Re: [Evans & Peel: Jack & Holly]
Holly wasn't planning on being sick, so he wasn't considering the potential emotional devastation that would surely come with vomming all over the bar. This wasn't his Repose, but the faces were all shades of familiar, and he had enough bad memories of being the laughingstock of this town. Being sick all over a bar would only dredge up those old feelings, and he was drinking to drown those old feelings, so it would all be kinda counterproductive. So, right, no vomiting, and no one would need to clean up after him. Everyone wins.
"No way back that I know of," he clarified in a slur, though maybe he'd already clarified that in a previous slur. He wasn't entirely sure. Thoughts were harder to string together than Christmas lights, and they were equally challenging to untangle. "Magic or science?" He looked at Jack as if Jack had maybe had too much too drink. Maybe it was a given here that fairies existed and the government had really found green aliens in the desert, but in Holly's Repose those were all debunked theories for Scary Theater and 4chan.
A grand was impressive. Holly had never actually done sex work that wasn't on cam, but he still knew the prices. The sex work community online was fairly small, and everyone talked. "I already decided, when I was sober. This is implementation," he told Jack about the decision he'd made in that motel room last night. Or..., no..., the decision he'd made walking home from the motel, while his face rained everywhere. "I decided I wasn't going to get with him, and we couldn't be together, but since I already slept with him for money, then it was okay to do that again, because it's impersonal, and impersonal is okay, and I really need the cash." It sounded planned out and rehearsed, and, even slurred, it kinda had the gravitas of some speech from Hamlet. "He's broke," he added with a frown, because guilt had not been invited to drink at this table. Begone, guilt. "I think he pays with plastic. I used Venmo."
Curiously, as if it wasn't the most significantly hypocritical question to be posed in a bar ever: "Why do you drink, if your dad died from it?" He didn't really grasp the massive stupidity of the question, and so he continued onward. "And why open a bar? Doesn't it feel bad to make money off all the drunks around here?" And, you know, because he was already going on, and apparently his thoughts didn't have an 'off' switch as they raced from his brain to his lips. "Was he a shitty dad? My dad was sad. Like, I don't mean like pathetic, though I guess he was kinda pathetic. But sad, like, depressed-sad."