milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Now, it's just a right lovely evenin', wouldn't you find yourself sayin'?

One've them where somewhere round about the place there's some fool of a poet tryin' to write up the evenin' in iambic pentameter, or maybe as a sestina. Or a sestina in iambic pentameter, it surely wouldn't surprise me none at all.

Meanwhile, while them poets get into a fight over rhyme schemes, over here by the fire there's that fool of a fellow Rabbit, sprawled 'cross one've them couches, with wood an' knife an' cigarette in hand.

How he manages to balance all three without droppin' somethin', stabbin' hisself in the foot, or settin' his own hair on fire, reckon I couldn't tell you even if he managed to explain it t'me.

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Mark would usually have some sort of cheerily sarcastic narration punctuating the scene, but at the moment, everything is quiet. As the other man speaks, Mark puts his camera down, turning slightly pink, and more than a bit awkward. "Oh, er, well, it's what I do, see. I'm making a documentary of the bar, so I'm filming shots of people doing what they normally do, and, well, I thought it was just a really neat shot. I'm sorry if it disturbs you or bothers you. I can edit it out."

"Oh, it don't bother me none," he replies, glancing up with a quick smile, before reaching over with his cigarette for the ashtray on the table beside him. "Only I reckon it's prolly for the best you not get your heart set on keepin' it in, 'cause I don't rightly know if it'll show up for ya."

Mark blinks. "Why wouldn't it show up? I mean, the camera just takes an image of what's in front of me." He pauses. "You're not like... a figment of my imagination, are you?" He pauses. "Perhaps I'm just hallucinating all this." It might actually make more sense than his life lately.

"Well, see, that's just it," he explains, helpfully. "You're expectin' t'see somethin', an' so you see it, but the camera's just a thing. Ain't got no expectations've me. Tries to show what's really there. Bit of a mess, really. But you might get lucky."

Mark blinks. "Wait, so are you some sort of Endless, that I see what I expect to? Or..." He trails off. "Who are you." Pause. "Ok, that sounded really rude, sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

He laughs.

"No, I ain't one've the seven of them. Just me."

For all that he ain't botherin' t'stand up, or even sit up, or nothin' like that at all, he's still managin' a quite decent and respectable bow.

"Called Rabbit, by them as do."

Mark feels like he should bow as well, but he just stands there, holding his camera awkwardly. "Well, nice to meet you, Rabbit. I'm, er, Mark Cohen."

Strange things in Milliways 1942, Mark Cohen 0.

Rabbit grins.

"Mark Cohen, who likes to film things, an' I'd reckon by the sound've it you're from New York."

That's the second time in a couple days that Mark's been pegged as from New York. He didn't realize he had that much of an accent. Then again, he has lived in Alphabet City for almost three years now.

He nods. "Yes. Alphabet City, actually, South end of Manhattan." He shrugs. "I rather like it."

"It was better 'fore all them buildings went up," Rabbit says absently, stubbing out the end of his cigarette and resettling on the couch to start rolling another.

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