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@cyanopsiia
“Either I’m driving, or we’re walking all the way back.”
Is this you challenging my hit and run record? Theaners, please--we both know you’re not gonna beat it. There’s like, no orphanage out here for miles. But hey, if you wanna drive--you’re gonna drive. Just know, that if you do? I get full rights over the radio. Are you ready to take that risk? Because I know I am.
you say cockles WAAAY more than any living person has a right to.
Well, isn’t it just dandy I’m not a living person anymore, Watson? Not that you don’t take enough cockles down the ‘ol gobbler there for the both of us. Since I’m assuming “cackling” was your plan Bof a username when “cockling” was a thousand percent taken.
“sooo… what’s this i hear about ‘robot #@$!ing’ and, more importantly, how do i get in on it??”
Well that, would depend on your bit-rate, bucko.
Setting it in a sweet spot is the first step to becoming an official business as a semi-sentiment hand-job machine. -But it’s not like he can talk shit, seeing as his bot body is literally a walking dildo.-But, seeing as minimum wage would be too high for the outdated services you provide, you’re better off plugging your attachments into the nearest, loosest light-socket.
Point of no return, huh?
‡ so, come here often?
Fiona was a light sleeper as it was. One could never be too prepared for a mugging, as she personally knew all too well, what with having been pickpocketed in her sleep, as well as having done the pickpocketing to the sleeping. So when she heard the words coming from beside her, playful, almost mocking words, her eyes opened sharply, hints of tiredness playing around the edges of her mouth and eyes, though she was ready to pistol whip a man if she needed to.
The tenseness of her body left and she sighed with a roll of her eyes when she saw the cyan glow of Handsome Jack ‘lying’ beside her. She had long since stopped being unnerved by his digital presence since he showed up whenever and wherever he wanted. “Can I help you? Or, better yet, can I not?”
-The question itself is innocent enough–humorous even, that of all the inquiries he and his super-computerized mind could riddle her with, the one he ultimately chose had to be whether or not she visited this corner of the caravan for some shut eye. Like he were completely aloof to the embroidered “Fiona” on one of the throw-pillows with its fresh dollop of drool serving as a charming detail on an otherwise messy pull-out mattress. It would have probably squeaked all to the way to hell and back if his phantom bulk could alert her to his presence rather than the static-lined chirp he settles for while settling in for the night, or rather–her ruined night. Her own fault for answering the door when the devil came knocking. Speaking of knocking–he aims his question again after quirking his brows a little too suggestively.- Oh no, see, what I meant was–do you come here often? Like, this is waaay out in the open here to jill-off, so you’re either exceptionally skilled with those sticky fingers, or you’re bottling up all that frustration to kill a guy one day. Too bad I’m dead already.
-The AI’s grinning , posed on his side like the pillow-mate she never asked for. And she can’t even smother him with said upholstery, even if her disgruntled gaze kind of gives away that she’s likely running a similar scenario through her sleep-addled mind, forced awake too suddenly by the intense glow of his pixels as if she had taken an early morning dip in an icy lake.- Not that the fact you had to ask the affirmative first isn’t interesting enough, but ah–getting some mixed signals here. So why don’t you help me by helping yourself figure out what you meant. Go ahead–I’ll be here all night, making hand puppets on your wall. Since you’re–apparently such a delight to visit at four in the filthy A.M.
when you are given a filthy room for quarters and there are no red carpets whenever you go
Hey, at least there’s an active guillotine in the ceiling panels above all the hustle and bustle. I like to think of it as a do-it-yourself red carpet. I mean, kids these days. Want the results without realizing the joy behind Tinker Toys. And ultimately, it’s that ideology that's gonna sink the expendable worker supply--slurp! Straight down the drain. Well, you pin the shit outta that project, Pumpkin, and you show ’em they’re wrong. Here, I’ll make it easier for you--j u s t this once!
"Why are there bananas on the wall?"
come to papa [accepting]
Because! -They’re not just any bananas, oh no. They have what no normal banana could possibly have: eyeballs and sneaks. And it’s with those sneaks that they’ve been dancing on the wall monitors for quite some time. And from the looks of it, they’re not planning on stopping any time soon. Thank memes.-
IT’S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME– P E A N U T B U T T E R J E L L Y T I M E , PEANUT-BUTTER JELLY TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME!
“i wanna watch the door thing.”
No can do, Candy-Corn. The “door prizes” are for staff only. But don’t think you won’t find a lump of whoop-ass in your stocking this year. ‘Cause y’know, coal in a sock? Is just another torture toy for you bandits.
A “ho, ho, ho,” and a “heya, kiddo!” Papa’s here--telling you to hold your jingle bells for a moment of silent night as we, once again, rock around the mercenary day procedures to keep Helios the holly-jolly joy to the shit encrusted planet we watch over and keep warm in our hearts this holiday season. That’s right, I’m sure their chestnuts are roasting with all those good thoughts you’re sending, but keep in mind--you still have to pay the postage for every good thought, which--you can deposit next to the sad guy with the elf cap always ringing his bell outside the cafeteria that we strategically place there to make you feel like an absolute tool.
Yeah--you all know Dennis! So give him a big smack on the kisser for me when ya see’im, and I’m not talking about the kind you find under the mistletoe, Turtledoves. Do me a favor, you filthy animals, and keep the baby-eggnog off my friggin’ floors. We’ve doubled our can ratio, so when you’re feeling a good chunk of holiday decadence working its way up your gullet, you better run, run, Reindeer and go down on that garbage like Santa would go down your chimney, if you had one. Speaking of which, the traditional Mercenary Wish in which one of you lucky bastards gets to sit on Daddy’s lap and tell him what you want stuffed in your stocking is cancelled. In case you didn’t hear those sleigh-bells ringaling, I’m a frickin’ hologram. So, instead--I’ll be ushering in a new tradition. Instead of Handsome Santa? You all get, Handsome Krampus! And no, I’m not talking about the crampiss you’re gonna get when you down all that eggnog, muchacho. I’m talking about finding the worst employee on this pile of station, and--beating the shit out of them with the door.
And then, probably, ejecting them into space--I dunno. Anyways, happy holidays, and remember--I see you when you’re sleeping, so I know when you’re jacking off.
She knew that this would happen. And of course she was already aware that sorry really never meant anything to either of them, but hey, she tried. Aside from that Nisha wasn’t really sure what the hell she was supposed to do to convey that she might’ve – or definitely – made a mistake. She’d just been so upset after Jack’s death that the thought of him coming back wasn’t really something she ever considered. So now that he was, she was too fucking stubborn to want to believe it. It was stupid really, but maybe so was she.
A sharp laugh left the cowgirl and she rolled her eyes. ❝ Oh, don’t worry. I’m definitely the most pathetic thing here. I’d actually love for you to play the executioner this round ‘cause I can’t remember the last time I felt like such a fucking idiot. I’d even hand over my own gun if that means anything. ❞ Sighing, Nisha tilted her hat back further on her head and looked at him, arms crossing over her chest. ❝ I’m trying to apologize here, Jack. I know I’m friggin’ shit at it, but come on. At least acknowledge that I’m trying. ❞
Y’know, you talk a lot of shit about me imitating the “dead guy” here, completely ignoring the fact that you’re any better. I mean, how alive do you actually feel, moping your sweet ass around these days? –If he can find a wound, even if it’s as minor as a split cuticle, he’ll pick and pick at it until there’s no longer any subtlety in its manifestation. It had always been in his nature—the savagery of a scavenger that had plundered Dahl’s leftovers, and now—sinks fangs into his legacy, and hangs on despite the taste of grave dirt that accompanies the action. As long as there’s blood mixed into the grit, he’d persist, still a creature of habit whose eyes glinted like sunlight through a striped marble at the first signs of weakness, born out of reaction to the complacency he so often masked the brunt of his ill intentions under.- Don’t even have so much as a fight left in you. Now that’s a real shame without a funeral.
He’d been drawn to that very aspect, when faced with her ruthlessness time and time again, marveling and manufacturing his own approach to vaguely incorporate those same vicious tactics that had his blood rushing when there was still blood in him to rush. She’s not a nice person. He never asked her to be. So what if his acceptance stemmed from a narcissistic need to nurture the blackest stain in him that he also found in her? He still cared. Even now, when she’s clearly no longer herself, he’d found a stab of something still circulating in his code, attached to a knife end that she twisted bitterly a spot she knew would devastate his often lackadaisical facade.-
You’re trying what now? Because it sounds like you’re just pressing as many buttons as you want and seeing which is the better outcome. -Although, he can’t reasonably express distaste for the measures used by a woman after his own heart.- But, ah--spoilers...I’m not a freakin’ Furby. I mean, will I accept tickles behind ears? You bet. But how can I just overlook the fact you don’t even consider me in the same light of who you’re aiming that “apology” towards? Oh yeah, you’re trying all right. Trying to find somebody’s who’s literally four feet in front of you. Y’know, it’s not like you’re exactly how I remembered you either. How do I know you’re not the “cheap imitation” here? -The blade’s edge in his voice dulls as he considers her, more petulant with a pout in his pronunciations rather than the rawness of static-lined betrayal.-
Goodbye, Jack. I’ll miss this no-good guy.
“Why are we discussing what stupid ass names people give dicks? Why? Why do you do this? Those are horrible names. Why?”
I’m glad you’re finally aware of how “stupid-ass” your name is, Rice. But hey, your mom must have an insane amount of intuition if she knew what a little dick you’d turn out to be.
you all have the worst discussion topics, we all know yellow is awful and whoever likes it has poor taste.
Y’know, it’s times like these I wish they’d saturated my coding a little on the sunny-side up. Would sure bring that extra umphf to our--one sided intellectual debates. Like a secret “fuck you” for the eyes. And that’s not me endorsing fucking eyes, by the fly. -He’s looking somewhere in the distance as he says as much. Beyond the fourth wall, perhaps.-
i cant believe jack and vaughn are together
This isn’t because I became a ventriloquist for his dick that one time, right?
Nah, didn’t think so.
so. you and vaughn? you and vaughn? hm
What’s up with everyone trying to set me up? I feel like I’m constantly on a really bad episode of The Bachelor.
Just do what I do–which is what you would do, anyway! Re-endorse pleasure palace! Because an addict’s money is just as good as the screaming orphans, neglected just ‘cause somebody spent their life’s savings on seeing a single, godly, chest-hair. In other words: it’s perfect.
"Stop eating the batteries!"
that’s it, that’s it–you come to papa. [accepting]
So this is the thanks I get for working overtime?
