milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

*Meg's sitting at a booth in the bar, with a fire extinguisher well within her sights.

Theoretically, she's working on a lesson plan.

But every fifteen seconds or so, her eyes dart up, scanning the bar for dancing. Which alas means she has not made much progress on the aforementioned lesson plan.*

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Hopefully, *Meg points out,* by the time we install one the demon will be gone. Defeated. Driven into the land of the Loompas to make them sing and dance forevermore - the petit branleurs can handle it. And they've got, you know, ice cream to put them out in case they catch on fire.

"An interesting resolution," she says musefully. "Wouldn't it be more just if the demon was not allowed to inflict his curse on people... or things? And possibly forced to listen to really one really horrible song on repeat, for all eternity... or at least a suitable jail sentence."

As long as no one in the bar has to sing, dance, or burst into flames against their will, *Meg says, firmly,* it's all the same to me.

I've never been big on the whole vengeance thing. I'd just prefer the problem gone.

"Then, that's where we differ," Goldy says with a hint of darkness. "Then again, sometimes forgiveness is the best form of revenge." She is covering her bases carefully, one might say.

*Meg shrugs, eloquently.*

Well - I mean, I'm dead, you know? And the guy who killed me's long gone - past the reach of revenge or justice, you might say.

If I let it be a big thing for me, I'd never get over it. Better just to let things go.

"It all depends on the situation, really," she admits with an agreeable nod. "In this case, I'm similarly open to any solution that takes the song and dance out of the equation."

Wine glugs into Goldy's empty glass, poured by an attentive Tashka. Only once she has lifted the bottle away and set it aside does she start moving to an unheard bassline, toprocking breakdance-style. She knee drops to the tabletop and works her way through a traidtional six-step, then transitions into a neat head swipe. The show ends with a particularly graceful airbaby freeze, then she flips to her feet and scampers off sheepishly.

Goldy stares.

*Meg is already up on the chair, back pressed against the table, eyes wide and panicked.

Only when Tashka moves on does Meg let herself relax and release the breath she's been holding.*

- that one was close.

"Close to what?" Goldy says, not quite understanding the reason for the fear.

*Meg is still eyeing the departing waitrat, nervously.*

The first time Kitty and I sang - we got attacked.

A mob of waitrats - they were singing and dancing and doing the macarena and trying to gag us, and frankly if we were not both fantastically awesome dancers I'm not sure we would have made it out of there.

Dubiously, "so, not really attacked. More like, backed. With bonus gagging attempts."

There was a mob of them, *Meg says, defensively.* I think some of them were even waving tiny pitchforks!

"Maybe they were just... forks?" She holds one up for comparisons sake. "Also, I think a group of rats is more correctly refered to as a rabble, but... same difference."

It's not that she doesn't believe Meg. It's fun to antagonize-slash-mock, and she doesn't get many openings with the ever-liberal Meg.

"Were there burning torches that were actually short taper candles for eating by?"

*With dignity:* They had us cornered. On a table.

. . . also, have you ever seen a rat doing the macarena? It's enough to justify my reaction and beyond, I think.

"I suspect I would find it more amusing, or bemusing, than scary. But... whatever." She pours Meg more wine and attempts a more soothing tone. "It's over now, anyway. Just relax and... oh, how is the teaching gig going?"

Distraction and alcohol seems like the best plan.

Just started earlier this week, *Meg says, breaking into a smile,* and - it's been the best thing about this whole week, to be honest. Maybe even this whole month.

"Well, there you go!" she says happily. "It's not all chorus lines and combustion."

"I took on a new student myself, actually."

*Meg tilts her head.*

- someone else who wants to learn to shoot? *she asks; and, to her credit, her voice is entirely natural.*

"Not really; though that will be part of it. She's in for the full schooling experience."

*Meg leans back in her booth, stretching her arms up so they crack behind her back.*

Well, that ought to be fun - anyone I know?

A shrug. "Maybe. You seem to know most everyone here."

"A young girl by the name of Mary Lennox."

*Meg thinks a moment, before shaking her head, with a cheerful shrug.*

Nope - her I don't think I know. How old is she?

"Ten. With all the brattiness that entails. Then again, it takes one to know one," she concludes with a grin.

"She's an orphan, and, as such, hasn't had the most pleasant upgringing for various reasons. Feisty, drives a hard bargain, likes gardening, and has a talent for attracting large violent mammals."

. . . good luck, *Meg says, amused.*

And wear a helmet or something.

"Heh. Thanks. Perhaps... a pith helmet," she says cryptically.

- those are the things the British wear, right? *Meg hazards.*

But, I mean, I could be wrong. I'm not exactly an army expert. And . . . they're not actually meant to do much good against wild animals.

(no subject)

3rdtimelucky.livejournal.com - 2006-03-31 06:09 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

balletrat - 2006-03-31 06:10 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only