Spike Spiegel (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gottaknockhard) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisa2014-04-10 09:20 pm
gottaknockhard) wrote in paradisa2014-04-10 09:20 pm
Entry tags:
80; action/dictated
[It's been well over a week. Something should have changed by now.]
[Spike has been feeling oddly anxious lately, for a few reasons, but he's decided that most of them are tied to the fact that he can't figure out how to work the new 'no smoking' sections that the castle put in just for him. Vicious probably thinks it's funny that he can't light his own cigarette, and Spike may have even chuckled along with him if it'd only lasted a day, but this is getting serious. Then there's the fact that he definitely felt like he got a buzz the last time they were playing pool, which he's since been unable to replicate. Castle humor at its worst.
So he does what anyone would, and puts whatever-it-is to the test. He spent the early part of the evening waiting in the laundry room, making a good attempt at seeming busy with clothes that aren't his, until the last patron of the Death Match stumbles past him and down the hall. Then, he walks into the bar with a basket and loads up as many bottles as he can carry -- admittedly less than he could have before, but his hands have made an almost miraculous recovery since the injury. In their place, he leaves a pointed note behind the counter that reads: They won't go to waste.
It takes more than one trip to carry the majority of the stock from the bar to his room, and by the time he finishes unloading the last of it, he's already wondering why he went to all the trouble. There's better revenge for spilling beer on him on April Fools Day, especially when it won't exactly set them back, but it's the principle of the thing.
Moreover, he's not sure that his note was being entirely truthful after a few failed attempts at pouring the alcohol into a glass. Unless the owner suddenly knocks down his door, his evening has suddenly gone bust. He could probably drop it and make a call to shoot another game of pool, but even bantering and in a smokey room isn't so appealing when he's been inactive for too long. It's enough to drive a guy insane.]
[Hefting a sigh, he flips open the journal, with no particular purpose in mind.]
Is it just me, or does everything seem to be moving backwards? Between this and Florence, we keep going in the wrong direction. [Since he's obviously referring to their new 'Medieval' town that's becoming less charming as time goes on.] The dinosaurs too, now that I think about it. Talk about favoring the majority.
[Residents, he means. He's hoping one of them hears him.]
( Brock )
[He could preface this filter with something thoughtful, since he hasn't checked in since the coma and Brock has his own stuff, but he assumes that it's all implied with the act of filtering to him at all.]
How's the car running?
ooc: Basically this is Spike trying to figure out his new loss by stealing all the alcohol. Also open for running into him in the laundry room or anywhere along his path.
[Spike has been feeling oddly anxious lately, for a few reasons, but he's decided that most of them are tied to the fact that he can't figure out how to work the new 'no smoking' sections that the castle put in just for him. Vicious probably thinks it's funny that he can't light his own cigarette, and Spike may have even chuckled along with him if it'd only lasted a day, but this is getting serious. Then there's the fact that he definitely felt like he got a buzz the last time they were playing pool, which he's since been unable to replicate. Castle humor at its worst.
So he does what anyone would, and puts whatever-it-is to the test. He spent the early part of the evening waiting in the laundry room, making a good attempt at seeming busy with clothes that aren't his, until the last patron of the Death Match stumbles past him and down the hall. Then, he walks into the bar with a basket and loads up as many bottles as he can carry -- admittedly less than he could have before, but his hands have made an almost miraculous recovery since the injury. In their place, he leaves a pointed note behind the counter that reads: They won't go to waste.
It takes more than one trip to carry the majority of the stock from the bar to his room, and by the time he finishes unloading the last of it, he's already wondering why he went to all the trouble. There's better revenge for spilling beer on him on April Fools Day, especially when it won't exactly set them back, but it's the principle of the thing.
Moreover, he's not sure that his note was being entirely truthful after a few failed attempts at pouring the alcohol into a glass. Unless the owner suddenly knocks down his door, his evening has suddenly gone bust. He could probably drop it and make a call to shoot another game of pool, but even bantering and in a smokey room isn't so appealing when he's been inactive for too long. It's enough to drive a guy insane.]
[Hefting a sigh, he flips open the journal, with no particular purpose in mind.]
Is it just me, or does everything seem to be moving backwards? Between this and Florence, we keep going in the wrong direction. [Since he's obviously referring to their new 'Medieval' town that's becoming less charming as time goes on.] The dinosaurs too, now that I think about it. Talk about favoring the majority.
[Residents, he means. He's hoping one of them hears him.]
( Brock )
[He could preface this filter with something thoughtful, since he hasn't checked in since the coma and Brock has his own stuff, but he assumes that it's all implied with the act of filtering to him at all.]
How's the car running?
ooc: Basically this is Spike trying to figure out his new loss by stealing all the alcohol. Also open for running into him in the laundry room or anywhere along his path.
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