Who: Adelaide and Sarge Where: His shack, Dog Park What: A man can't die in peace When: Backdated to the day after the blobbing
The pointlessness of it all is pretty funny. Except for the fact that he will die due to a string of stupid coincidences, and that shit ain't funny, Sarge knows that without a doubt, even though some people claim his funny bone has been surgically removed years ago. There is plenty of time for him to ponder all the minuscule details of the events that lead to his slow demise, he is, after all, quarantined. Not quite as bad as jail, but at least in some aspects a lot worse. You don't know if you will die in prison. Sure, some asshole can shank you any time you look at him wrong, breathe at him, make fun of his mother or flick your lame excuse for peas at him. Sarge may or may not have done all of the above, especially the peas, because what other purpose do they serve than tiny, squishy projectiles? Nobody eats peas.
Now he sits here, on the bed he made with is own hands, looking for all intents and purposes as if he is very committed to stare a hole through the bare wall on the other side of the shack. A window could have been nice over there, probably. Lets in more light. More light to show all the dust particles swirling around lazily in this stale air. He will not open the windows, because that requires walking over and chancing a look outside. At the people that are living their normal lives out there. Normal as it gets these days. He will not do that. Because he might feel something, and he has quite enough of all the feelings, more than he can stand to deal with. Sarge never had a high tolerance for emotions, unless they are anger. Anger he can deal with. Or not, as recent events have shown so nicely. Right now he doesn't even know what he is angry at. Life. People. Blobs. Himself. A lot at himself, he supposes. Rightfully so. If he wasn't dumb as dust he wouldn't be here. He chuckles and drinks to that.
He has been drinking to a lot of things in the past 24 hours.
There are people walking by outside and for some strange reason their voices seem to quiet when they do that. Sarge can hear them when they are far away, some laughing, calling out to each other. But close by their tones are hushed and that makes him angry, too. Do not disturb the dying fool. He sends a bottle flying towards the door and it cracks when it connects with the frame, but it doesn't shatter. Can't even do that right. Footsteps, light, approach. He frowns. This is not Rodeo. Rodeo can be heard stomping when he's at the other side of the damn Park. This is someone else and the thought of some bitch attempting a pity visit makes his stomach churn. Before he even hears a knock he draws himself up, swaying just a little, and glares at the door.
"Don't even think about it!"
But the person knocks anyway and the door opens, bright sunlight blinding him temporarily. His favorite cap was blobbed, and could possibly have saved him because it kept the slime away from his cut jaw and he mourns the loss almost more than the loss of his own life. That thing was irreplaceable. And helped him see when some asshole tried to come for a visit. Sarge lifts his hand to his eyes, trying to glare from underneath the bit of shade his hand provides. When he sees a familiar shade of red hair he feels very queasy all of a sudden and deflates instantly. There is no arguing with a Hawkins once they put their mind to something, so he falls back onto his dusty bed, crosses his arms underneath his head and stares at the ceiling. Doesn't mean he has to enjoy her company. At least not in a way that anyone can see.