milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As much as he tried to convince himself that he wasn't getting sick, Tommy wasn't immune to that weird flu that's been going around after all.

Because now his name isn't Tommy. It's Wayne.

And after several days of not shaving in his flu-ridden delirium, he decided to give himself a mustache.

"Aw, c'mon, Miss Bar," he says, his usually rapid New York City bark replaced with a slow, Midwestern drawl. "You can't deny a fella just one sip of whiskey, now can you?"

A napkin appears. Yes, she can. Because of reasons.

Wayne sighs. Deeply, and sadly. Almost depressive, defeated. His shoulders hunched over, he slouches on a bar stool and lights a cigarette with tremulous fingers.

And yes, he's wearing a straw cowboy hat.

[OOC: Probably one of the last victims of the IMDb flu! Tommy is now Wayne from a movie called Jesus' Son.]

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"We sell maddic carputs," he says without preamble. "I hep by using maguk do lift de carpits fur de cudsomers."

Seems as though the worse Rabastan's cold gets, the more Wayne needs an interpreter, but he listens carefully and picks out the words, eventually nodding with understanding.

"Wow. Talk about having exactly the right skills for that particular career. Me, I do all sorts of stuff around town, whatever's payin'. Construction, electrics, moving, salvage jobs." He shrugs. "It's a living."

And he orders a bowl of soup for himself.

Rhinovirus to English doesn't exist yet.

"Udd jubbin'?" he asks, right before he lets off a good sneeze.

Into the tissue. Don't worry.

At this point, it's like trying to understand someone through a drug-induced haze.

"Right, odd jobbin'," he repeats once he figures out what Rabastan has said. "Basically anything to make a quick buck, y'know?"

And it's okay, he lets loose a good sneeze of his own as well. Even if they don't have the same thing, maybe their germs will get confused and cancel each other out.

Someone about as eloquent as a drunkard.

"Yuh. Uh needid munny so I gut de job wid the carput sellr."

Hey. That might one day prove to be the cure to IMDb Flu.

"Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do," he says, bobbing his head in a nod.

"So, you been comin' in here long?"

"Oh guddnes," he says, sniffing. "Ben cimming hur for yurs now."

The narration is amused at the restraint in the choice of vowel substitution in the world "coming."

"Really? No shit. I've only just... Huh."

And he trails off, distracted and bewildered by a sudden thought. He doesn't actually remember the first time he came here. Was it yesterday? Was it years ago?

"That's strange, I-- I don't seem to recall exactly how I got here. I woke up in someone else's bed, and-- well, there I was, and here I am."

"Yuh dunt?"

He scratches at his chin. Ugh. A shave may be in order.

Neither he or his girlfriend are crazy about stubble.

"Wull. Um. Seems dat habbens sumbdimes. Nut uffin, bud sumtimes."

That may not be the most comforting thing to hear, but how is something like this supposed to be explained?

"Maybe it's this weird flu thing goin' 'round that's messing with my memory. Uh, you don't happen to-- how do I say this-- not feel like yourself?"

By the time Tommy comes back to himself, he'll wonder how that mustache got on his face.

It used to be every month that I didn't, he thinks to himself, grateful that the moon's pull no longer rules over him like it once did.

"Cud be. I dunno. Beun sick cun make yur hed funneh."

"Mm, maybe," he grunts thoughtfully with a shrug. "Three quarters of a bottle of cold medicine could prob'ly do that, too. And that was damn good cold medicine."

A beat.

"Hey, maybe you should try it."

He drank three quarters of a bottle of cold medicine? And he's not high as a kite?

"Dun thick I need dat much do ged bedder."

But he's willing to try it.

Anything to keep him from dribbling mucus like a leaky faucet.

Who says he ain't high as a kite right now? He has a very high tolerance for alcohol-- er, medication that contains at least 25% alcohol, in this case.

"Well, you might not hafta take as much. It's called NyQuil. It's green."

And it's awesome.

"Bar might be able to provide you with some."

NyQuil. Okay.

"Kun I hab sum Nykwil?" he asks.

The bottle appears, with instructions, a spoon and a tiny plastic cup, as his preference for taking Muggle medicine is not known.

"Tabe dwo spunfils," he reads, then examines the cup.

How much does he have to pour into it to equal one spoon?

Augh, Muggle maths.

Wayne notes his confusion, and so reaches over to take the little transparent cup. He holds it up to the light so they can better see the measurements on the side of it.

"See there? That's two spoonfuls," he says, indicating the clear line with his fingernail, and then gives him back the cup.

"I prefer to estimate, but to each his own. Prob'ly best that you follow the instructions if you ain't never took this stuff before."

It probably helps you if you've taken the stuff before, he chides himself, pouring out the liquid.

He'd snort at the medical scent if he could smell anything right now. Being as stuffed up as he is, you could probably let off a roomful of stink bombs before he finally noticed anything fragrant.

"Do spunfuls."

Down the hatch.

It's the green flavor! It has not been scientifically determined what exactly is the green flavor, but when one says 'the green flavor,' people usually know what it means -- that vague, minty-ish, menthol-y, syrupy taste. Just like 'the purple flavor' ostensibly means 'grape.'

"'S the closest thing to knockin' back a shot of Jaegermeister."

Rabastan does not know about green flavours and purple flavours. But he grimaces all the same.

Look on the bright side. Bar didn't slip you Buckley's for a laugh.

"Wud's Yaygurmyster?"

"Oh, it almost tastes kinda like that stuff," he says, pointing to the bottle of NyQuil, "'cept it's booze. And there's no medicinal qualities to it. Well. Actually, that's debatable, 'cause enough of it can knock you out for a long time. Oh, speakin' of which, I hope you don't plan on operating any heavy machinery or-- or casting complicated spells or whatever, 'cause NyQuil can fuck you up real nice. It's a good thing you took the required dosage."

It's a confused yellow stare Tommy!not!Tommy gets.

I dun thunk I'd be dun addy cumplucated mugik."

To say nothing of the fact he can't drive anything with an engine in it.

"Well, that's good. You don't wanna try to conjure up one thing and end up with another. And you'll sleep a lot better, too. Won't know what hit you."

He gives him an encouraging look, because the NyQuil experience really isn't that bad!

Good or bad it sure is different from what he's known all his life.

Still, he's going to keep the NyQuil in the hopes it'll eventually cure what ails him.

"Thunk I'm beung hut rige nuw."

Yeah it's starting to take effect.

"Thunk I'm felung bedder."

Is it the actual medicinal properties alleviating his symptoms, or the alcohol covering them up? In any case, if it makes Rabastan feel a little less ill, its job is done.

Wayne bobs his head in a deep nod. "See? There ya go. Told'ja it'd work. If you take a couple hits throughout the day, just be sure you're in a comfy spot before you pass out."

Could be something else. All he feels is a sensation somewhere between his eyebrows.

"Ull do dat," he says, thinking that he'll probably go easy on this stuff.

It's Muggle-made. Who knows what Muggle potions can do?

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