Rico Palminteri (friends_notfood) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2010-12-15 20:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-08-05, rico |
I've got your pawns and your bishops and castles
Who: Gretel & Rico
Where: The river
When: Late morning
This was dumbassed. And Rico knew dumbassed.
Dumbassed was beating on the kid two years and just as many feet below you for automatically correcting your grammar, not realising they were actually a little OCD and that just happened to be one of their quirks.
Dumbassed was also calling a raincheck (very funny, Mama) on taking your son to the coast. The son that could roughly be described as a ticking timebomb of a sharkboy when the full moon was threatening to raise her head. And yeah, his mother would really rather he stayed inside today - and tonight, and tomorrow - but no. That would end badly and he'd be damned if he was spending the next few days sulking at the bottom of the family fish tank. And sure, his little sisters seemed to find it cool that, come that time of the month, they had their own version of Seaworld in the basement. But they didn't seem to realise that while they were staring at him swimming around, he was staring right back. And he didn't like feeling like a goddamn freak show. He definitely wasn't going to be doing impressions of Shamu.
After two breakfasts - he was hungry - Rico had declared the apparent home arrest FUBAR and used his hybrid form to coerce his sister into letting him out the house. Nobody liked trying to converse with the mute shark-face. Mostly because he had too many teeth to close his mouth properly. It would have been the ideal time to crack out the Finding Nemo jokes, but he couldn't be bothered writing them out and he needed to get out the house before his Mama caught him. She'd make him put a jacket on and there really wasn't any point.
Standing on what would have been the river bank if it hadn't chosen to break out enough to cause trouble, he stared into the water. There was a nagging in his head that told him he'd get his ass handed back to him by merbitches if he went in there. Whatever. His shoes, socks and t-shirt were left on the bank - the only reason he bothered taking any of it off was because there were fish in there and chasing them as a human was no kind of fun - and he waded in in jeans that were already soaked by the rain. It wasn't like he could feel the cold. He could smell that, though. Scents didn't carry from water to air very well, but it didn't make much difference when your nose was about a centimetre from the surface. Which suicidal idiot put chum - or what really fucking smelled like it - into a river that probably housed merfolk? His stomach really wanted to find out. Even after two breakfasts he gave up treading water in favour of following the current to find where it was coming from.