09-09-2018, 07:59 AM
At the audible cue of his door creaking ajar, the swigged-up hound swung his head behind him to spot the three-legged feline, whose injuries he deliberately caused for her own good. Her honeyed words suggested that she was attempting to return the favour, with some anti-alcohol prescription. Hate to break it to you, Delilah, but that was not happening.
"Y’know, Petals" he began crookedly, offering an attempted-educating grin, there’s three main levels of being drunk. Level one is tipsy, ‘t makes ya think you’re a good dancer or a sweet talker when ya ain’t. Level two is drunk, where ya start fallin’ into stuff and crap. And level three, tha’s the worst one, is when yer completely smashed, and ya puke everywhere.”
”Me? I’m only only level A, gumdrop. Maybe A an’ a half. Only drank two rounds, afta all.”
Finishing his lesson, he retreated to his previous post, denying the feline’s treatment. Sure, she may care about his health, but he wasn’t that plastered - right? No, he wasn’t. ”Wanna show ya somethin’” he’d state wonderfully, retrieving his family photo for Delilah’s, and now Arrow’s, viewing pleasure. ”Tha’s baby me! In the picture! And my last name’s Starkweather, apparently! Holy shit!”
He’d sit his unkempt rump on the ground, sharp items being his seat. Amazing how in all of this he hadn’t harmed his leg. Or, rather, he had, but he didn’t notice.
Damn. He was being really foolish right now, wasn’t he? He couldn’t tell from his point of view, but judging by the funky looks on his clanmates’ faces, he was doing something wrong. Sadness arose in him at the fact. He was one of the oldest in the camp, so he played in a position as a role model, and good role model doesn’t act like a moron to younger people.
Shooting the two a morose glance, he’d sloppily apologize, ”Fuck, guys, I’m sorry, didn’t needja two ta see me like this. Maybe something shoulda fallen on my skull, Arrows, serves me right for fucking chopping off her fucking leg.”
"Y’know, Petals" he began crookedly, offering an attempted-educating grin, there’s three main levels of being drunk. Level one is tipsy, ‘t makes ya think you’re a good dancer or a sweet talker when ya ain’t. Level two is drunk, where ya start fallin’ into stuff and crap. And level three, tha’s the worst one, is when yer completely smashed, and ya puke everywhere.”
”Me? I’m only only level A, gumdrop. Maybe A an’ a half. Only drank two rounds, afta all.”
Finishing his lesson, he retreated to his previous post, denying the feline’s treatment. Sure, she may care about his health, but he wasn’t that plastered - right? No, he wasn’t. ”Wanna show ya somethin’” he’d state wonderfully, retrieving his family photo for Delilah’s, and now Arrow’s, viewing pleasure. ”Tha’s baby me! In the picture! And my last name’s Starkweather, apparently! Holy shit!”
He’d sit his unkempt rump on the ground, sharp items being his seat. Amazing how in all of this he hadn’t harmed his leg. Or, rather, he had, but he didn’t notice.
Damn. He was being really foolish right now, wasn’t he? He couldn’t tell from his point of view, but judging by the funky looks on his clanmates’ faces, he was doing something wrong. Sadness arose in him at the fact. He was one of the oldest in the camp, so he played in a position as a role model, and good role model doesn’t act like a moron to younger people.
Shooting the two a morose glance, he’d sloppily apologize, ”Fuck, guys, I’m sorry, didn’t needja two ta see me like this. Maybe something shoulda fallen on my skull, Arrows, serves me right for fucking chopping off her fucking leg.”