Max and Ruth - October 3, 9:45 p.m.
There’s something to be said about being less drunk than most of the people around you. High entertainment value, low chance of making an ass of yourself. Provided, of course, that your relative sobriety didn't get you roped into being responsible for anyone.
That patch gracelessly trying to throw the darts at the balloon toss, for one, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and one eye squinted shut while he aims. He hasn’t succeeded in hitting anything but the ground so far, and he’s nearly stuck the prospect running the booth at least twice. Judging from the way he sways between throws, that’s going to be messy, and soon. The bitch by his side knows it too; she keeps trying (and failing) to pull him away. Watching from a safe distance, Ruth shakes her head as the patch begins trying to climb onto the counter at the booth, wanting to get closer to his target. Yeah, that’s a job better left for someone else. Someone not her.
Smirking slightly, she turns away from the ongoing drama, wandering along the other booths until she spots another interesting sight: Vic’s boy, Max, giving one of those games with the replica firearms his very best go. Which, sadly, is not very good at all. He misses his target by a hundred mile, but rather than giving up like any sane person would, nods when the prospect running this booth asks if he’d like another go.
Ruth hesitates before interfering, but in the end she crosses over to stand next to Max, arms folded across her chest. They haven’t spoken more than half a dozen times, but she likes Vic, so for the enforcer’s sake she’s going to save his stray puppy some embarrassment.
“Tell me you don’t handle a real gun this way.” She reaches out to adjust Max’s elbow before crossing her arms again. It’s only the most obvious flaw in the way he’s standing, but though Ruth’s itching to fix the rest of it, she keeps hands to herself. "Unless you want to waste ammunition. I recommend against that, by the way."