| hell is your brain frozen over. |
[Jan. 21st, 2012|02:51 pm] |
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| If the blast didn't kill ya, the shrapnel would. |
[Jan. 21st, 2012|11:28 pm] |
"So then he was like Girl, please, who are you gonna believe, me or your eyes and I just lost it." Lexington Cross, resident rioteer and terrorist of EPITAS, had recently lost a man's car in the Canal. Oops. The sedan had driven right off the Lowside's platform elevators and crash landed rather gracelessly into the side of a dingy old no-tell-motel in the seediest little part of the red light district and while the owner had been present, he had not been conscious-- and when he did regain consciousness, he didn't recall sir, I don't know how my car got here, no I ain't been drinking.
( And all that jazz. )
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| words can never make up for what you do. |
[Jan. 21st, 2012|11:56 pm] |
Red lowlight scattered shadows against every surface in the small, infected room. With rustled sheets a whore had won his spoils -- a reservoir in the face of punishment, should his mistress ever be so cruel. Truth be told, it hadn't been necessary yet -- but addictions were dangerous, and heavier with each passing day, each injected vein.
"I don't suppose you could spare an extra hit on this one?" More a hint than a request. He'd put out so well, after all. He purred, reached fingers out to caress the man's thigh.
( Please? ) |
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