milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Fry slams the door behind him when he comes into the bar tonight, clutching a small black object. He looks around quickly, hoping to spot Gene, and then goes over to the bar.

"Bar, have you seen Gene? I need police advice or I might have to go on the run." he says.

This is the last time he takes advice from anyone with a pink moustache.

[ooc: Not plotlocked, but all threads millitimed to before Gene's]

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"Why? How many people did you kill?"

Because that's really the only reason anyone should ever need to go on the run. Wilford knows from experience.

"Nobody." Fry says. "All I tried to do was grow a really big bean."

Okay, Wilford is way too drunk for this conversation.

"What?"

"I took the parental lock off the internet like you told me to." Fry says. "And tried to see how much it would cost to get things to make my bean bigger, like fertiliser, and radioactive stuff. Like in Jack and the Beanstalk."

"Okay?"

Wilford is so confused right now. Maybe a bite of his steak will help.

Nope, still confused.

"So, what? You ordered some nuclear waste on the internet and the feds intercepted your package?"

What the hell is going on?

"I tried to order a tonne of fertiliser by mistake instead of a bag." Fry says. "And now there are some men at the house and they think I'm a terrorist."

He shows Wilford the ID they handed him to show his mum when he answered the door.

Wilford looks at the ID.

"Oh, yeah. You're fucked."

He's so helpful.

Fry starts to flap his hands slightly. Wilford is not helpful.

"They're talking to my mum."

"Well, if your mom's got any sense, she'll shout about how you're a seven year old who stole her credit card and scare them off."

Fran seems like the type of person who would shout at a cop.

"I'm eight." Fry says.

"Whatever."

Wilford can't even keep track of his own age half the time. How's he supposed to keep track of Fry's?

"I'm scared and I don't know what to do." Fry says.

"Crying might help, in your situation."

More whiskey. Maybe he's not drunk enough for this.

"Oh piss off." Fry says. "Even I'm not going to fall for that."

"Yep, you're fucked."

Come on, Fry. You have to at least try.

"I guess I'll be seeing you in thirty years."

"Shut up, it's not funny!" Fry shouts, crossly.

"I'll stay here until I find Gene. Or someone who's actually helpful."

Of course it is.

"I told you. Just cry. Get some snot on them. Nobody likes getting snot on them."

Wilford is very drunk right now, and may not even be aware of what helpful is.

"But then I'll be close enough to get arrested." Fry says.

"That's... not how it works. Trust me."

Again, he knows from experience.

He doesn't trust him.

"When were you first arrested?"

Wilford has to think about this question. He takes another drink of his whiskey while he considers his answer.

"Are we talking about a ride to the police station so my folks could pick me up, or handcuffs and rights?"

"Both." Fry says.

"About your age?" Wilford guesses. "Didn't get the whole song and dance until I was eleven."

And look at him now: a respected member of polite society.

For the most part.

"What for?" Fry asks.

Wilford shrugs. "I don't know. Throwing rocks or something? It was a long time ago."

Or does Fry mean the one when he was eleven?

Who cares? There's still steak on his plate that needs to be eaten.