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Dec. 16th, 2015


Who: Brett and Eris
What: Hiring
Where: Brett's trailer
When: mid day
Warnings/Rating: N/A

I look forward to working together )

Dec. 8th, 2015


Brett T/Public

[Brett T]

I told you if you said it out loud you'd get jinxed by some random annoying person trying to get a hold of you.

I talked to Cat. If you want some extra work, you're going to need to contact her. Either phone or on the forum. Discuss schedule and all that. You're welcome.


Everyone is sitting around waiting for Star Wars to come out, and I'm here counting down the days for The Hateful Eight.

Nov. 30th, 2015


Trailer Park: Brett T & Sasha J

Who: Brett & Sasha
What: Sasha confronts the roaming locksmith.
Where: Trailer Park
When: As Sasha is relocating.
Warnings/Rating: Some swearing. Complete.

If this was one of those legitimate mythical good samaritans she had only ever heard about, she wanted to meet them. It was the equivalent of finding a unicorn being ridden around by a leprechaun to chase bigfoot. )

Nov. 28th, 2015


Trailer Park: Dahlia & Brett

Who: Dahlia & Brett
What: In need of a Good Samaritan. And probably a hug.
Where: The trailer park.
When: After midnight.
Warnings/Rating: Cutting for swears. Rest TBD.

Divine intervention couldn't come fast enough. )

Nov. 22nd, 2015


Trailer Park: Brett T & Cris M

Who: Brett Trent & Cris Martin
What: a disturbance
Where: The Trailer Park
When: Saturday night
Warnings/Rating: TBD

He still wore a watch, huh? It was 2015, deep in November, and Cris wore a wristwatch. It was more convenient than his phone, least for a guy like him. He kept his phone on his hip, amid handcuff case, magazine pouches, flashlight holder, holster, radio, blah, blah, blah. There was a lotta stuff. Standard blues (plus winter fare) and standard patrol gear and it was easier to just turn your wrist and see the time, displayed in analogue. It was how he knew now it wasn't even ten o'clock, and somehow all the deputies were out on calls or their (kinda pointless) beats, leaving the sheriff as the guy to take the call 'bout somebody making lotsa sound in his trailer. Maybe it was a fight, the caller offered, 'cause the guy in that trailer—Brett Trent, he had a lotta anger problems. It wasn't even ten o'clock and Cris snagged the thin can of an energy drink, tossed his hat into the passenger seat of his patrol car, and made his way out to see Brett Trent, former deputy.

It still wasn't even ten o'clock when the tiresa that car crunched up on cement, no blue, red, and white, no siren. The guy sat for a second. He sat, looking at the trailer, dark, quick eyes scanning the façade for anything that might help inform his approach here—stuff like, was the lawn kept up or not, were the shutters open or closed, broken or not. Were the lights on, door open, anybody around. Headlights flooded the scene before him, and he surveyed before he cut them and black fell around again, rushing in like water swamping a ship.

Cris put his hat on, he radioed that he'd arrived, and he got outta the car. The night was cold. He nudged the zippera his jacket up his throat, unclasped the holstera his gun, and went to the front door, listening for anything inside. He hadn't missed making domestic calls, huh?—He knocked and called out in a voice that was all Bronx vowels in New York narrow. "Mr. Trent, it's the police. I'd like to talk. Would you mind opening the door?"