#bloop | open

[strvwberryblcnde]

A dirty sneaker was lobbed from a back window, thumping Ziggy on the back as he stooped to pull on his shorts. There was already one of the set by his feet. “Fuck!” he barked, whipping his head around with a gawk of disbelief -- as he did, he caught eyes with a pedestrian unfortunate enough to happen upon the bizarre street scene. “Fuck me in the ass, am I right, ladies? It’s raining missiles. I’m getting beaten, papa!” he called out frantically, throwing a wild glance as if to locate said father. When he next spoke, it was with a chuckle at his company. “If I knew my dad he’d be pretty fuckin’ sympathetic right now, I bet. But alas... I’M just a POOR. BOY. From a poor fam-a-lee! Scaramoosh, scaramoosh, she just hurt my spine-o!” he halfheartedly sang a rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, zipping up pastel blue cargo shorts. He seemed in no rush to get dressed, despite the public setting. Instead, he reached back and rubbed his back, stretching out. Limbering as if gearing up for a sports match. “Shit... Got any ointment on you? That cougar has the pitcher’s arm of the evil dentist from my dreams. Eerie. Recurring nightmare. Shit’s warped. She hit me with a canine, a few nights ago -- right in the eye. My own. Fucked up. It’s all fucked, it’s fucked!” he urged, wholly invested in the bit -- in a few seconds, wildly ruffling atrociously bleached hair as if to re-calibrate his thoughts, he reached out and slapped twice at their shoulder. “Hey, bum a cig? Bum a cig for a guy in -- a guy in need? I’m going through something, here. Me. Ziggy Benson.” He stooped to get his tie dye tee, missing a couple times before finally latching. “That’s -- crafty little bitch. Slithering around the place, you see that? We’ve got a jumping bean on the premises, officer. Sights locked.” Ziggy straightened, searching for the hole where his head went. From the way he was gathering the material, he seemed to have mixed up with an arm without realising. “You gonna -- you about to console me or what? Pretty cold, if you don’t. I’m just saying. I’m laying the obvious out there.”

[strvwberryblcnde]

“Luke, put them back. We’re not gettin’ donuts,” Thea sighed, staring hard at her eleven year old brother until he clunked them onto the shelf with a heave of annoyance. Max, the youngest at eight, crossed his arms and sighed, too. Mimicking. Her father had tasked her with getting the boys out of the house for the day as well as buying groceries, ruffling her hair when she agreed and observing that she’d make a “decent wife some day if she kept this up”. Thea pressed a thin smile on her lips until she left the door, immediately dropping it. Sometimes she fantasised about becoming an old spinster just to spite his prehistoric ideals. Pushing the cart, wheels fairly rickety, she’d only just plopped a head of lettuce in with the rest of their list when she realised Luke had picked up an orange and weighted it. “Hey, no -- remember last time, we can’--,” spilled in a frantic garble that was all too late, fruit lobbed at the head of the closest customer. When both boys erupted into raucous laughter, Thea couldn’t help but snap even if she didn’t mean it. “Y’all are so fuckin’ annoying, I swear.” That didn’t help, much -- Max started prancing around whoever had received the impact in a circle, singing “Thea said a sweaaaar, Thea said a sweaaaar!” Moving around the cart, Thea flashed an apologetic smile as her cheeks flushed pink, reaching to cut Max’s performance short by grabbing at his hand. Like most boys his age, he didn’t shy from the gesture, though he continued to titter under his breath as he stood at her side. “Hey, um... Sorry. We watched Planet of the Apes a couple-a weeks ago and Luke’s gone full primate. I need to put him back in his cage, obviously,” she directed at her brother over her shoulder, who’d started rifling in more of the fruits without apology. Thea flashed a sheepish smile, studying whoever’d been caught in the crossfire. “Is your head okay?”

[strvwberryblcnde]

Erupting with a prance-on-the-spot cheer, Lana celebrated the fact that she hadn’t knocked a golf ball into a vase lying in the grass. When she met eyes her opponent in this tournament, she grinned in means of explanation, only elaborating when she held out the club -- she’d stolen it from a bag in a coat closet, party raided for fun props like a chef seeking the perfect spice from a seasoning rack, a way to make the night taste just right. Lana was intent on tingling tastebuds, no matter where or how. “Every time I miss, Tiger Woods loses a chest hair. It’s a curse I cast. I’m totally capable of that. That’s a new thing for me, FYI. I’m aiming for, like... fully bald, smooth as a swimmer’s ass cheek. I want him to unbutton his shirt one day and cry ‘cause he looks like a porpoise. It’s what he deserves. And anyways, I hit a daisy. See?!” came with an excitedly thrust finger at said point of impact, weed peeking beneath the ball. “That’s gotta be worth a point. That’s -- huh. Kinda sad, actually. I don’t wanna beEeEEe... a merderer...” Lana skipped to bend over, accidentally flashing whoever was behind her as she slid it away, letting the daisy breathe -- this was yet another infraction of the rules of golf, not that Lana cared. When she straightened, it was with a triumphant smile like she’d resuscitated someone who arrested a table over at a restaurant. Hands on her hips, she flashed a superhero pose. “Ugh. I’m so brave. A paramedic on the front lines. Think I should give him the kiss of life, too?” Apparently she’d gendered the daisy. Rather than dwell on her question, she turned to face her opponent. “Hey, that reminds me.” It wasn’t related. Lana pushed butterfly shaped sunglasses from her face, finally able to see better in the dim light. They were hideously impractical, night considered -- even in the day, big and obnoxious as they were. “I know someone who has a crush on you. Like, tongue lolling from their mouth, panting like a sweaty dog and everything. Intense. Super big. Wanna do three guesses?”