Re: Lakeside dock: Liam R/Lear L
Even the dumbfuck apparition's voice was irritating to Lear. Soft and susurrating. He could tell the thing that had once been a man had been obsequious in life, unctuous and ingratiating, and, while you might think someone like Lear—someone who liked other people on their knees—would like that kind of thing, he fucking didn't. It was fucking pathetic. The thing on the dock was fucking pathetic. Its 'pardon?' asked with a feign of politeness, like it really fucking mattered if you said shit nicely when you were dead and forgotten. (Lear had seen the once-man's corpse. It was, in every way, forgotten.)
Lear took a long, sucking drag on his cigarette. His unmoving gaze stayed on the haunt, not so much as flickering, as it turned away. He exhaled a haze of breath and smoke that reached out and scattered in the breeze above the figure's head. "No one's going to fucking remember you anyway." The words were matter-of-fact, even as a hiss, and Lear didn't seem to care either way. It was fucking stupid to kill yourself and then be fucking sad about it.—And, see, the shitty ghost didn't have a heartbeat. It didn't have a pulse or warmth or blood. It was fucking nothing, except its regrets and all that bullshit. "Piss all over people's floors again and I'll put you on a fucking leash."