((Iris Waite continued from Return of Simba))
Things that Iris, Richard, and Darryl hadn't found so far in the research station: paper and writing utensils like she'd wanted, any functional way of contacting people, really any scene that didn't look like it was straight out of The Walking Dead or worse.
Things that they had found: bodies. More bodies than Iris had ever wanted to see, ironic confirmation that she almost certainly would never have been able to stomach a career in forensic pathology like her dad. Even when there were no bodies, there was evidence of violence all over.
She'd come here with defiant hope. She'd spent all of their time since arriving feeling sick to varying degrees.
The three of them had set up in the listening station, even though the first search had dashed any hope of co-opting the equipment that should have been there. It was a small place, almost cozy if not for the lack of heat and the memories of what lay just outside. It was... defensible. Probably. They'd taken turns sitting by the door and keeping a lookout for anyone approaching, and now as the sun started to sink far too early once more, it was Iris's turn.
"Katelyn, Janice, Quinn, Katelyn again, Janice again..."
Iris had taken to muttering under her breath, recitations of all the names they'd heard, in lieu of being able to write them down. She desperately missed her notebook, tucked away safely in her desk back home beneath a few other things. It had all sorts of information that they could possibly have used here, even though her intentions with it had only ever been innocent.
Likes and dislikes, crushes and rivalries, hobbies and routines. She could have easily flipped to a new page, copied her existing notes, and then added a neat new row representing... well, kill count.
"Dawn, Katelyn again, Letitia, Katelyn, DeMarcus... Katelyn?" Iris huffed as she lost track. Objectively, it didn't even matter how many times she said Katelyn's name, or in what order. It didn't matter for anyone who had killed more than twice. Once could be an accident, twice could be multiple accidents or self-defense. Three was a pattern.
She kept muttering to herself, tapping her fingers against the building's front door and somewhat resigned that nobody was going to turn up to their makeshift fortress today either. She kept her bag with the flashbangs in it close at hand, just in case anybody did.
Zero Incoming
Day 4 afternoon; Open once Buko and Deamon join!
Zero Incoming
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
Dickie had it bad.
It had been a constant friend back at home, but it had been a distant stranger on the island. It had grown after the announcements out of spite and Richard didn’t trust spite and so he kept it silent. For the first two announcements, he had been solemn out of habit as much as fear. There was still that persistent inkling that he couldn’t resist even though he knew it was dumb. Big Dick couldn’t force himself to speak it, let alone acknowledge he felt it. Every piece of evidence proved his foolishness. Dick accepted his demise, what he wasn’t certain in was his person. Was he the hero he wanted to be? All 5'9" of Isiah Thomas stepping up to will the Celtics to victory after his sister’s death? Tom Brady winning Super Bowl after Super Bowl after being a sixth round pick? Welles Crowther. Storming into a burning building time and time again armed only with a red bandana and conviction…
He wasn’t. Richard knew that. But for the first time since he had woken up on this frozen-over-hellscape-island, he felt it. Dickie felt it in his fat ankle, swollen and purple, but getting stronger with every hour of rest. Big Dick felt it in his stomach, bouncing like a bowl full of jelly and rumbling like the earth itself in hunger. He saw it in Darryl’s presence, he felt it in Iris’ words from a day ago and once he grasped it, he refused to let go. The childish notion that somehow, someway, this would all end up right. That the arc of the moral universe bent towards justice. That safety was a matter of staying strong and sane. That prayer had power.
Dickie had it bad. Dick had hope. And hope, somehow, felt dangerous.
He re-wrapped his ankle, took a bite out of an energy bar, a sip of his water and swallowed his daily dose of hope with the handful of pain killers. So yeah, Dickie had it bad. Prolly the baddest he had ever had it. And the more he needed it, the more he’d make it. If he couldn’t be the hero, he’d hope for the hero, hope would become the hero. He couldn’t keep safe, but at least he’d keep the faith.
Somehow, someway, this fucked up situation would end up un-fucking itself.
He couldn’t force himself to speak it, but he acknowledged that he needed to still feel it. So, he did. Even if he knew it was dumb.
“I know, like, its science and stuff, astronomy and all that,” he spoke trying to show strength and solidarity in his voice. “But, like, y’know,” Dick always needed to speak, he didn’t always know what to say. “It gets dark fuckin’ wicked early, what time is it even? Like noon? We just had announcements feels like.”
It had been a constant friend back at home, but it had been a distant stranger on the island. It had grown after the announcements out of spite and Richard didn’t trust spite and so he kept it silent. For the first two announcements, he had been solemn out of habit as much as fear. There was still that persistent inkling that he couldn’t resist even though he knew it was dumb. Big Dick couldn’t force himself to speak it, let alone acknowledge he felt it. Every piece of evidence proved his foolishness. Dick accepted his demise, what he wasn’t certain in was his person. Was he the hero he wanted to be? All 5'9" of Isiah Thomas stepping up to will the Celtics to victory after his sister’s death? Tom Brady winning Super Bowl after Super Bowl after being a sixth round pick? Welles Crowther. Storming into a burning building time and time again armed only with a red bandana and conviction…
He wasn’t. Richard knew that. But for the first time since he had woken up on this frozen-over-hellscape-island, he felt it. Dickie felt it in his fat ankle, swollen and purple, but getting stronger with every hour of rest. Big Dick felt it in his stomach, bouncing like a bowl full of jelly and rumbling like the earth itself in hunger. He saw it in Darryl’s presence, he felt it in Iris’ words from a day ago and once he grasped it, he refused to let go. The childish notion that somehow, someway, this would all end up right. That the arc of the moral universe bent towards justice. That safety was a matter of staying strong and sane. That prayer had power.
Dickie had it bad. Dick had hope. And hope, somehow, felt dangerous.
[ Big Dick Buster Continued From: Return of Simba ]
He re-wrapped his ankle, took a bite out of an energy bar, a sip of his water and swallowed his daily dose of hope with the handful of pain killers. So yeah, Dickie had it bad. Prolly the baddest he had ever had it. And the more he needed it, the more he’d make it. If he couldn’t be the hero, he’d hope for the hero, hope would become the hero. He couldn’t keep safe, but at least he’d keep the faith.
Somehow, someway, this fucked up situation would end up un-fucking itself.
He couldn’t force himself to speak it, but he acknowledged that he needed to still feel it. So, he did. Even if he knew it was dumb.
“I know, like, its science and stuff, astronomy and all that,” he spoke trying to show strength and solidarity in his voice. “But, like, y’know,” Dick always needed to speak, he didn’t always know what to say. “It gets dark fuckin’ wicked early, what time is it even? Like noon? We just had announcements feels like.”
Darryl was polishing his coconut pick using his windbreaker, running his covered hand back and forth along the blade. It was more so he had something to do rather than any other reason. He hadn't used it at all and still hadn't cracked the coconut open. They'd made camp in the listening station following their return to the research station, well, his return. He supposed it wasn't so much of a return for Dick and Iris. Based on what they had said they'd been dropped off on the other side of the island from him in the town on the map. It made clear how lucky they had been to bump into each other, if they had been heading through the snow field at any other time or from slightly different directions they would have missed each other. Luck had also stayed on their side as they hadn't encountered Letitia's crazy ass either.
Although speaking of crazy Iris had been spending a lot of her time muttering to herself since her attempt to find writing materials had failed. Darryl assumed it would have but he had known better than to say anything. He was the nearest member of their triumvirate and didn't feel like rocking the boat or bringing the already low moods down. Instead, he had taken part in the scavenging efforts like a good teammate should have.
"Yeah it's some real arctic circle shit," He said, nodding in agreement with Dickie.
"Hey wait a sec," Darryl said suddenly remembering something. He put the coconut pick to one side and started to dig through his bag looking for the object he'd just realized he still had.
"Look, this'll sound corny, but I got this on like the first day and was saving it,"
He pulled out the beer can he'd been carrying around ever since the first day with Daenerys.
"And well, this seems like it might be the only chance we get."
Although speaking of crazy Iris had been spending a lot of her time muttering to herself since her attempt to find writing materials had failed. Darryl assumed it would have but he had known better than to say anything. He was the nearest member of their triumvirate and didn't feel like rocking the boat or bringing the already low moods down. Instead, he had taken part in the scavenging efforts like a good teammate should have.
"Yeah it's some real arctic circle shit," He said, nodding in agreement with Dickie.
"Hey wait a sec," Darryl said suddenly remembering something. He put the coconut pick to one side and started to dig through his bag looking for the object he'd just realized he still had.
"Look, this'll sound corny, but I got this on like the first day and was saving it,"
He pulled out the beer can he'd been carrying around ever since the first day with Daenerys.
"And well, this seems like it might be the only chance we get."
Iris glanced over at what Darryl had produced and paused in her recitation. She'd never drunk alcohol before. Like, ever. It was one of those things that people couldn't seem to comprehend, even though she and all her classmates, even the ones held back a year or two, were still years away from the drinking age legally.
Iris's dad didn't drink much either unless he was out socializing, and he didn't keep alcohol in the house, so her only opportunity to have a drink in the first place would have been at some kind of party, and Iris didn't get invited to those kinds of parties. Her dad made it sound like he'd gotten hassled about it too sometimes even though he was like 50, and she'd have thought that people would have gotten past it at that age.
"Alcohol is the only drug where people demand an explanation for why you don't want it," he'd once told Iris half-jokingly. She was inclined to agree. Weed was legal too now, but you could say you didn't want to smoke without seeing the person you were talking to assign you to the Loser, Forever category of their mental card catalogue.
All of that ran through her head as she looked at the beer can and took in Darryl's implicit offer, before anything really practical did. Like how she was still concussed, and concussions probably took weeks to recover from, and you shouldn't mix painkillers and alcohol. Or how they needed to be alert, be sharp for anything that could happen. Or how Richard was holding a loaded gun.
How her dad might watch this footage and see her sitting and pondering the beer like a girl in some PSA about peer pressure. That one made her cringe more than anything else.
But then she thought about sitting here sober, the only one, while Darryl and Richard drank and tried to make the most of the only good time they might have left, even as hard as she was trying to believe otherwise.
Iris held out her hand for the can. "Is it... good?" She asked as a hesitant afterthought.
Iris's dad didn't drink much either unless he was out socializing, and he didn't keep alcohol in the house, so her only opportunity to have a drink in the first place would have been at some kind of party, and Iris didn't get invited to those kinds of parties. Her dad made it sound like he'd gotten hassled about it too sometimes even though he was like 50, and she'd have thought that people would have gotten past it at that age.
"Alcohol is the only drug where people demand an explanation for why you don't want it," he'd once told Iris half-jokingly. She was inclined to agree. Weed was legal too now, but you could say you didn't want to smoke without seeing the person you were talking to assign you to the Loser, Forever category of their mental card catalogue.
All of that ran through her head as she looked at the beer can and took in Darryl's implicit offer, before anything really practical did. Like how she was still concussed, and concussions probably took weeks to recover from, and you shouldn't mix painkillers and alcohol. Or how they needed to be alert, be sharp for anything that could happen. Or how Richard was holding a loaded gun.
How her dad might watch this footage and see her sitting and pondering the beer like a girl in some PSA about peer pressure. That one made her cringe more than anything else.
But then she thought about sitting here sober, the only one, while Darryl and Richard drank and tried to make the most of the only good time they might have left, even as hard as she was trying to believe otherwise.
Iris held out her hand for the can. "Is it... good?" She asked as a hesitant afterthought.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
“It’s a Coors,” Dickie answered in a stern deadpan, “so fuck no.”
Dick wasn’t uncomfortable around beer. His father worked in sports radio for many years and was an independent Celtics podcaster thereafter. That meant that they had entertained a wide variety of sponsors. Dick had a Casper mattress, they ate free Blue Apron three times a week, everybody had individual Audible accounts and their fridge was stocked with a rotating pantheon of light beer. Coors Light, Miller Lite, Bud and Blue Moon—all by the case, all purchasable online or wherever you could buy beer! He had been sneaking sips since the pandemic. If his parents noticed, they didn't complain much and Dick didn't let it get out of hand. Still, he wasn't shy about spirits or libations and he was desperate to feel silly and anything similar to what once was. Dickie could see himself downing the suds as easy as he downed the hope. They both went down without much questioning.
“You can tell it’s cold ‘cuz of the can,” Big Dick pointed in Darryl’s direction, “it turns blue when it is at optimal drinkin’ temp.”
Which, according to his father’s ad-read, was around 42. That wasn’t surprising. The island was cold, least the beer could do was be the same.
“Less talky,” Big Dick had it bad and he let it be visible on his face in the form of a grin and finger-gun pointed at Iris.
“More drinky,” he wiggled his other fingers like he was casting a spell.
“Peer pressure! Peer pressure! Peer pressure!”
Dick wasn’t uncomfortable around beer. His father worked in sports radio for many years and was an independent Celtics podcaster thereafter. That meant that they had entertained a wide variety of sponsors. Dick had a Casper mattress, they ate free Blue Apron three times a week, everybody had individual Audible accounts and their fridge was stocked with a rotating pantheon of light beer. Coors Light, Miller Lite, Bud and Blue Moon—all by the case, all purchasable online or wherever you could buy beer! He had been sneaking sips since the pandemic. If his parents noticed, they didn't complain much and Dick didn't let it get out of hand. Still, he wasn't shy about spirits or libations and he was desperate to feel silly and anything similar to what once was. Dickie could see himself downing the suds as easy as he downed the hope. They both went down without much questioning.
“You can tell it’s cold ‘cuz of the can,” Big Dick pointed in Darryl’s direction, “it turns blue when it is at optimal drinkin’ temp.”
Which, according to his father’s ad-read, was around 42. That wasn’t surprising. The island was cold, least the beer could do was be the same.
“Less talky,” Big Dick had it bad and he let it be visible on his face in the form of a grin and finger-gun pointed at Iris.
“More drinky,” he wiggled his other fingers like he was casting a spell.
“Peer pressure! Peer pressure! Peer pressure!”
"Cold as the Rockies," Darryl intoned as Dick explained the blue mountain on the silver can, "Probably colder for us though." He added, sounding a bit more aggrieved about that situation. The last iteration of Survival of the Fittest had ended up on some Southeast tropical island, yet they were stuck on the set of The Thing. Seemed like some bullshit to him, but he wasn't the one running the death game and sorting out the budget for abandoned and creepy islands.
Regardless, his ice-cold beer had made a good icebreaker and the mood had perked up as Richard got to work playfully pressuring Iris into kicking off the festivities. Darryl had been imagining the moment as just him and Dicky, sitting, watching the sunset, and passing the can between them, preferably on a rooftop or something. But he wasn't going to live or die by his hopeful visions of the future. Plus, what was one extra person in the grand scheme of things? All three of them were a team.
"Here you go," He said, passing the can to Iris. "It's been in my bag for four days as I've been walking and shit though, so be careful when you pop it open."
Darryl wasn't kidding either, he had been ferrying that can around since the first day and he didn't want to lose half of it to the scourge that was foam, or just the can exploding all over Iris when she popped the cap.
Regardless, his ice-cold beer had made a good icebreaker and the mood had perked up as Richard got to work playfully pressuring Iris into kicking off the festivities. Darryl had been imagining the moment as just him and Dicky, sitting, watching the sunset, and passing the can between them, preferably on a rooftop or something. But he wasn't going to live or die by his hopeful visions of the future. Plus, what was one extra person in the grand scheme of things? All three of them were a team.
"Here you go," He said, passing the can to Iris. "It's been in my bag for four days as I've been walking and shit though, so be careful when you pop it open."
Darryl wasn't kidding either, he had been ferrying that can around since the first day and he didn't want to lose half of it to the scourge that was foam, or just the can exploding all over Iris when she popped the cap.
"You don't need to peer pressure me!" Iris huffed at Richard, expression veering dangerously close to a pout. "I was already going to do it!"
She snatched the can away from Darryl to make her point, though she slowed down enough listen about the can probably being shaken up. She angled it away from herself to crack it open; there was an admittedly satisfying hiss and pop just like a soda can. There was no explosion or immediate mess, and she felt like she'd passed the first hurdle.
The little victory was enough for her to fool herself for about ten seconds that it would be all right. Then she took the swig.
"Eugh." Iris jerked the can away from her mouth like it had offended her, the leaving the contents sloshing perilously.
She snatched the can away from Darryl to make her point, though she slowed down enough listen about the can probably being shaken up. She angled it away from herself to crack it open; there was an admittedly satisfying hiss and pop just like a soda can. There was no explosion or immediate mess, and she felt like she'd passed the first hurdle.
The little victory was enough for her to fool herself for about ten seconds that it would be all right. Then she took the swig.
"Eugh." Iris jerked the can away from her mouth like it had offended her, the leaving the contents sloshing perilously.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
“So,” Dickie said in between a boyish giggle. “We know it’s real Coors.”
Grin plastered on his freckled face, Richard made his way to Iris with slow, sluggish, and heavy limping steps. One hand was placed on Iris’ shoulder and then another grasped for the metal can with an adolescent arrogance. Dick brought the beer to his mouth with a flourish and took a large swig. Glug, glug, until the thin-bubbly liquid leaked out the sides of his thin pink chapped lips. He brought it down and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that had previously found itself on Iris’ shoulder. The Coors tasted like a sour soda pop, and it made Dickie’s nose wrinkle.
Then he belched. Loudly. Comically so.
“Yup,” said with a degree of embarrassment, “definitely Coors.”
It felt silly. It felt familiar. It felt nostalgic. There was a scene in Mad Men where Don Draper, the protagonist, spoke on nostalgia. Dick loved Mad Men. He told people that he wore suits every day to school to model himself after professional basketball players—but it was also done to emulate someone like Don Draper. When he and Darryl snuck a joint or a sip of beer or whiskey, Richard sometimes imagined them living adult lives like they saw on TV. Women, liquor, money, success, cigars and bad decisions. But the cool kind of bad decisions. The type of mistakes that turned you from wild young boy to wily old man. It all seemed so silly now, but at the time they had seemed like the only things worth thinking about.
Anyway.
During the scene, Don described nostalgia as the pain from an old wound. Delicate...but potent. A twinge from the heart more powerful than memory alone. A return to a place once been, a time that felt better. Dick thought of his father. He thought of his teammates. He thought of summer days spent playing H.O.R.S.E with Darryl and making the loser take a sip or a shot and laughing as crossovers became more effective and field goals became less efficient. It all seemed so far away, it all seemed so unfair, it all hurt so much. The pain from an old wound. Dicky felt it even as the knife still twisted with every tick and tock.
The smile remained plastered on his face and the hand with the can extended to his best friend.
Grin plastered on his freckled face, Richard made his way to Iris with slow, sluggish, and heavy limping steps. One hand was placed on Iris’ shoulder and then another grasped for the metal can with an adolescent arrogance. Dick brought the beer to his mouth with a flourish and took a large swig. Glug, glug, until the thin-bubbly liquid leaked out the sides of his thin pink chapped lips. He brought it down and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand that had previously found itself on Iris’ shoulder. The Coors tasted like a sour soda pop, and it made Dickie’s nose wrinkle.
Then he belched. Loudly. Comically so.
“Yup,” said with a degree of embarrassment, “definitely Coors.”
It felt silly. It felt familiar. It felt nostalgic. There was a scene in Mad Men where Don Draper, the protagonist, spoke on nostalgia. Dick loved Mad Men. He told people that he wore suits every day to school to model himself after professional basketball players—but it was also done to emulate someone like Don Draper. When he and Darryl snuck a joint or a sip of beer or whiskey, Richard sometimes imagined them living adult lives like they saw on TV. Women, liquor, money, success, cigars and bad decisions. But the cool kind of bad decisions. The type of mistakes that turned you from wild young boy to wily old man. It all seemed so silly now, but at the time they had seemed like the only things worth thinking about.
Anyway.
During the scene, Don described nostalgia as the pain from an old wound. Delicate...but potent. A twinge from the heart more powerful than memory alone. A return to a place once been, a time that felt better. Dick thought of his father. He thought of his teammates. He thought of summer days spent playing H.O.R.S.E with Darryl and making the loser take a sip or a shot and laughing as crossovers became more effective and field goals became less efficient. It all seemed so far away, it all seemed so unfair, it all hurt so much. The pain from an old wound. Dicky felt it even as the knife still twisted with every tick and tock.
The smile remained plastered on his face and the hand with the can extended to his best friend.
"Yeah I guess so," Darryl said with a grin.
Darryl actually liked Coors, or at least he liked Coors now that he was on a murder island. His dad had always prided himself on his consistent drinking of Sam Adams for whatever reason. Darryl had never asked why that was the particular horse he had decided to back in the beer stakes or what difference it made. But it also happened that Darryl Sr. was of a certain vintage that put him perfectly in the bracket of people that would have seen Jean-Claude Van Damme advertising Coors and click his fingers, point at the screen and go 'that's my fucking guy'. His memory flooded with the rose-tinted memories of watching Kickboxer, Once Upon a Time in China, Police Story among others was enough to convince his dad to give the new brand a try and ever since then Sam Adams had no longer been welcome in their fridge. Coors was their guy now.
So, Darryl, had more experience drinking Coors than other beers and due to times drinking it along with his father in the privacy of their home he too now possessed rose-tinted memories that gave him an affinity for the beverage. Meaning that when Richard passed him the can in their little sip, sip, pass circle it felt good to finally be able to drink some of it.
"It really is Coors," Darryl said with a grin and a chuckle after having some hit his lips. Felt good man, just the three of them being able to take a moment to just do the things people their age were supposed to do. Hang out somewhere they weren't supposed to be, drinking alcohol illegally.
"Here," He said, as he leaned forward to pass the can back to Iris. "Let's keep the good times going."
Darryl actually liked Coors, or at least he liked Coors now that he was on a murder island. His dad had always prided himself on his consistent drinking of Sam Adams for whatever reason. Darryl had never asked why that was the particular horse he had decided to back in the beer stakes or what difference it made. But it also happened that Darryl Sr. was of a certain vintage that put him perfectly in the bracket of people that would have seen Jean-Claude Van Damme advertising Coors and click his fingers, point at the screen and go 'that's my fucking guy'. His memory flooded with the rose-tinted memories of watching Kickboxer, Once Upon a Time in China, Police Story among others was enough to convince his dad to give the new brand a try and ever since then Sam Adams had no longer been welcome in their fridge. Coors was their guy now.
So, Darryl, had more experience drinking Coors than other beers and due to times drinking it along with his father in the privacy of their home he too now possessed rose-tinted memories that gave him an affinity for the beverage. Meaning that when Richard passed him the can in their little sip, sip, pass circle it felt good to finally be able to drink some of it.
"It really is Coors," Darryl said with a grin and a chuckle after having some hit his lips. Felt good man, just the three of them being able to take a moment to just do the things people their age were supposed to do. Hang out somewhere they weren't supposed to be, drinking alcohol illegally.
"Here," He said, as he leaned forward to pass the can back to Iris. "Let's keep the good times going."
Iris took the can back and made herself take another gulp with more enthusiasm to match the boys. The beer didn't taste any better the second time, but she controlled her reaction.
When she thought back on it, Iris had mostly heard alcohol described as "warming," except for when it came to beer, which was borderline deadly if served at anything less than ice cold by the way some people acted. The beer chilled her throat on the way down and sat in her stomach almost like a cramp. But Richard and Darryl seemed to be in high spirits for the first time in the past couple days, and Iris felt herself starting to cheer up a little just by proximity.
How fast were you supposed to feel it when you drank? Maybe she was already getting there. Maybe it was helped along a little by the painkillers she'd taken a couple hours ago.
...Yeah. Yeah, she was probably feeling it. Looking from one boy's smiling face to the other, Iris felt herself smiling too without thinking about it. She took one more gulp for good measure and let out a bubbly little giggle.
This is good, right? is what she almost asked, but that was a stupid question. Any moment that they could feel good was good. She passed the can back to Richard.
"Too bad you don't have more," she said a little wistfully to Darryl. "We could have a real party."
When she thought back on it, Iris had mostly heard alcohol described as "warming," except for when it came to beer, which was borderline deadly if served at anything less than ice cold by the way some people acted. The beer chilled her throat on the way down and sat in her stomach almost like a cramp. But Richard and Darryl seemed to be in high spirits for the first time in the past couple days, and Iris felt herself starting to cheer up a little just by proximity.
How fast were you supposed to feel it when you drank? Maybe she was already getting there. Maybe it was helped along a little by the painkillers she'd taken a couple hours ago.
...Yeah. Yeah, she was probably feeling it. Looking from one boy's smiling face to the other, Iris felt herself smiling too without thinking about it. She took one more gulp for good measure and let out a bubbly little giggle.
This is good, right? is what she almost asked, but that was a stupid question. Any moment that they could feel good was good. She passed the can back to Richard.
"Too bad you don't have more," she said a little wistfully to Darryl. "We could have a real party."
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
“Just think ‘bout the party they’re gonna throw when we get outta here,” Richard said with a soft smile. “I’ll have you drinkin’ something nicer than Coors.”
Dickie had it bad and moments like this made it worse. Richard wanted to go home. He wanted to hug his mother and eat an extra-large pizza with extra-cheese, pepperoni, spicy Italian sausage, roasted garlic and sweet-onion. He wanted the Celtics to win a championship and for Tom Brady to come back to the Pats. Dickie wanted to live. But want didn't count for much out here. What Dick needed was hope. So, he took it and ran with it. He hoped and hoped for hope. Not the pie in the sky stuff, not the defiant optimism, but rather the contents of spirit. The characteristics of character. The kind of hope that created a willingness to position oneself in a hopeless place and believe in a better future. Even in the face of an indescribable terror and tragedy. Even dealing with a monsoon of murder and a guillotine of guilt and grief. Even when up against insurmountable odds.
The kind of hope that made a person strong.
They had elected Dick to be a leader. That meant Dickie had to lead. Whatever that meant.
He snatched the beer from Iris and took another swig, this time with a half-effort and with the intent of saving some for Darryl.
“Wanna practice holding and loading the gun…?”
It was a stupid decision, for a variety of reasons and yet it still felt like the right move. It wasn't a matter of smart, it wasn't a matter of stupid. It was a matter of hope, it was a matter of trust—it was a matter of giving his allies both.
And out here that had to count for something. Especially when you had it as bad as Dickie did.
Dickie had it bad and moments like this made it worse. Richard wanted to go home. He wanted to hug his mother and eat an extra-large pizza with extra-cheese, pepperoni, spicy Italian sausage, roasted garlic and sweet-onion. He wanted the Celtics to win a championship and for Tom Brady to come back to the Pats. Dickie wanted to live. But want didn't count for much out here. What Dick needed was hope. So, he took it and ran with it. He hoped and hoped for hope. Not the pie in the sky stuff, not the defiant optimism, but rather the contents of spirit. The characteristics of character. The kind of hope that created a willingness to position oneself in a hopeless place and believe in a better future. Even in the face of an indescribable terror and tragedy. Even dealing with a monsoon of murder and a guillotine of guilt and grief. Even when up against insurmountable odds.
The kind of hope that made a person strong.
They had elected Dick to be a leader. That meant Dickie had to lead. Whatever that meant.
He snatched the beer from Iris and took another swig, this time with a half-effort and with the intent of saving some for Darryl.
“Wanna practice holding and loading the gun…?”
It was a stupid decision, for a variety of reasons and yet it still felt like the right move. It wasn't a matter of smart, it wasn't a matter of stupid. It was a matter of hope, it was a matter of trust—it was a matter of giving his allies both.
And out here that had to count for something. Especially when you had it as bad as Dickie did.
"Yeah, Daenerys offered me the whole cooler," Darryl replied with a rueful shake of the head. "But that didn't seem like a tactical choice at the time."
It wouldn't have mattered if he had taken it Darryl realized because he would have needed to ditch it to escape from Letitia. In that scenario, he would have at least known where it would be. In the reality they lived in though, the cooler may as well have fallen into a black hole. It was never going to be found, especially not by them.
Richard mentioned getting out and drinking something nicer than Coors and Darryl laughed even though the humor didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't about to entertain an impossible dream. Hope was nice and all, but there were a few issues with the idea of them getting out and what exactly Dickie meant by that. The first was that he had not put forth any plan for accomplishing that goal. He had just made vague implications about them getting home. The second was that Chole also apparently had a plan but who knew what that was besides gathering everyone up to...? That was it, that was the plan as he understood it. Third, Darryl didn't know if when it came to an end Dick was planning to just up and refuse to kill which Darryl was certain but that sounded like some movie shit and there was no way they would accept that and let them go. So yeah, Darryl wasn't holding out hope on that one.
And then Dick suggested them learning how to use his gun because what was more American than beers and bullets.
Darryl shrugged.
"Guess it's probably best to learn."
It wouldn't have mattered if he had taken it Darryl realized because he would have needed to ditch it to escape from Letitia. In that scenario, he would have at least known where it would be. In the reality they lived in though, the cooler may as well have fallen into a black hole. It was never going to be found, especially not by them.
Richard mentioned getting out and drinking something nicer than Coors and Darryl laughed even though the humor didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't about to entertain an impossible dream. Hope was nice and all, but there were a few issues with the idea of them getting out and what exactly Dickie meant by that. The first was that he had not put forth any plan for accomplishing that goal. He had just made vague implications about them getting home. The second was that Chole also apparently had a plan but who knew what that was besides gathering everyone up to...? That was it, that was the plan as he understood it. Third, Darryl didn't know if when it came to an end Dick was planning to just up and refuse to kill which Darryl was certain but that sounded like some movie shit and there was no way they would accept that and let them go. So yeah, Darryl wasn't holding out hope on that one.
And then Dick suggested them learning how to use his gun because what was more American than beers and bullets.
Darryl shrugged.
"Guess it's probably best to learn."
"Yeah!" Iris agreed with an enthusiasm that surprised herself. Yeah, she was really feeling it now. Really feeling it. She was sure now that there was a warmth spreading from the pit of her stomach and radiating outwards into her limbs, and it was nice. A warmth of comfort and companionship, not the hot, throbbing pain in her head. She was sure that she felt lighter. She should have done this before.
She knew, on a level more conscious than she'd admit, that what Richard was suggesting had to be a terrible idea right now. But he'd suggested it first, and Darryl agreed, and Iris was definitely really feeling it now.
"It-" She giggled a little again, all sugar and spice and everything artifice. "It can't be that hard, right?"
She knew, on a level more conscious than she'd admit, that what Richard was suggesting had to be a terrible idea right now. But he'd suggested it first, and Darryl agreed, and Iris was definitely really feeling it now.
"It-" She giggled a little again, all sugar and spice and everything artifice. "It can't be that hard, right?"
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."
“Easy as A-B-C, simple as 1-2-3,” Dick said as he moved over to his bag, knelt down, and picked up the pistol. “This isn’t a complicated gun, some Red Dead Redemption shit.”
That was pretty much the extent of Dickie’s experience with guns—videogames and movies. His mother was a doctor like her father and his father before him. They were pretty stereotypical white Massachusetts liberals. His parents met at Stanford for fuck’s sake! They took more from California than just a base-tan and affinity for gateway drugs and E-40. Pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, college educated, civil rights supporters. That was Richard’s ilk. They didn’t care for guns. His father still had one. Dickie’s paternal grandfather was a Boston bus driver, he didn’t possess the gentle healing heart of Richard’s mother nor his son's sensibilities. Dickie’s paternal gramps had a gun. And so did Richard's dad. And now Dick did as well. The cycle continued.
Still, his father's gun, the gun, was locked up in the closet and the bullets were kept separate in a desk. Richard Buster Senior never went to shooting ranges. He didn’t need to use the gun; it was just important that he had it and that his family knew they were protected. Or at least they had the idea of protection, the story of a white knight and a sword. That daddy was here to make it right in case everything went wrong.
Dick didn’t need to use the gun, they just needed to know he had it. That he had them. The idea of protection, the story of a white knight with a sword.
“Two barrels, two shots,” with quick, coordinated hands he slowly and smoothly loaded and unloaded the gun in an odd display of contradictory juxtaposition. “It works how it looks to work and all that,” it felt like he was talking to Donovan and Victor about the pick-and-roll or trying to get Coach Jordan to insert more 2-3 Zone into the strategy. “Once you do it twice, you can do it for the rest of your life.”
He unloaded it once more, the bullets felt warm in his cold hand.
“Who wants to try first?”
That was pretty much the extent of Dickie’s experience with guns—videogames and movies. His mother was a doctor like her father and his father before him. They were pretty stereotypical white Massachusetts liberals. His parents met at Stanford for fuck’s sake! They took more from California than just a base-tan and affinity for gateway drugs and E-40. Pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, college educated, civil rights supporters. That was Richard’s ilk. They didn’t care for guns. His father still had one. Dickie’s paternal grandfather was a Boston bus driver, he didn’t possess the gentle healing heart of Richard’s mother nor his son's sensibilities. Dickie’s paternal gramps had a gun. And so did Richard's dad. And now Dick did as well. The cycle continued.
Still, his father's gun, the gun, was locked up in the closet and the bullets were kept separate in a desk. Richard Buster Senior never went to shooting ranges. He didn’t need to use the gun; it was just important that he had it and that his family knew they were protected. Or at least they had the idea of protection, the story of a white knight and a sword. That daddy was here to make it right in case everything went wrong.
Dick didn’t need to use the gun, they just needed to know he had it. That he had them. The idea of protection, the story of a white knight with a sword.
“Two barrels, two shots,” with quick, coordinated hands he slowly and smoothly loaded and unloaded the gun in an odd display of contradictory juxtaposition. “It works how it looks to work and all that,” it felt like he was talking to Donovan and Victor about the pick-and-roll or trying to get Coach Jordan to insert more 2-3 Zone into the strategy. “Once you do it twice, you can do it for the rest of your life.”
He unloaded it once more, the bullets felt warm in his cold hand.
“Who wants to try first?”
Darryl thought it probably was that hard and he wasn’t giddy at the prospect of having to learn how to shoot. But it would have been irresponsible and naïve to act like he didn’t need to know. So there he was having gone from sharing a nostalgic beer with friends to watching a pistol be produced.
He watched Dick load and unload the gun with suspicion. Not suspicion of Dickie but of the gun itself. It had been specifically designed to kill people. Guns were developed because it was easier and more efficient to be able to point at the motherfucker you didn’t like and make him disappear with the pull of a trigger. Otherwise you had to train people in how to use a sword and shield or a bow, then you’d need to buy their armour. In terms of pure cost vs benefit it was quicker and easier to just give everyone guns. Warfare and capitalism were cousins like that. Always looking for the most efficient way to fuck everyone over and get what you want.
Richard asked who wanted to go first and Darryl passed on the offer.
“I’ll be a gentleman and say ladies first.” He said, gesturing over to Iris.
“Pass me the can over homie.”
He watched Dick load and unload the gun with suspicion. Not suspicion of Dickie but of the gun itself. It had been specifically designed to kill people. Guns were developed because it was easier and more efficient to be able to point at the motherfucker you didn’t like and make him disappear with the pull of a trigger. Otherwise you had to train people in how to use a sword and shield or a bow, then you’d need to buy their armour. In terms of pure cost vs benefit it was quicker and easier to just give everyone guns. Warfare and capitalism were cousins like that. Always looking for the most efficient way to fuck everyone over and get what you want.
Richard asked who wanted to go first and Darryl passed on the offer.
“I’ll be a gentleman and say ladies first.” He said, gesturing over to Iris.
“Pass me the can over homie.”