Mar. 28th, 2010



"Fuckin'... Christ."  Ryan's gym bag hit the floor, punctuating the impiety with a dull thud.  While no one in the Stanley's piecemeal excuse for a  fitness center would mistake the slight-framed D.J. for a bodybuilder, it was not for lack of effort on his part. 

"I can assure you... I am not fucking Christ."  Per usual, Rocky was rooted firmly in front of the almost comically-large flat-screen, saving the world one level at a time via his ancient-ass Nintendo.  "Besides," he added, never one to miss a beat,  "he's hardly my type."

"Well, shet... " Much like Ryan's muscle tone, the slight effeminate timbre that had crept into his roommate's voice was barely noticeable, but distinct enough that the former could not help but mock it on occasion.  "I'm torn between 'go fuck yourself,' which... you'd take as a suggestion, and 'go to hell,' which... you aspire to do.  Goddamn, you suck."

"Only if you have cash, luscious," retorted Rocky primly. "And Rophenol," he added after a moment's thought. "Might... circumvent the whole awkward Coyote Ugly morning-after bullshit."

"Yeah, I'll get right on that.  Jesus... I'm not fuckin' Parker, for Chrissake.  And don't... " he caught himself quickly -- the use of both blasphemy and innuendo as adjectives around Rocky tended more often than not to open doors he'd rather leave closed, locked, and deadbolted.