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sorry but at first glance i always think your pfp is vincent price with ankles and heels on his shoulders like in american psycho. sorry........... sorry forever. just couldn't keep it to myself any longer
FUCK. Now I see it. Why have you done this to me.
@ofbloodandbullets: “i’m not afraid to die.”
❝I am.❞
Always, unequivocally, that Andy will.
❝Andy. Stop posing and sit.❞
@fearfeeling: “I'm not hungry.”
Then they have done their job well, even if that’s not at all what Nicky’s dripping spatula is for.
Perhaps too well; Nile’s cut it out jerks her hand counterclockwise to her head-shaking. When Connor’s face scrunches in the middle and his mouth goes loose, Nicky sticks it in. It’s very like bamboozling a baby.
He winks at a grinning-back Nile.
❝Hm?❞
Poor Americans. Nicky is only one man. He can’t feasibly teach them about degustation one by one. This sauce doesn’t have that sort of lifespan.
❝More pepper?❞
❝It’s not who, it’s what. Exclusively what is just.❞
And therefore unavoidably objective, many have said, of which the overperforming demographic were all nihilists who sometimes didn’t know they were nihilists.
❝To us.❞
He’s comfortable enough to say so. His guest is... clean. Different than boring, certainly. Nicky feels matched in an unspeakable way. Not like with Joe. And with Joe, it isn’t like this. Maybe it couldn’t be.
He has no intention to bristle at it, but he can’t promise anything if he’s goaded well.
❝I see how that must sound vain. I agree.❞
So if fear of slip-ups is a rope, the hands would forever be arrested. And that is a load of nonsense he couldn’t get behind, even considering how much practice Booker’s very existence has thrust on him.
His turn.
Castiel. What a very interesting name. Oddly biblical, some might say.
❝When were you born?❞
Nicky angles over and into his host role. For the French press—the irony of which isn’t lost on his inward as if—so he can hover it over Castiel’s cup.
Coffee?
@shieldeus * from.
@ofbloodandbullets: “Not apple-trees were there, but thorns with poison.”
Andy’s decrying broadens his hoarding magpie arm sweep; the bills and coins roll to him in a melody sweet enough he lets it do the talking. It takes a conversion—ancient-language-contemporary-language—but Nicky remembers.
And laments, ❝Had he been able sooner to believe.❞
Poker is not for the fond of kicking back midway through. He’s been told he has a face for it.
“Y’got a lighter on you?” Gunner asked, voice more muffled than if it were just a cigarette dangling between his lips. As it was, there was a joint hanging from one corner, and a cigarette from the other, his alcohol-muddled brain unsure of which one he wanted more and eventually giving up on the decision, “I’ll split the joint with you if you cough one up.” @artjocked