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Vincent (king_of_gods) wrote in paxletalelogs,

Looked like Paul was probably going to have to pick him up from jail later on.

"I don't talk about shoes." Moistening his lips, rolling his neck and shoulders back to set them straight and smooth his spine, his mouth parched and his throat throbbed with anger. Somehow, the air became a little more dry around them, commingled as it was with mint, smoke, and cavalier imbeciles. A little more crisp and trickling with a barely distinguishable static...

Vince reached forward swiftly, grabbing (as tenderly as possible.) the wrist of his dearly valued and adored, trouble and douche bag magneting chum, and guided her sweetness and softness with just enough force to wrangle her out of his way from the drunken, death wishing man who spoke so carelessly, and deposited her gently into the seat in which he once sat in, from where he now stood up at his full height.

"I talk about money." he'd announced, oh so arrogantly, oh so haughtily and dripping with a complex of superiority, a hand reaching behind him toward the live cinder that still burned with an orange incandescence. While he, as often men do, proceeded closer with just his chest to intimidate him.

On second thought ...

Retreating his hand, he assembled a better plan that would be much more amusing. There was a table directly behind him practically screaming this guys name, should he even make one move to put hands on Lia, or him. Imagine where his hands have been, Vince thought, somehow able to stir his hygienic, prissy concerns even in an event like this. Not for himself, but for her. He didn't mind getting dirty.

"Since I make it, mother fucker."