Mad Sweeney 🍀 | American Gods (wholovesthesun) wrote in madisonvalley, @ 2020-02-05 20:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | !closed, !log, mad sweeney (wholovesthesun), ~2020 february, ~~lyra belacqua (alethiometer) |
Who: Lyra Belacqua and Mad Sweeney
What: Sober meeting
When: Early Wednesday afternoon
Where: Out in front of the Madison Valley Addiction Center
Rating: Language, alcoholism, TBD
Fucking angel. If he hadn't done what he had, Sweeney would've still had money, but as it was, the angel had and so Sweeney hadn't. Of course he knew that it was his own damn fault, him and his insurmountable bad luck. It was almost two weeks since Moon Shadow had stuck Gungnir right through his chest, when the man hadn't simply gotten out of the way, and sent him to this piss poor excuse of an afterlife, two weeks with his fancy bit of plastic now worthless as the Sun's Treasure far as this place was concerned.
Bloodshot eyes squinted up at the Madison Valley Addiction Center sign, a beacon of hope for the repressed. Sweeney snorted, rubbing the heel of a hand against his forehead. What a load of bullshit. He had caved the past few nights, bunking down in his fancy little apartment, even took a bath in his fancy little bathtub. Is this what this place wanted? Conformity? To buckle under the pressures of life without luck and living hand-to-mouth? He hadn't seen hide or tail of anyone from home, not Shadow or Grimnir, which was good all the same as the only words he had to give them rhymed with "muck trough". Granted, the Irishman knew he hadn't endeared himself to anyone in Madison yet, and he had no desire to in the future. It was a very delicate situation, not giving a shit. Instead of embracing community and thriving, he had chose to alienate and drive away, certain that if he acted like a big asshole then eventually the persons in charge of this place would toss him out on his ear, back to the nothingness of oblivion that awaited him. Turns out, the persons in charge were tougher nuts to crack than he had initially thought.
Muttering to himself, Mad Sweeney dug a hand into a pocket of his jean jacket. Grabbing out a handful of coins along with an empty individual-size chip bag, he dropped it all onto the ground at his feet and stuck his hand back into the pocket. Grabbing out a dented metal flask, he shook it, empty, and chucked it down onto the ground, digging back into his pocket a third and final time. Finally, he was rewarded with a fist full of more bloody coins and his want: his lighter. Dropping the coins to the sidewalk along with the others, he plucked an old cigarette from behind an ear and brought it to his mouth to light it, clicking the lighter. Clicking it again, the lighter not catching, he tried again and again, growing angrier by the second and finally gave up, chucking it down to the ground where it hit a coin and skittered off a few feet.