((Manuel Figueroa continued from Cigarettes and Alcohol))
More people were dying. He was still all alone. He had nothing that could be used as a weapon, well, other than that of his original shuriken and a couple rocks. Half the island would blow his neck off. So he was feeling pretty cranky when he ended up in some gardens in the swanky part of town. It was all he could do to not scream at the walls and jack it to a camera. So he was simply moving along, looking around.
There was still nothing (obviously). Just a blanket covering a bunch of stuff. He kicked the corner as he passed it by.
Tonk
He turned back to look at the tin of crackers. He scoffed at the
Food.
He turned back. Looked at the blanket. Slowly approached it. Took the covering between two fingers. Nothing. He slowly folded it over. Nothing except uncovering the body. It wasn't the body that was of interest. It was the items on it.
Med kits. Water. Food. Manuel took one of the bars and bit into it, barely taking care to unwrap it. Delicious. It was as he was savoring it that he noticed the last item. It was a gun. A rifle, with ammunition. He wolfed down the rest of the bar as he grabbed the rifle, loaded it, and clutched it to his chest. At that moment, he felt like he was talking directly to God, and he was spending all his time thanking Him for this glorious bounty.
Acquiesce
Private, Day 11 (We're gonna uncover what sleeping in our souls)
Acquiesce
Survivor: UCONN - Seriously, it's awesome!
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
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Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
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((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued From give me everything you have and more))
And so I reckon what I'm gettin' at is that I think it shows a real, well, maybe not a depth of character but a growth a one all the same for y'all to grasp it's a lil' fucked up to be disrespectin' the dead and all with this particular scheme, and it's real healthy like for y'all to take what's her, uh, Anna to heart, make things right with her friend up-
Question.
Yessir?
First. Where did I err in the one hour, thirteen minutes, fifty-two second duration of this lecture thus far and give you the impression that I give a shit?
If y'all was to direct attention to the notes I provided on the projector I got three theories y'all won't beli-
Second. Was it not your idea to leave this cache with the blind boy?
Well about that.
If y'all was to direct attention to the notes I have provided on the projector, I believe you will see that you referred to it as "a stroke of tacticular sub-tar-phuge ain't nobody gonna see coming," and yes, I noted the reference in poor taste to his disability.
It was a test! Y'all failed!
Mhm.
For an armed and enforced death scored mostly around one's ability to murder and prized with the opportunity to return home, the island had become terribly boring. Survival was largely an act of maintenance. At this stage they would sometimes go hours without so much as hearing another human being, and an encounter? That was a rarer occurrence still. To some degree this was beneficial. No one could attempt to kill them if they did not see them. It grew tiresome in repetition, though, day in and out without much to do but loop through locations of interest and relax when soreness made further travel inconvenient. Filling the empty space in their mind with these improvised exchanges was their only way to pass the time. They liked to imagine they had become rather good at them. It should have occurred to them years ago that they were the only person they could have a truly engaging conversation with.
Ain't gonna be much empty space left if you was to keep strokin' off your ego like that.
Despite certain people often forgetting who was in control and that with enough annoyance they could vanish back to obscurity where they belonged on the whim of another plaything, which would not be so difficult to craft.
Oh no, don't y'all throw me in the briar patch, please.
And if they attempted to explain it to an outside observer they might appear to have lost all grasp on their sanity but that would be inaccurate, the moments they appeared to lose control were only because they wanted to lose control. Certain elements of risk, of mockery, they kept things lively, they-
Do you hear that?
Footsteps. Close ones. They seemed to be approaching cross paths towards the junction where Alexander's corpse lay. Someone was taking very little care to hide their presence. Blaise was already cutting through patches of overgrown grass and stonework to circle behind the sounds when the garden went silent again. They dropped; had they been seen?
There was the sound of hollow metal skipping across the ground, followed by the crinkling of an emergency blanket.
Motherfucker.
Madison's unreasonably large pistol slid from inside the jacket. They pulled the hammer down.
As quickly as they dared without risking discovery they approached the impromptu burial site. The loss of sustenance would not be so terrible; between danger zones and forgetfulness they had lost caches here and there often enough. The singular time they hide something of real value though, it is stumbled upon? In a place reeking of decay next to a disfigured corpse promising only the same underneath? By either luck or unfathomable ghoulishness, someone had discovered their hiding place. They broke through the garden at his back to see him chewing his way through a ration bar, one of their ration bars, and nearly unloaded their pistol that second. He was not so far, but this gun they had not fired was heavy. It dd not fit so well in their hand. It did not seem so simple as their rifle that lay just under the blanket waiting for his grimy hands to discover it, and they had a memory of shots flying wide through garden aisles and return fire. No. They would not repeat their mistake.
The boy was clutching the rifle to his chest when they finished closing the gap between them. The elation in his body language was plain. How sharp must the contrast in reaction feel when he felt the metal pressing against his chest mirrored by a harsh pressure against his back?
Mm.
If he was clever enough to draw the association in that fragment of a moment, they did not allow him time to express it before they pulled the trigger.
And so I reckon what I'm gettin' at is that I think it shows a real, well, maybe not a depth of character but a growth a one all the same for y'all to grasp it's a lil' fucked up to be disrespectin' the dead and all with this particular scheme, and it's real healthy like for y'all to take what's her, uh, Anna to heart, make things right with her friend up-
Question.
Yessir?
First. Where did I err in the one hour, thirteen minutes, fifty-two second duration of this lecture thus far and give you the impression that I give a shit?
If y'all was to direct attention to the notes I provided on the projector I got three theories y'all won't beli-
Second. Was it not your idea to leave this cache with the blind boy?
Well about that.
If y'all was to direct attention to the notes I have provided on the projector, I believe you will see that you referred to it as "a stroke of tacticular sub-tar-phuge ain't nobody gonna see coming," and yes, I noted the reference in poor taste to his disability.
It was a test! Y'all failed!
Mhm.
For an armed and enforced death scored mostly around one's ability to murder and prized with the opportunity to return home, the island had become terribly boring. Survival was largely an act of maintenance. At this stage they would sometimes go hours without so much as hearing another human being, and an encounter? That was a rarer occurrence still. To some degree this was beneficial. No one could attempt to kill them if they did not see them. It grew tiresome in repetition, though, day in and out without much to do but loop through locations of interest and relax when soreness made further travel inconvenient. Filling the empty space in their mind with these improvised exchanges was their only way to pass the time. They liked to imagine they had become rather good at them. It should have occurred to them years ago that they were the only person they could have a truly engaging conversation with.
Ain't gonna be much empty space left if you was to keep strokin' off your ego like that.
Despite certain people often forgetting who was in control and that with enough annoyance they could vanish back to obscurity where they belonged on the whim of another plaything, which would not be so difficult to craft.
Oh no, don't y'all throw me in the briar patch, please.
And if they attempted to explain it to an outside observer they might appear to have lost all grasp on their sanity but that would be inaccurate, the moments they appeared to lose control were only because they wanted to lose control. Certain elements of risk, of mockery, they kept things lively, they-
Do you hear that?
Footsteps. Close ones. They seemed to be approaching cross paths towards the junction where Alexander's corpse lay. Someone was taking very little care to hide their presence. Blaise was already cutting through patches of overgrown grass and stonework to circle behind the sounds when the garden went silent again. They dropped; had they been seen?
There was the sound of hollow metal skipping across the ground, followed by the crinkling of an emergency blanket.
Motherfucker.
Madison's unreasonably large pistol slid from inside the jacket. They pulled the hammer down.
As quickly as they dared without risking discovery they approached the impromptu burial site. The loss of sustenance would not be so terrible; between danger zones and forgetfulness they had lost caches here and there often enough. The singular time they hide something of real value though, it is stumbled upon? In a place reeking of decay next to a disfigured corpse promising only the same underneath? By either luck or unfathomable ghoulishness, someone had discovered their hiding place. They broke through the garden at his back to see him chewing his way through a ration bar, one of their ration bars, and nearly unloaded their pistol that second. He was not so far, but this gun they had not fired was heavy. It dd not fit so well in their hand. It did not seem so simple as their rifle that lay just under the blanket waiting for his grimy hands to discover it, and they had a memory of shots flying wide through garden aisles and return fire. No. They would not repeat their mistake.
The boy was clutching the rifle to his chest when they finished closing the gap between them. The elation in his body language was plain. How sharp must the contrast in reaction feel when he felt the metal pressing against his chest mirrored by a harsh pressure against his back?
Mm.
If he was clever enough to draw the association in that fragment of a moment, they did not allow him time to express it before they pulled the trigger.
Oh, my God, this was great. Manuel felt like he he could go on for just a little longer. And maybe, he could survive, or at least take a pound of flesh from whomever killed him. Things were finally coming up
BANG
Manuel flinched, and he looked down. That hole hadn't been there befo - oh wait, there was the pain. Blinding pain. And red. Lots of red. That caused Manuel to drop to the ground, dropping to his side. He could see the guy who had done it. Had to be. Manuel just had to raise the gun. Couldn't raise the gun. His arms were weakening by the second and he'd turned so that the gun was facing the ground. Just had to turn onto his back. There. Now maybe he could ... he could point and shoot him.
BANG
Manuel flinched, and he looked down. That hole hadn't been there befo - oh wait, there was the pain. Blinding pain. And red. Lots of red. That caused Manuel to drop to the ground, dropping to his side. He could see the guy who had done it. Had to be. Manuel just had to raise the gun. Couldn't raise the gun. His arms were weakening by the second and he'd turned so that the gun was facing the ground. Just had to turn onto his back. There. Now maybe he could ... he could point and shoot him.
Survivor: UCONN - Seriously, it's awesome!
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Curious.
After feeling the pistol's weight dragging their jacket to the left all through the evening and morning, Blaise expected it to be an unwieldy hunk of metal. Such supposition lent well to their hesitance to strike from a distance, and in the rush to protect their assets they had not noticed it was already defying their expectations. Despite its heft the grip fit comfortably into their hand, not so different than the rifle held by their would be scavenger. It was not so heavy they struggled to raise it. Indeed there was a sort of haptic satisfaction to the resistance, challenge to their will just a hair shy of frustration. Of course they expected its demands to grow under fire; the welt against their cheek was gone but not forgotten. Posture, precision, the personal nature of their position lent to both and allowed them to steady the barrel between their grip and the back of their unsuspecting thief. Still they expected a kick, and it came. Harder than the rifle, yes, undoubtedly more visceral, more firm in its demands from chamber to palm to wrist to rocket up their extended arm to their shoulder, but it did not throw them as that very first shot had.
Actually, they were getting ahead of themself.
Blaise did not dwell long on the violence they inflicted. Dante had set that tone well enough. They committed decisively and moved on with as vague knowledge of the results as they could, and if they had ever acted in contradiction to that policy it was forgotten in this moment in service of a point to be made by their artistic eye. Because this moment operated separate from all perceptions both true and false of brutalities past. It asked them to observe the act in detail from start to finish, and if they were being totally, nakedly, vulnerably honest with themself? They were captivated.
Consider the over first layer a sort of canvas. A white shirt touched only by dirt, sweat, unmentionables that stained them all and otherwise open to interpretation. The trigger pull exploded its surface into a palette of possibilities. Most would die too quickly for the average observer to notice, so quickly as to question whether they were ever truly there, but if nothing else Blaise imagined them. Brilliant oranges flashing bright at the muzzle then burning out like a dying sun to scorch the fabric around them into blacks and browns, the slightest exposure of yellow underneath that elsewhere could only be seen through the filter of one shirt over the other, brass falling free to the ground having served the one and only purpose it had ever dreamed, all would drown in a flash in bubbling, no, no, spraying red from his body that splattered across them before he crumpled to the floor, and where were they?
They were standing tall, arm barely shifted out of position. It was not so much like being thrown across a room as they expected. They did not have context for the feeling. For reasons they could not possibly elaborate on the first touchstone that flashed through their mind was a rodeo horse bucking with all its might, and a rider grinning to the crowd in confidence that he will not be shaken.
There was a gleam off in the tangle ahead of them, and while it came too conveniently to be more than trick of light or imagination they found themself grinning all the same.
Heck yeah, we ridin'! Y'all got any clue who that was?
Mm. Close to six feet, average in frame and weight. Dark complexion, broad features. Unkempt stubble. Fashion instincts unnoteworthy save for the decision to layer two collared shirts. Was there anything? Any other clue?
I have no idea.
He was still moving. On his back now, like a wounded animal curling in self-deceived comfort that its coming death was just a long, heavy slumber, except he did not have the sense to grant himself that illusion.
He is bleeding on our shit.
Their gun shook in his hands.
I'm going to shoot him again.
Blaise pivoted their aim to his forehead. To imagine the scene as they had when they blew a hole through his back, Manuel's forehead must have shattered. Warped skin concaving into into a tunnel of flesh, fragments of bone, dislodged brain matter, broken vessels swelling into near waterfall effect. That was how they always imagined such a wound. To maintain function through such twisted wreckage, they could not conceive it. So they need not concern themself with the rest of his body, only the target and the show it promised them, nothing else could matter.
Brain can be a tricky sonuvagun though, can't it?
Their first shot had deafened them with ringing. They would barely hear the second. The third would come as greater shock, so subtle in its stimulus that they did not know to register it as a shot at all or associate it with the all too familiar pain searing through the right side of their head before they hit the ground. No, noticed but no more associated than the death spasm of a finger around a borrowed trigger.
After feeling the pistol's weight dragging their jacket to the left all through the evening and morning, Blaise expected it to be an unwieldy hunk of metal. Such supposition lent well to their hesitance to strike from a distance, and in the rush to protect their assets they had not noticed it was already defying their expectations. Despite its heft the grip fit comfortably into their hand, not so different than the rifle held by their would be scavenger. It was not so heavy they struggled to raise it. Indeed there was a sort of haptic satisfaction to the resistance, challenge to their will just a hair shy of frustration. Of course they expected its demands to grow under fire; the welt against their cheek was gone but not forgotten. Posture, precision, the personal nature of their position lent to both and allowed them to steady the barrel between their grip and the back of their unsuspecting thief. Still they expected a kick, and it came. Harder than the rifle, yes, undoubtedly more visceral, more firm in its demands from chamber to palm to wrist to rocket up their extended arm to their shoulder, but it did not throw them as that very first shot had.
Actually, they were getting ahead of themself.
Blaise did not dwell long on the violence they inflicted. Dante had set that tone well enough. They committed decisively and moved on with as vague knowledge of the results as they could, and if they had ever acted in contradiction to that policy it was forgotten in this moment in service of a point to be made by their artistic eye. Because this moment operated separate from all perceptions both true and false of brutalities past. It asked them to observe the act in detail from start to finish, and if they were being totally, nakedly, vulnerably honest with themself? They were captivated.
Consider the over first layer a sort of canvas. A white shirt touched only by dirt, sweat, unmentionables that stained them all and otherwise open to interpretation. The trigger pull exploded its surface into a palette of possibilities. Most would die too quickly for the average observer to notice, so quickly as to question whether they were ever truly there, but if nothing else Blaise imagined them. Brilliant oranges flashing bright at the muzzle then burning out like a dying sun to scorch the fabric around them into blacks and browns, the slightest exposure of yellow underneath that elsewhere could only be seen through the filter of one shirt over the other, brass falling free to the ground having served the one and only purpose it had ever dreamed, all would drown in a flash in bubbling, no, no, spraying red from his body that splattered across them before he crumpled to the floor, and where were they?
They were standing tall, arm barely shifted out of position. It was not so much like being thrown across a room as they expected. They did not have context for the feeling. For reasons they could not possibly elaborate on the first touchstone that flashed through their mind was a rodeo horse bucking with all its might, and a rider grinning to the crowd in confidence that he will not be shaken.
There was a gleam off in the tangle ahead of them, and while it came too conveniently to be more than trick of light or imagination they found themself grinning all the same.
Heck yeah, we ridin'! Y'all got any clue who that was?
Mm. Close to six feet, average in frame and weight. Dark complexion, broad features. Unkempt stubble. Fashion instincts unnoteworthy save for the decision to layer two collared shirts. Was there anything? Any other clue?
I have no idea.
He was still moving. On his back now, like a wounded animal curling in self-deceived comfort that its coming death was just a long, heavy slumber, except he did not have the sense to grant himself that illusion.
He is bleeding on our shit.
Their gun shook in his hands.
I'm going to shoot him again.
Blaise pivoted their aim to his forehead. To imagine the scene as they had when they blew a hole through his back, Manuel's forehead must have shattered. Warped skin concaving into into a tunnel of flesh, fragments of bone, dislodged brain matter, broken vessels swelling into near waterfall effect. That was how they always imagined such a wound. To maintain function through such twisted wreckage, they could not conceive it. So they need not concern themself with the rest of his body, only the target and the show it promised them, nothing else could matter.
Brain can be a tricky sonuvagun though, can't it?
Their first shot had deafened them with ringing. They would barely hear the second. The third would come as greater shock, so subtle in its stimulus that they did not know to register it as a shot at all or associate it with the all too familiar pain searing through the right side of their head before they hit the ground. No, noticed but no more associated than the death spasm of a finger around a borrowed trigger.
Manuel never recognized the shot, nor was he able to appreciate the return volley.
MALE STUDENT #65: MANUEL FIGUEROA - ELIMINATED
26 STUDENTS REMAIN
MALE STUDENT #65: MANUEL FIGUEROA - ELIMINATED
26 STUDENTS REMAIN
Survivor: UCONN - Seriously, it's awesome!
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
Version 8
Kaede Tsurumi: "Eeep! I-I'm so sorry! I-I'll try not to get in your w-way next time!"
Morgan Whitney
Tyler Slomkowski
Victor Grail: "I didn't give you the lead so that you could lose it! I guess it's up to me to carry us after all."
-
Emprexx Plush
- Posts: 1678
- Joined: Thu Aug 09, 2018 3:37 pm
- Contact:
Hey.
Blaise lay still on the ground.
y'all up?
Blood soaked into their wig.
Aww come on.
They did not stir.
Put some dirt in it.
They did not scream.
There ain't no point to the drama now.
They did not open their eyes.
Lord Alive, he's dead and I'm stuck up in here with you so who in tarnation you actin' for? You want an Oscar? Blaise d'Aramitz everybody, pleased as can be on behalf of the academy to present them with Best Supporting...
Yes?
Supporting, uh, well, I mean...
Go on.
Y'all's doin' this on purpose.
Of course.
It was good to force themselves-themself-to humor in these moments. Certain...associations...could be avoided by distracting sense memory. The chatter continued long after they rose and through the process of bandaging ears blown to shreds both old and new,
How we feelin'?
I was shot by a corpse.
And?
I was shot. By. A. Corpse. This is a low point I could not conceive prior to this moment.
A corpse you made! Splattered all which way and what not! That's a dubya in any book!
I was shot by a corpse. You will not persuade me this went well. Besides, it is your fault.
How????
in collecting their items and plotting out a new course to hide them that relied less on social graces they should have known better than to trust in the first place,
Oh I got it this time, I really got it, see what I figure is we skirt along them danger zones until the ol' collar gets to keepin' time, then we do a lil' boot scoot boogie along the edge to we find us a bush or a hole or somethin', somethin' right over the line we can cut up into right quick and leave it where nobody will even think to look and-
Why do we not simply put it in a tree?
Come again now?
Why not bury it in the sand or in a hole in the forest? Stow it in a cave? Loosen a floorboard somewhere? Why play these games?
Rich comin' from y'all.
in reloading and repositioning their gun,
Eh? Eh? You're comin' around on it ain't ya?
On what?
C'mon.'a rodeo horse bucking with all its might, and a rider grinning to the crowd in confidence that he will not be shaken?'
I will not indulge this.
Lookit the shirt. C'mon, front and center right here.
No.
Y'know you wanna.
I am busy.
Y'all saw God just a little bit in that gun shot, and when you were ridin' that kick...c'mon. I know y'all thought about it.
I hope the corpse shoots us again.
We can say it together. Three, two, one, and...
Heaven is closer when you're on a horse.
and while none of it was of particular consequence it served its purpose.
They did not replace the blanket over Alexander's corpse or once think Alexander's name as they left Alexander's burial site where Alexander's friend had fired at them for attempting to take Alexander's life, or echo Parker's as the pain in their ear triggered sympathetic pain in the ear they'd lost with Parker or the hand that reached for Parker before Parker's head exploded with bullets almost certainly meant for them but found Parker instead because of Parker's decision to stay with them even though Parker knew what an exceptionally poor influence they were on Parker and Parker's life expectancy before Parker was dragged to an island full of murderers and would be heroes too incompetent to avoid killing Parker when Parker was only standing aside cooking breakfast without a single body to Parker's name.
No.
They didn't think of them once.
Y'all know nobody would ever believe that, right?
I am long beyond needing them to believe me.
((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued In My 66 Faces))
Yeah. Sure are, ain't ya?
Blaise lay still on the ground.
y'all up?
Blood soaked into their wig.
Aww come on.
They did not stir.
Put some dirt in it.
They did not scream.
There ain't no point to the drama now.
They did not open their eyes.
Lord Alive, he's dead and I'm stuck up in here with you so who in tarnation you actin' for? You want an Oscar? Blaise d'Aramitz everybody, pleased as can be on behalf of the academy to present them with Best Supporting...
Yes?
Supporting, uh, well, I mean...
Go on.
Y'all's doin' this on purpose.
Of course.
It was good to force themselves-themself-to humor in these moments. Certain...associations...could be avoided by distracting sense memory. The chatter continued long after they rose and through the process of bandaging ears blown to shreds both old and new,
How we feelin'?
I was shot by a corpse.
And?
I was shot. By. A. Corpse. This is a low point I could not conceive prior to this moment.
A corpse you made! Splattered all which way and what not! That's a dubya in any book!
I was shot by a corpse. You will not persuade me this went well. Besides, it is your fault.
How????
in collecting their items and plotting out a new course to hide them that relied less on social graces they should have known better than to trust in the first place,
Oh I got it this time, I really got it, see what I figure is we skirt along them danger zones until the ol' collar gets to keepin' time, then we do a lil' boot scoot boogie along the edge to we find us a bush or a hole or somethin', somethin' right over the line we can cut up into right quick and leave it where nobody will even think to look and-
Why do we not simply put it in a tree?
Come again now?
Why not bury it in the sand or in a hole in the forest? Stow it in a cave? Loosen a floorboard somewhere? Why play these games?
Rich comin' from y'all.
in reloading and repositioning their gun,
Eh? Eh? You're comin' around on it ain't ya?
On what?
C'mon.'a rodeo horse bucking with all its might, and a rider grinning to the crowd in confidence that he will not be shaken?'
I will not indulge this.
Lookit the shirt. C'mon, front and center right here.
No.
Y'know you wanna.
I am busy.
Y'all saw God just a little bit in that gun shot, and when you were ridin' that kick...c'mon. I know y'all thought about it.
I hope the corpse shoots us again.
We can say it together. Three, two, one, and...
Heaven is closer when you're on a horse.
and while none of it was of particular consequence it served its purpose.
They did not replace the blanket over Alexander's corpse or once think Alexander's name as they left Alexander's burial site where Alexander's friend had fired at them for attempting to take Alexander's life, or echo Parker's as the pain in their ear triggered sympathetic pain in the ear they'd lost with Parker or the hand that reached for Parker before Parker's head exploded with bullets almost certainly meant for them but found Parker instead because of Parker's decision to stay with them even though Parker knew what an exceptionally poor influence they were on Parker and Parker's life expectancy before Parker was dragged to an island full of murderers and would be heroes too incompetent to avoid killing Parker when Parker was only standing aside cooking breakfast without a single body to Parker's name.
No.
They didn't think of them once.
Y'all know nobody would ever believe that, right?
I am long beyond needing them to believe me.
((Blaise And Carl D'Aramitz Continued In My 66 Faces))
Yeah. Sure are, ain't ya?