carnivale NOCTURNE, threading and logs

Who: Bobby & Hope
What: In which some popcorn goes missing.
When: Mid-afternoon, May 27
Where: The Midway
Rating: Low

Sometimes, being dead was a real drag. Sure, there were things about it that were fun, like being able to walk through walls, or scare the crap out of snotty little kids in the fun house, but then there were the downsides--no sleeping, no touching, no drinking, no eating. The last one was the hardest; Bobby loved food, and doing without it, in spite of all the fantastic smells permeating the carnival after dark, was borderline maddening. On the days when he just couldn't stand it anymore--and there were a surprising number of those--Bobby, in a fit of weakness, would duck down to the local hospital (or, if he was really desperate, the morgue) and jack a body (he preferred the uninjured, comatose ones, but he'd take what he could get) and run off to stuff his face with as many french fries, milkshakes, and Hostess cupcakes as he could.

Today was different, however. Today, it was caramel corn he was after, and, having swiped a large helping from one of the--foolishly--unlocked booths along the Midway, he'd hidden himself out of sight behind one of the tents to enjoy it.

"God, whoever invented this stuff should be up for sainthood, cause it tastes effing miraculous."

Who: Bobby & Siobhan
What: Being dead has its advantages.
When: 3 PM
Where: By the water
Rating: Low

Puck was late. At least, as far as Bobby was concerned, he was. He'd banked on the imp rolling out of bed from his latest romp, getting dressed, and going in search of food sometime in the early afternoon, and now it was three o' clock, with nary a peep from Puck's trailer. Granted, Bobby had been hoping for slightly more than a peep; he'd spent a week's pay on the strongest itching powder he could find, and sprinkled it in every pair of Puck's boxers, and damn it, that was worth at least a frustrated scream or two. It didn't seem like that was going to happen, however; at least, no anytime soon.

Sighing, Bobby leaned back on his elbows and dipped his toes a little further into the creek running past the carnival site. He couldn't feel the water passing through his feet, except when he spent the energy and concentration necessary to make himself solid, but there was something about the act that was comfortable, familiar.

"Come on, lover boy; hurry the hell up," he grumbled. "I'm bored."