(no subject)

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick is sidled into a booth with a stack of newspapers. Artlessly mussed hair that has seen a hand anxiously tearing through it once too many times, head bent over the current article that he scissoring out(--ake sure the wires are exposed and plug it in) of the newspaper. Breathy, hitching laughter and anxious twitchy smiles over his project. The sleeves of his shirt are unbuttoned and rolled up past his elbows, fingers smudged with ink (--the live wires and touch--). Paisley tie loose, collar gaping, and the rumpled jacket of the navy blue Armani suit is balled up beside him.

Comments

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

[ooc: Wishes to tag, but cannot find e-mail address and suggests you look over here (http://community.livejournal.com/ways_back_room/2350889.html) ().]

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

[ooc: Misery loves company. *grin*]

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

"Patrick."

It's a breathy purr, as Mal slips into the seat across from him.

"And how are you?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Fan-fucking-tastic."

A disjointed twist of his head of his head to side (decapitated), and he is looking at her with dilated, vacant eyes. The grin stretches from (throat slit)ear to ear. After a beat; "That ain't workin', that's the way you do it. Money for nothin' and your chicks for free."

"I want my MTV."

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

"I don't know what that is, dear."

Focusing on his throat, licking her lips.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

While he snips out an article with a certain ferocity, he reads it out loud, "Crazy is not the official definition of my mental problem, but I don’t think asocial disorder fits it, either, because that-- makes me sound like I’m a serial killer or something. I’ve never hurt another human being, or, at least, not physically," he finishes.

"Have you had days like that? Days that make you feel like shining up a shotgun and walking straight into a Starbucks"

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

"Again, don't know what Starbucks is."

Shrugs, "But I have days like that all the time."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He laughs at her, shoulders shaking, and he laughs a little more and a little louder until he sweeps his thumb under to eye to catch the amused tear. "You know nothing at all, do you? Do you?" Another rising laugh. "Dumb little bitch." He tears at the newspaper (a sorority initiation, two girls turn into zombies and start killing and eating the locals).

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

"Excuse me."

One cold hand on his, hard, nails digging in briefly.

"What?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Sweet, as only saccharine can be sweet, also prone to causing cancer in large (remember, never drink Tab. Drink Diet Coke, it's the real thing) amounts. "You heard me, didn't you?" Indifferent, he can't feel the cold.

"Or, do you need me to speak much more s-l-o-w-l-y so that you can understand the words. Even then, I think you might need help."

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

There's anger, and she snatches the hand away.

"You've never heard of different worlds, have you?"

Bares her fangs in disdain.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Just another dirty foreigner taking up space, breathing our air. Countries need to learn how to throw trash like you away." He spits at her, lips wet with saliva. "Not good for anything at all. All of you need to have shorter lifespans if we can't keep you in order."

[not-one-drop.livejournal.com]

She wipes spittle from her cheek.

"Immortal. You'd like to be, wouldn't you?"

Licks the tip of one fang, "I could arrange that."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He answers quickly with, "I've come across decomposed bodies that are less offensive than you are." A sheen of sweat across his forehead, he licks his lips and tastes salt.

[mogget_cat]

*Yrael watches, idly curious, leaning slightly over the back of the booth behind Patrick. He wonders of what significance the articles are.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He is the rubber-band pulled back, tensed, ready to snap. Clipping articles with a fevered determination. There is an advertisement for a hardware store (a coupon, 10% your next visit) and he is muttering to himself, "Nothing binds better than barbed wire. Not only is it as good as hand cuffs and shackles, but believe me they do not even attempt to move too much."

[mogget_cat]

*They say curiosity killed the cat. Yrael says the cat must have been a genetic throwback.*

*Of course, Yrael isn't a cat.*

*A fine-boned, pale hand is reached forward to snag one of the clipped pieces so Yrael can read it. Rather boring, Yrael thinks.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

(The article is about an investigation concerning the death of a young woman. There was one possible witness, a figure seen in a yellow raincoat. But did Alice indeed kill her sister? Or is she just terribly misunderstood?) Patrick's eyes flick to-and-from the hand and back again, laughing lightly. He is humming, mouthing a few lines of Phil Collin's Home.

[mogget_cat]

*There's a fire that's been burning
Right outside my door;
I can't see but I feel it
And it helps to keep me warm.*

*Interesting. Yrael doubts the person in the yellow raincoat will come forward with testimony. The article is replaced in the pile by the same hand, and Yrael goes back to watching, wondering what song it is that is being hummed.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He holds up his index finger, pausing midway through the removal of an article to share, "Tidbit of information. Peter Gabriel and Sting sing backup vocals in the chorus." He chuckles and continues to talk, not quite focused, "The song, Take Me Home may be about a person in an insane asylum--There's no point escaping, I don't worry anymore...I've been a prisoner all my life... They don't think that I listen, Oh but I know who they are..."

[mogget_cat]

*Yrael doesn't know who Peter Gabriel or Sting are, but it's a nice bit of info to know, he supposes.*

Asylums do not usually lend themselves to song. At least, not in the conventional sense.

*Yrael knows the songs of screams, yes. He knows the Music of despair and desperation and brokenness. He could sing it, but he doesn't, at the moment.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Funny farm, loony bin, madhouse, nuthouse, laughing academy, ha-ha hotel, puzzle factory, wack shack." He grins, off-kilter.

[mogget_cat]

*amusedly said to the back of Patrick's head* State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

*That's where the serial killers go. Yrael's been reading.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

The back of Patrick's head tilts to the side, with a violent wrench of his head he is now peering over his shoulder at Yrael. His lips pull into a tight little smile.

He pauses for a breath before speaking, "Samuel Fuller's honest, visionary pulp film uses an insane asylum as a metaphor for American society. The inmates include a black man who thinks he's a white supremacist, a Korean War Vet who thinks he's a Civil War Confederate general, and a nuclear physicist who has reverted to childhood. This microcosm, which Fuller created in 1963, has lost none of its force over time. In addition, the film's treatment of journalistic hubris foreshadows the contemporary problem of media becoming corrupted by its compliant association with governmental elites."

[mogget_cat]

*Yrael grins down at him, his head resting on his crossed arms on the back of the booth, catty in more ways than just his eyes.*

So... which inmate most metaphorically represents you, or would you be your own inmate alltogether?