『•• laszlo & paul ••』
❝ My boy, what you and that group of heathens you call your pals needs is a fine lesson in what true rock and roll is. ❞ A port glass filled near to the brim with drunk-blood danced between them as Laszlo got wound up in his ramble, hands animated. The Vampiric Council of the West Coast seemed to believe an evening potluck would bring the nightcrawlers of Santa Carla closer, create a family of lost souls. Yet all it seemed to do was incite violence, both the comedic and serious kinds (and perhaps, as Laszlo would say, the ❛ seckshooall ❜ kinds in the corners of the hideout). He himself had been close to a round of fisticuffs with an ugly, muppet-looking stringbean-of-a-vampire just moments prior as well. Miko? Merko? Whatever. Paul was here now, and Paul would listen. ❝ See, my good lady-wife Nadja and I, we could put some hair on your chest after you hear our latest masterpiece. Voice of an angel, that woman, but she damn well knows rock and roll comes from the crotch and not your poodle-oo hair-do, ❞ Laszlo slurred, then took a moment to gulp down the drunk-blood in one swallow. There came a loud ❛ Ahh! ❜ of delight, and the port glass fell to the ground, only to shatter. Warmth trickled throughout his undead veins, and he felt almost a fraction alive. Bewoe to Paul, as that meant his ear would be talked off the rest of the night, and he’d potentially be dragged along to find more drunk-blood, with or without the rest of their crew. ❝ Now where the fuck did they hide the last of the drink, Paulie? Be a lad and help me find some. Fucking wankers don’t know how to party. ❞
『•• @rockerlost ••』
