Fisher reagrded James' advice seriously. "No, I didn't offer him any," he admitted. "I called him a Nazi pig and spat in his face, telling him he was about to get AIDS." He chuckled softly. "Your way probably would've led to a lot fewer hits with the stick. And even if it didn't work, at least I couldn't get into any more trouble."
When James mentioned girl pants and guyliner, Fisher laughed out loud. Trying to picture James in quasi-drag was like trying to picture James Dean in a toga... the two just didn't fit. But then again, Johnny Depp had made guyliner sexy, so who knows. "I bet you looked hot," Fisher teased. "Smokey eyeliner bringing out the baby blues, the tight girl pants cupping your butt lovingly." He giggled. "Must have been a pretty picture."
"Ew, a urinal cake?" He shuddered. "Was it new, or pre-used? I mean either way it's gross, but... ick." Talk about gag-worthy. He could only nod in agreement when James said being rich was handy. It was true. Life had been so easy while Fisher had been rich, especially since it hadn't been his money. And then he was homeless and life was harder than impossible. And now he was living in a lavish school with his own bank account that, last he'd checked, held $40,000 of money that again wasn't his. And again, life was impeccably easy. All he had to deal with was controlling/dealing with being a medium, and in the grand scheme of things that wasn't so hard.
"We should probably get heading back," Fisher said after awhile, when he felt his butt hit the sand of the shore. "My immune system ain't what it used to be." He got to his feet, water running down his legs. "Brr, now the air is cold." He squished his way back toward his clothing, scratchy sand clinging to his feet and ankles.