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05-31-2015, 02:05 AM
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This guy had a lot of stuff, man. Like, stupid amounts of it. So much stuff he was shedding it all off as I approached, letting it all drop away from him like dead skin or…dead leaves or…other…dead things. I dunno man, I ain’t really got a good metaphor for this occasion but he had a bunch of junk and the shit was weird so that’s the point I’m driving at. My shoulder still throbbed as I marched my fat ass over to him—but it was the prickling-hot shame that burned my cheeks instead of the fading ache of a fuck-up, the re-doubled sense of humiliation bubbling inside me as he called me a “hilarious joke”. Naturally, that bubbling sludge of embarrassment morphed easily into anger, cuz everything morphs into anger inside of me if there’s enough reason for it—and there was plenty of reason all lodged up in the golden crack of that skinny ass that taunted me from afar. I mean, he just looked like an asshole. Like some slender fuckboy of a stallion, all pretty in the face and golden all over his body, draped in it from hair to coat and even to his eyes (sort of). A pool of it gathered by his side—but no, it wasn’t a pool of gold, it was a golden cloth thing he had been wearing for some reason (so much stuff, man). There was some other shit he had dropped, too, but I forgot about all that real fast, cuz I was looking at the thing he was still holding. Like I…didn’t even…know what the fuck to think about it. Like, it was this long branch-like thing with claws on either end of it, poking out like curved, elegant thorns comin’ to fuck your whole day up. I blinked at it as he came to grip it; I wondered about it, the image of rusted, corroded blades coming into my mind’s eye as my gaze traveled over the sharp bends in the metal, the menacing way those ends seemed to hook in on themselves, like “c’mere you lil’ brat, I’mma tell you some secrets”. I could’ve turned away, but nah, fuck that. I was too hot-blooded in that moment, too bull-headed for reason to penetrate my skull. I was embarrassed and the only thing running in my mind was that Prettyboy was gonna pay for being a spectator to my failure and then rubbing salt on the wound. It didn’t help that you were above me in the air, watching everything going down on ground-side, and you already knew by heart that I wasn’t gonna let you jump in the fray—but you were mentally rubbing my shoulders, sending me little mental jolts of aggression and a pumped-up sense of adrenaline that wasn’t making this situation any better. Well, okay. I guess that statement’s a little up for interpretation. Cuz in your head you were making things so much greater by helping me see even more red than before. You were ready for a smack down, son. I snorted, blowing through his “twinkle-toes” comment, gritting my teeth and baring fangs if I ever had any. “Fuck off with that,” I growled at him—and I probably would’ve charged his ass right then and there, being done with this banter and being sick of looking at his smug ass. But I didn’t dare do that, not while he still had a mouth full of claws; I didn’t know how fast he could move them things or how far they would reach and I wasn’t that keen on ramming my ass face-first into them for my first experience with them. And then I just got even more pissed at that thought, like, “fuck me I just wanna run this long-legged son of a bitch into the ground but nah there’s this freaky item I didn’t trust so I gotta play it cool”. Just making my life harder inside and out. First he has the nerve to see me at my most vulnerable and fuck with me about it—and now I can’t even fuck him up like I want to. Fine. Fine. Fuck his claw-stick. Fuck his face. My head was burning and you were still pumping me up, cheering me on to wax his smarmy tail—and from the tip of my horn burst a shower of sparks, aimed at his—front. His front. Cuz face shots are stupid and I don’t like making them all the time, but like. Fuck his claw-stick. I just wanted to shoot that shit out of his mouth, or whatever, or whatever, I dunno man, I don’t, I just wanted him gone cuz my buzz was killed and he had laughed about it and this is how adults handle business. [WC:800 PC: 1/3 |
