Idk why, but I like this little excerpt from my fic. Maybe because poking fun at Halt is one of my favorite things in the world.....
"Gilan,” Halt craned his head to the rear-view mirror, meeting Gilan’s eye. “Can you make us a few disguises?”
Rubbing his hands, the tall Ranger cackled. “It would be my pleasure, Captain. I’m especially good at making dinosaur suits, I’d like to inform you.”
“Halt doesn’t need a dinosaur suit,” Horace smirked, crunching purposefully down on a pickle when a laugh bubbled up in his throat.
It took a second for the other two to register what he meant, and then suddenly, they exploded with cackling.
Halt was not amused.
“We’re not infiltrating Jurassic Park, Gilan,” he snapped, a tad chilly. “Depending on what Will finds out, I’ll tell you what we’ll need disguises of.”
“Oh, my bad,” Gilan cackled. “I didn’t realize you had to infiltrate Jurassic Park. I thought you were part of the exhibit.”
As the three knuckleheads in the back rolled with laughter, Halt’s flashing dark eyes were the only things visible through the rear-view mirror. Samdash had to admit, he was desperately fighting with himself not to join them, and frantically hid a smirk behind a fist.
Halt shot him a glare. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Reilly! You’re no spring chicken either.”
Part 2 from Yesterday's messy sketch, I guess. I don't know what's going on with the bottom sketch. I got impatient drawing the same thing over and over again and decided to do that instead. I have the gang set up in a moving van from a company owned by Crowley so they can have their surveillance and computer gear set up and also room to store their motorcycles.
Going back to the cabin in the trees
Going back to the creek beneath the hill
There's a girl who used to live there when I left
But I doubt she'll be waiting for me still
Never thought I'd be gone so many years
When I left, always planned that I'd return
But time slips away before we know
That's just one more lesson that we learn
A lot of people have said it and so will I. Give me one full novel on just the Ranger Corps and their traditions and their Gatherings and I would die a happy person.
Samdash: Is the plural of milf/dilf milfs/dilfs or milves/dilves?
Berrigan: Milfs.
Halt: Milf/dilf is an acronym, you can't change the spelling to milves/dilves.
Samdash: Wait, they're acronyms? What do they stand for???
Crowley: Mom in late forties, dad in late fourties.
Crowley: I learned that from the movie called M.I.L.F that I saw the trailer of in theaters probably 5 to 7 years ago.
Halt: Mom/dad I'd Love to Fuck.
Samdash: WAIT, WHAT THE FUCK—
Samdash: I NEVER REALIZED IT WAS ACTUALLY HORNY!
Crowley: Oh, is it not mom in late fouries?
Berrigan: What? No! It isn't!
Crowley: THE MOVIE TRAILER LIED TO ME!
Halt: Crowley...
Crowley: THIS IS WHY I DIDN'T THINK CALLING PEOPLE MILFS WAS ALL THAT BAD BECAUSE IT STOOD FOR SOMETHING HARMLESS IT JUST HAD A SLIGHTLY SEXUAL CONNOTATION!
Halt: I am entirely unsurprised that this is coming from you.
Crowley: SAMDASH, DOES IT MAKE SENSE WHY I CALLED THE DIARY OF A WIMPY KID MOM A MILF NOW BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS LITERALLY JUST A DESCRIPTOR WITH FUNNY CONNOTATION!
Samdash: The word milf has been ruined for me.
Berrigan: THAT'S ITS DEFINITION, IT CAN'T BE RUINED THAT'S WHAT IT MEANS!
Halt: Y'all are dumbasses.
Allen flicked on his blinker and slipped onto Overalle Street. As he did so, he cast another look into his rearview mirror. The man had scooted over behind him far enough so he couldn’t see him in the mirror. He thought that was kinda odd, but once again, he was good at minding his own business. He’d consult the camera later.
He wondered if he should ask the man where he wanted to go next from here, but he figured that he would tell him and stayed quiet.
Overalle Street was considered (by Allen) to be the scab under the bandaid, the bandaid being the beautiful skyline of the main road parallel to this one. A little pocket of filth and grime behind the squeak and shiny. Rusty, chain link fences with spirals of barbed wire lined the side of the road, caging within broken down cars, old, boarded up brick buildings, and scarred German shepherds who looked like war-beaten veterans. More skyscrapers loomed in the darkness, the orange and white-lighted windows floating above like stationary ghosts. A few scraggly vagabonds strolled along the grass underneath the fences, some in dark clothing, others in patchworked tatters, and they all eyed the vehicle as it passed with no small amount of distaste.
The stranger seemed unusually quiet back there, but then again, was it unusual? Allen didn't ask questions. He just drove.
But Overalle Street made him nervous, so his hand went to the passenger seat where his burger sat, and he shoved it into his mouth. Perhaps the savor of the meat would calm him.
Hmm. That's odd. That German Shepherd seemed to be barking at nothing.
But dogs barked at nothing on a regular basis.
With their hackles up?
A huge shape moved in the darkness from the driveway of a broken-down house, and an audaciously decorated food truck shot out into the street, coming to a screeching halt across it.
Allen's heart pounded.
A figure. No. Two figures. One tall, one remarkably small, leapt from the back of the vehicle.
Allen gulped.
Each hefting handguns. They fanned out to either side of the road so there could possibly be no escape through the small pockets.
No escape that way, anyways.
As soon as he had that thought, a pair of bright white lights flooded into his mirrors, and dueling motorcycle engines screamed into the night.
The huge man detached himself from the shadows and stalked towards the driver side of the vehicle. Allen balled his hands into his fists, getting ready to fight. He wouldn't go down without one. He didn't get a black belt in jujitsu for nothing.
Behind him, two darkly dressed men in motorcycle helmets rushed up to the taxi just as the big man opened the driver's seat.
Allen almost expected to be pulled out by the shirt collar, but the man merely swept his hand in an inviting gesture and said politely, “Please exit the vehicle.”
“What?” Allen demanded, the burger falling to the ground. “Are you cops or something?”
“Or something,” said a young man's voice from the shadows.
Behind him, the two men had rushed up to the car--one on either side– their handguns drawn, and the shorter of the two ripped open the back seat door.
And started with surprise.
Pointing his gun upwards, he leaned into the vehicle, then crossed to the trunk, opening it with a rusty POP!
“Well?” Came a third voice, a raspy, rough voice, coming from the direction of the food truck. “Is he there, Halt?”
The shorter man slammed the trunk shut with a grunt of frustration, then kicked his toe in the dirt for good measure. Whipping his helmet off his head, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
Then, he seemed to notice Allen for the first time, and smartly approached him.
The first thing Allen noticed about him was his untamed, unruly, uneven grizzled hair, and a full, business-like beard. Then, he noticed the eyes. Dark, flashing windows that never broke contact for a second once contact had been confirmed.
“Where is he?” The man hissed, so close Allen could smell the coffee on his breath from that morning. Or was it the morning before?
“Who?” Allen asked.
The man pointed back at the taxi. “Your passenger. Dark-haired man with black hoodie and a bow. Where. Is. He?”
Allen's brow scrunched up, confused. “Isn't he–?” he began, and crossed back to the car, peering inside the backseat.
Empty.
Just like that Rang–
Allen snapped his mouth shut, even though he hadn't said anything. And turned to face the little, grizzle-bearded man. “I don't understand,” he said. “He was back there! I talked to him! He gave me directions--sorta…”
The taller motorcycle man held up a hand. “We know that,” he said. “We just want to know where he went.”
Allen spread his hands. “I don't know! I didn't even stop long enough for him to leave or heard the door open! I didn't want to drive him in the first place! He just got in on my break and demanded to be driven somewhere! This isn't my fault….!”
The shorter man held up a hand, shaking his head in defeat. “No need to get uptight,” he assured Allen gruffly. “We believe you. We've lost him. It's as simple as that.”
Shrugging, he sighed, and crossed back to his bike, wheeling it toward the food truck. “Good hustle out there,” he told the other men. “You all did good.”
As Allen drove away from that spot, eyes glazed as if in a trance, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had, once again, run into a Ranger.
Crowley: Every time I hear someone talking about updog, I’m torn between not wanting to fall for it and wanting to help them complete their joke.
Samdash: Okay, but what is updog?
Berrigan: Updog is a long sausage in a bun, often served with ketchup, mustard, onions, and/or relish.
Leander: No, that’s a hot dog. An updog is when a new version or patch of an application is released.
Berwick: No, that's an update. You’re thinking of the fourth largest city in Sweden.
Egon: Surely, that’s Uppsala, where’s updog is the giant spider in Harry Potter.
Pritchard: That’s Aragog. Updog is a symbol conventionally used for an arbitrarily small number in analysis proofs.
Farrel: You’re thinking of epsilon. Updog is an upward-moving air current.
Jurgen: No, that’s an updraft. An updog is the modern version of a henway.
Samdash: What’s a henway??
Halt: Oh, about five pounds.
Egon: What if the person who named Walkie Talkies named everything?
Berrigan: Pregnancy tests are Maybe Babies
Crowley: Socks are Feetie Heaties
Samdash: Forks are Stabby Grabbies
Farrel: Defibrillators are Heartie Starties
Truscott: Nightmares are Dreamy Screamies
Berwick: Stamps are Lickie Stickies
Halt, annoyed: You are disappointments
