Pickles (the Drummer) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doodilydoo) wrote2022-10-01 09:13 pm
doodilydoo) wrote2022-10-01 09:13 pm
[sail] tonight, i'm gonna burn down the garage.
Who: "Sharky" and...
Where: ???
What: Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?
When: October 5th - ???
[OCTOBER FIFTH.]
[Sharky wakes up an hour after Pratt leaves, still fucked up, nauseous, and reeling from what feels like a decade's worth of good memories crammed into one night. It's almost enough to make him throw up when he sees the room bedecked the room with lights. Is it possible to be so overcome with emotion that you vomit? It definitely feels that way, as Sharky lurches out of bed and staggers into the bathroom to deal with the immediate nausea.
Mistake number one is not falling back asleep after he's done booting. But as he stumbles back to bed, he finds himself reaching for the shoe-box of pictures for a little goodnight nostalgia. The box isn't where it should be, and a quick look around tells him that it's nowhere Pratt would leave it. He remembers shoving it aside at one point, maybe throwing his shirt on top of it? Which means it's probably still sitting up there in the club, abandoned and possibly thrown out with the trash.
Mistake number two is not texting Pratt to go and get the photos for him. The dude's already done enough, Sharky figures, and besides, walking is supposed to help sober you up. He's starting to think that, you know, maybe carrying water around and limiting his drinking to the latter eight hours of the day... was a really fucking good idea, and why the fuck isn't he doing more of that? Right now, he feels fucking awful. How did he do this every day before the camping trip? Holy shit. Is he an alcoholic??? He thought that it skipped a generation, though!
Sharky takes the elevator up to the promenade, bleary-eyed and chugging down water in a frankly reckless manner. It's that weird, empty hour before sunrise, too early for the early-risers and too late for most of the night-owls, and so the whole place is almost completely dead. Rischie is the worst of them all, bland dance music echoing in the empty club, and Sharky quickly picks the shoe-box out of the leftover garbage lying around. The creepy, all-eyes-on-me vibe follows him the whole way out.
The elevator makes a weird noise when he pushes the call button, the grinding, squealing sound of an unmaintained piece of machinery. Sharky knows the ship isn't repairing itself, so he decides to be smart and avoid the potential death drop. It would suck to die in what amounts to a bad trip to Disneyland.
And so, we arrive at mistake number three: the stairs.
Sharky gets from deck five to deck three with no problem. The stairwell is even emptier and stranger than the promenade had been, so he finds himself singing to himself under his breath as he goes. "Mmm-mm-hmm, woman's man, no time to talk; music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born..."
Singing leads to dancing, and dancing leads to him gleefully stepping off the landing, singing, "Life goin' nooo-where, somebody help me--!"
And it's about then that he realizes he missed the next step in the staircase. His ankle buckles as he goes down too hard, too fast, and he pitches forward. In the half-second before his head hits the landing, he laments the fact that his first death on the ship is going to be falling down the stairs. The thought that he might not die immediately when his neck snaps doesn't occur to him until it happens, leaving him momentarily gasping in white-hot pain and searing panic.
And then, something fucking spooky happens.
Pickles could not for the life of him tell you what the fuck just happened, but he knows for a fact it was spooky as shit. In the endless, yawning chasm of nothingness that had been his existence for as long as... forever... he had felt something. Or seen something. Or -- he can't remember, can't remember anything other than the dizzying giddiness of blinding bright lights and a rattling respiratory system, gasping for air in some stranger's body until, at last, he found himself sitting up.
And now he's here, slumped against the stairs, one side of his face a bright-hot flare of agonizing, delicious pain, a tooth laying out among the scattered photographs around him. He feels like he just got hit by a truck, and then he laughs because fuck, it feels so good. It takes him a solid five minutes before he can finally gather enough awareness to gather up the pictures, staggering to the feet he's wearing -- his feet. And then he makes his teetering, hungover way back to the room that he knows, somehow, belongs to this body. He needs time to think, and if he sits here too long, Friday's gonna show up and ruin everything.]
Where: ???
What: Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?
When: October 5th - ???
[OCTOBER FIFTH.]
[Sharky wakes up an hour after Pratt leaves, still fucked up, nauseous, and reeling from what feels like a decade's worth of good memories crammed into one night. It's almost enough to make him throw up when he sees the room bedecked the room with lights. Is it possible to be so overcome with emotion that you vomit? It definitely feels that way, as Sharky lurches out of bed and staggers into the bathroom to deal with the immediate nausea.
Mistake number one is not falling back asleep after he's done booting. But as he stumbles back to bed, he finds himself reaching for the shoe-box of pictures for a little goodnight nostalgia. The box isn't where it should be, and a quick look around tells him that it's nowhere Pratt would leave it. He remembers shoving it aside at one point, maybe throwing his shirt on top of it? Which means it's probably still sitting up there in the club, abandoned and possibly thrown out with the trash.
Mistake number two is not texting Pratt to go and get the photos for him. The dude's already done enough, Sharky figures, and besides, walking is supposed to help sober you up. He's starting to think that, you know, maybe carrying water around and limiting his drinking to the latter eight hours of the day... was a really fucking good idea, and why the fuck isn't he doing more of that? Right now, he feels fucking awful. How did he do this every day before the camping trip? Holy shit. Is he an alcoholic??? He thought that it skipped a generation, though!
Sharky takes the elevator up to the promenade, bleary-eyed and chugging down water in a frankly reckless manner. It's that weird, empty hour before sunrise, too early for the early-risers and too late for most of the night-owls, and so the whole place is almost completely dead. Rischie is the worst of them all, bland dance music echoing in the empty club, and Sharky quickly picks the shoe-box out of the leftover garbage lying around. The creepy, all-eyes-on-me vibe follows him the whole way out.
The elevator makes a weird noise when he pushes the call button, the grinding, squealing sound of an unmaintained piece of machinery. Sharky knows the ship isn't repairing itself, so he decides to be smart and avoid the potential death drop. It would suck to die in what amounts to a bad trip to Disneyland.
And so, we arrive at mistake number three: the stairs.
Sharky gets from deck five to deck three with no problem. The stairwell is even emptier and stranger than the promenade had been, so he finds himself singing to himself under his breath as he goes. "Mmm-mm-hmm, woman's man, no time to talk; music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born..."
Singing leads to dancing, and dancing leads to him gleefully stepping off the landing, singing, "Life goin' nooo-where, somebody help me--!"
And it's about then that he realizes he missed the next step in the staircase. His ankle buckles as he goes down too hard, too fast, and he pitches forward. In the half-second before his head hits the landing, he laments the fact that his first death on the ship is going to be falling down the stairs. The thought that he might not die immediately when his neck snaps doesn't occur to him until it happens, leaving him momentarily gasping in white-hot pain and searing panic.
And then, something fucking spooky happens.
Pickles could not for the life of him tell you what the fuck just happened, but he knows for a fact it was spooky as shit. In the endless, yawning chasm of nothingness that had been his existence for as long as... forever... he had felt something. Or seen something. Or -- he can't remember, can't remember anything other than the dizzying giddiness of blinding bright lights and a rattling respiratory system, gasping for air in some stranger's body until, at last, he found himself sitting up.
And now he's here, slumped against the stairs, one side of his face a bright-hot flare of agonizing, delicious pain, a tooth laying out among the scattered photographs around him. He feels like he just got hit by a truck, and then he laughs because fuck, it feels so good. It takes him a solid five minutes before he can finally gather enough awareness to gather up the pictures, staggering to the feet he's wearing -- his feet. And then he makes his teetering, hungover way back to the room that he knows, somehow, belongs to this body. He needs time to think, and if he sits here too long, Friday's gonna show up and ruin everything.]
[OCT 20th] castle von frankenstein
IT'S FUCKING BAD. ASS.
The walls are a combination of shelving and plastic spikes, covered in cardboard cut-outs of various horror movie franchises. There are fake torches, there's animatronic clowns keeping watch out front and up top -- the whole thing is just, like, literally what you're envisioning right now but soooo much cooler. Trust me.
And inside? Well, inside, the furniture is largely made out of boxes, with a pile of old Tommy Bahama serving as his bed. Yeah, that's right, this motherfucker lives here now. And there's plenty of food and alcohol hanging around to prove it!
There's going to be time to talk as a group and get their plans in order, but this can also be a sanctuary for anyone who needs it. Just keep your living friends the fuck out of here!]