flicks his forehead. "atari motherfucker"
Thejunk yard was their unsolicited fort, but it keptauthoritarian figures, convicting propaganda, and pitch forks and littorches away. Even if it did little to properly stave off thegnawing anxiety of being caught one day, it offered somesemblance of freedom. Freedom from the ever festering stigma.
Amongstthe carbuncles of metal, stood an old, oxidizing, and busted up beetle that had caught his keen eye. He vaulted over and settled comfortably overthe roof, breathing in the smoke from his cigarette.
Anovercast sky greeted him, and it looked to rain. Arcade could feel itwithin the tingle of his finger tips.
Funny,he’d never would have imaged this moment before. Knowing itwould rain just by the swell of static beneath his skin. It tickled andspread down the nerves on his arm like cold knives grazing his flesh,but Arcade just curled and unfurled his fingers. Opting to wrigglethat shit out.
Hewasn’t too lost in his existence to not hear the shuffle of feet, thegroan of hood nor feel the sudden dip of weight as Gavinappeared over him, his kicks on either side of his form.
Helooked stupid with his stupid grin and devious with that glintin his eye. Like he found some worthwhile crusted up penny in themiddle of piss town America.
Arcadelooked at him indifferently, waiting patiently, tapping the butt ofcigarette off the edge of the car.
Suddenly,he was gifted his answer ; a flick on brow that he didn’tflinch to and a nickname that rolled off his tongue with ease.
Atari motherfucker. Fucking original. Gavin original.
“What a comedian.”he started, leaning up to flick his nose. Roughly. “And what a mediocreentrance. Suits you”