragging about doing nothing. All these combined had run the projected fifteen minutes of tolerance down to about one and a half. At this point, it was all Harold could do to keep himself from launching into a tirade about how people with beards were slovenly and lower class. Instead, he followed up his comment about hygiene with this lovely conversation starter, "So, someone like you, I imagine you work in one of the seedier stores, yes? How's the pay there, besides the amount you're probably slipping out of the register when your manager isn't looking?"
Whoa now! This is exactly the kind of stuff we're avoiding now. Remember?
"Umm..." Not knowing any way to say sorry or something of that sort, Harold simply backed off slowly before breaking into a run. He hoped the guy wouldn't follow.
(Harold Fisher continued in Debate Exposes Doubt)
Somehow, Harold got the impression that this man's response was hardly sincere. If anything, he felt like the guy was trying to be friendly just because of manners, hardly a good reason at all for trying to be nice. If the guy felt like Harold was bad news or a horrible person, he would have done well to outright say so. As it was, the pudgy man saw Perez's raised hand, and simply shook his head with a disdainful sniff. "I don't slap hands, 'D.' It's unhygienic. Especially, I imagine, with someone like you."
Not that Harold had much to say of hygiene. He kept himself showered, but his hair was hardly ever brushed, and his clothing was often untidy and helter-skelter. T-shirts over jeans? Sure! T-shirts half-tucked into jeans, or only tucked in at the back? Why not? Or in this case, T-shirt not tucked into a pair of jeans with faded knees, topped with a pair of sneakers with loose heels and grass stains from mowing the lawn the day before yesterday. What with this arrangement, it would have seemed downright absurd that someone like Harold would be lecturing others on what was hygienic, not that he noticed at all.
In this circumstance, Harold had run out of patience faster than anticipated. He didn't like people with accents, he didn't like ethnic slang, and he certainly didn't like people bragging about doing nothing. All these combined had run the projected fifteen minutes of tolerance down to about one and a half. At this point, it was all Harold could do to keep himself from launching into a tirade about how people with beards were slovenly and lower class. Instead, he followed up his comment about hygiene with this lovely conversation starter, "So, someone like you, I imagine you work in one of the seedier stores, yes? How's the pay there, besides the amount you're probably slipping out of the register when your manager isn't looking?"
Whoa now! This is exactly the kind of stuff we're avoiding now. Remember?
"Umm..." Not knowing any way to say sorry or something of that sort, Harold simply backed off slowly before breaking into a run. He hoped the guy wouldn't follow.
(Harold Fisher continued in Debate Exposes Doubt)