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- Jun 1, 2021
Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: 6:30PM-8:30PM | Netherland Avenue
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Randy (@pixelated violet), Charlie (@Praxis)
Frank was a lot of things. A drunk, a failure, a lazy good for nothing sonuvabitch… but he was also a clever little bastard. A clever little bastard who, when given just the right amount of push, could let his desires supersede any lingering morals that may have been in their death throes up in the old noodle. Addiction is funny like that. As soon as Randy began his distraction, Frank devised a plan in a matter of seconds that would have made Danny Ocean choke to death on the absolute gall of it all. He could hear the Mission Impossible theme song playing in his head. He balled his hands into fists and let the whole damn town hear his knuckles crack.
It went like this.
As soon as the volunteers manning the booth stood up to go investigate Randy's excellently executed red herring, Frank's fingers got real sticky real fast. Two rolls of drink tickets sat unguarded and unnoticed on the table. There was no hesitation. There were no second thoughts. There was only action. Frank grabbed both rolls of tickets and took off like a bolt of lightning. He could hear people shouting behind him, but he didn't give a single shit and he didn't even think about looking back. He weaved through the crowd like a knife through butter, juking left and right, tucking both rolls into the interior pockets of his jacket as he made his way as far from that ticket booth as his two feet could take him. Back in high school, he had played football and was the fastest thing Dawn Chorus had seen in two decades, but that was a lot of years and a lot of cigarettes ago. By the time he reached the west end of Netherland Avenue, his lungs were on fire and every muscle ached beneath the weight of his age. He stood on the sidewalk with a hand on either thigh, doubled over and nearly coughing up his mortal remains, but by god, he did it. He fucking did it. That's what really matters.
It only took an hour of halfassed searching to find Rand again, sitting and bitching as he downed the last few drops of whiskey from his flask.. Frank just followed the smell of whiskey and Old Spice. Frank had already exchanged six tickets for a tray full of 'piss beer', approaching Randy with a shit-eating grin as wide as the Great Wall is long. "Ahh! I love it when a plan comes together, Randy ol' boy!" he practically shouted. "You smell that? Take it in. That's what we call a job well fuckin' done."
And so, just like that, the binge began.
The eastern side of Netherland Avenue was off limits for the rest of the night, but that didn't matter a single, solitary bit. Frank and Randy saddled up at one of the roped off high-top tables around the corner from The Mothlight and started measuring the evening in how many beers they could suck down. It was the perfect position for all their drinking needs. A beer vendor was stationed just a few feet away, there were plenty of girls going in and out of the bar to ogle at, and if either of their bellies decided it best to betray them on account of all the swill they were wantonly consuming, a row of porta potties were only a hop, skip and a jump up the street. As the sun began to set over Lake Gordon and turned everything all shiny and Halloween orange, Frank couldn't help but smile. It was a good day and, when you lived life like he did, you didn't get many of those.
Night, unfortunately, was a different story.
Six beers and an hour later, Frank was approaching the event horizon. He held onto the edge of the table for dear life. Every light he looked at was surrounded by a fuzzy halo and followed by a tendril of luminosity when he looked away. The spins came and went, his speech gone slurred and his jaw gone lazy as he stared across at Randy. "You… you wanna… you wanna know what happened to them missin' people…? I'll fuckin' tell you what happened," he said. "Aliens. Fuckin' aliens, man. Little green fuckers full-a piss and vinegar. Same ones that got me, in fact! Guaran-goddamn-tee it. Right now, those poor fucks are probably on The Mothership gettin' probed and cut up and drilled full-a holes. Ain't fuckin' right! You best believe I've been sleepin' with a–"
And then, as his eyes gazed out over the crowd, Frank's words took a sharp turn towards hopeless muttering when he just so happened to see a familiar face ambling by that he just couldn't bring himself to ignore.
Charlie, uniform and all. Gun in her holster, scanning the crowd with that look on her face Frank knew so well. So serious, almost scowling. Regal. An apex predator. Something to be feared. A goddamn reflection of everything he'd come to regret.
As a rule, Frank tried not to talk to Charlie any more than he absolutely had to. As a rule, she returned the favor in kind. Blood may be thick, but Frank had spent a good few years doing everything in his power to thin it. However, there's something to be said about alcohol, inhibitions, nostalgia, and the whims of a man swimming in the wake of his own self-destructive tendencies. It's easy to reminisce and it's even easier to get carried away. The sight of Charlie triggered the wrong neurons in Frank's addled brain and soon enough he was seeing memories from the past; memories that he'd done his best to drowned, but had suddenly learned how to swim.
"Stay here a minute, would'ja, Randy…?"
Frank didn't even look towards his compatriot when he said it. He didn't even realize his feet were already planting themselves on the ground or that he was already staggering towards his sister on faltering legs. Through a psychedelic blur of sound and vision, a half filled Solo cup sloshing in one hand while the other reached out to haphazardly push fellow festival goers out of the way, Frank found balance on Charlie's shoulder and began to lean in close so that she could hear him… before his wrist lost every ounce of coordination it might have otherwise had and that Solo cup went slipping from his grip.
It happened in slow motion.
Acting on instinct, Frank tried to grab the cup as it began to follow gravity's path to the ground below. The liquid contents within came splashing out with all the intensity of a water fountain set to eleven. Beneath the warmth of a street lamp's glow, the better part of 12 US fluid ounces of beer went pouring down the front of Charlie's uniform. You can hear the crowd gasp. You can hear a sad trombone playing. You can hear the sound of a skateboarding teenager screaming "ACAB!" as he rolls by.
You can hear the sound of Frank's good intentions breaking into a million tiny little pieces. Once upon a time, they were happy…
"Oh shit," Frank said. "Shit, Charles. Shit. I'm sorry! I was just want'n to say… uh… to say hi. How're you…?"
If Frank had the capacity to feel shame or embarrassment, he would have been crawling inside himself to die. Instead, with an invisible shovel clutched in his hand, he decided to dig his hole just a little bit deeper. Addiction is funny like that.
"How's…. Uh… how's dad?"
Time/Location: 6:30PM-8:30PM | Netherland Avenue
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: Randy (@pixelated violet), Charlie (@Praxis)
Frank was a lot of things. A drunk, a failure, a lazy good for nothing sonuvabitch… but he was also a clever little bastard. A clever little bastard who, when given just the right amount of push, could let his desires supersede any lingering morals that may have been in their death throes up in the old noodle. Addiction is funny like that. As soon as Randy began his distraction, Frank devised a plan in a matter of seconds that would have made Danny Ocean choke to death on the absolute gall of it all. He could hear the Mission Impossible theme song playing in his head. He balled his hands into fists and let the whole damn town hear his knuckles crack.
It went like this.
As soon as the volunteers manning the booth stood up to go investigate Randy's excellently executed red herring, Frank's fingers got real sticky real fast. Two rolls of drink tickets sat unguarded and unnoticed on the table. There was no hesitation. There were no second thoughts. There was only action. Frank grabbed both rolls of tickets and took off like a bolt of lightning. He could hear people shouting behind him, but he didn't give a single shit and he didn't even think about looking back. He weaved through the crowd like a knife through butter, juking left and right, tucking both rolls into the interior pockets of his jacket as he made his way as far from that ticket booth as his two feet could take him. Back in high school, he had played football and was the fastest thing Dawn Chorus had seen in two decades, but that was a lot of years and a lot of cigarettes ago. By the time he reached the west end of Netherland Avenue, his lungs were on fire and every muscle ached beneath the weight of his age. He stood on the sidewalk with a hand on either thigh, doubled over and nearly coughing up his mortal remains, but by god, he did it. He fucking did it. That's what really matters.
It only took an hour of halfassed searching to find Rand again, sitting and bitching as he downed the last few drops of whiskey from his flask.. Frank just followed the smell of whiskey and Old Spice. Frank had already exchanged six tickets for a tray full of 'piss beer', approaching Randy with a shit-eating grin as wide as the Great Wall is long. "Ahh! I love it when a plan comes together, Randy ol' boy!" he practically shouted. "You smell that? Take it in. That's what we call a job well fuckin' done."
And so, just like that, the binge began.
The eastern side of Netherland Avenue was off limits for the rest of the night, but that didn't matter a single, solitary bit. Frank and Randy saddled up at one of the roped off high-top tables around the corner from The Mothlight and started measuring the evening in how many beers they could suck down. It was the perfect position for all their drinking needs. A beer vendor was stationed just a few feet away, there were plenty of girls going in and out of the bar to ogle at, and if either of their bellies decided it best to betray them on account of all the swill they were wantonly consuming, a row of porta potties were only a hop, skip and a jump up the street. As the sun began to set over Lake Gordon and turned everything all shiny and Halloween orange, Frank couldn't help but smile. It was a good day and, when you lived life like he did, you didn't get many of those.
Night, unfortunately, was a different story.
Six beers and an hour later, Frank was approaching the event horizon. He held onto the edge of the table for dear life. Every light he looked at was surrounded by a fuzzy halo and followed by a tendril of luminosity when he looked away. The spins came and went, his speech gone slurred and his jaw gone lazy as he stared across at Randy. "You… you wanna… you wanna know what happened to them missin' people…? I'll fuckin' tell you what happened," he said. "Aliens. Fuckin' aliens, man. Little green fuckers full-a piss and vinegar. Same ones that got me, in fact! Guaran-goddamn-tee it. Right now, those poor fucks are probably on The Mothership gettin' probed and cut up and drilled full-a holes. Ain't fuckin' right! You best believe I've been sleepin' with a–"
And then, as his eyes gazed out over the crowd, Frank's words took a sharp turn towards hopeless muttering when he just so happened to see a familiar face ambling by that he just couldn't bring himself to ignore.
Charlie, uniform and all. Gun in her holster, scanning the crowd with that look on her face Frank knew so well. So serious, almost scowling. Regal. An apex predator. Something to be feared. A goddamn reflection of everything he'd come to regret.
As a rule, Frank tried not to talk to Charlie any more than he absolutely had to. As a rule, she returned the favor in kind. Blood may be thick, but Frank had spent a good few years doing everything in his power to thin it. However, there's something to be said about alcohol, inhibitions, nostalgia, and the whims of a man swimming in the wake of his own self-destructive tendencies. It's easy to reminisce and it's even easier to get carried away. The sight of Charlie triggered the wrong neurons in Frank's addled brain and soon enough he was seeing memories from the past; memories that he'd done his best to drowned, but had suddenly learned how to swim.
"Stay here a minute, would'ja, Randy…?"
Frank didn't even look towards his compatriot when he said it. He didn't even realize his feet were already planting themselves on the ground or that he was already staggering towards his sister on faltering legs. Through a psychedelic blur of sound and vision, a half filled Solo cup sloshing in one hand while the other reached out to haphazardly push fellow festival goers out of the way, Frank found balance on Charlie's shoulder and began to lean in close so that she could hear him… before his wrist lost every ounce of coordination it might have otherwise had and that Solo cup went slipping from his grip.
It happened in slow motion.
Acting on instinct, Frank tried to grab the cup as it began to follow gravity's path to the ground below. The liquid contents within came splashing out with all the intensity of a water fountain set to eleven. Beneath the warmth of a street lamp's glow, the better part of 12 US fluid ounces of beer went pouring down the front of Charlie's uniform. You can hear the crowd gasp. You can hear a sad trombone playing. You can hear the sound of a skateboarding teenager screaming "ACAB!" as he rolls by.
You can hear the sound of Frank's good intentions breaking into a million tiny little pieces. Once upon a time, they were happy…
"Oh shit," Frank said. "Shit, Charles. Shit. I'm sorry! I was just want'n to say… uh… to say hi. How're you…?"
If Frank had the capacity to feel shame or embarrassment, he would have been crawling inside himself to die. Instead, with an invisible shovel clutched in his hand, he decided to dig his hole just a little bit deeper. Addiction is funny like that.
"How's…. Uh… how's dad?"
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