Joey Alexander knows he is good (fornothing) wrote in rooms,
Re: Marvel: Rescuing the tiniest Alexander
[Lawn chair, plastic. That was his throne and his makeshift home for the moment. Too fucked up to find his way home and too fucked up to worry about it. Under the bridge was a different story in the sunlight, it was neighborhood fuckups and kids huffing spraypaint, but after dark... thats when the trashcans lit up like firestorms and all the junkies with no place left to crash huddled in to find heat amongst the hookers that were a touch to old to get a warm bed every night.
Joey had to wonder, in the beginning, what the fuck that weed has been spliced with, it left him faded as fuck. His nose was running, but he thought that might have been the cold. At least the world was coming back into shades of color and not strictly grays. His lawn chair was thin plastic with metal arms, and Joey huddled in on himself amongst the midnight scum that mainlined after dark. Not his scene, but nothing new. The 20 oz of malt liquor between his knees was warming enough and -- What the fuck, Joey?
Somehow, he knew that it was Shane. That voice, smoke-cracked and reprimanding like he couldn't ever do a fuckin' thing right. Yeah, that was big brother in spades, and Joey tilted his eyes up against the light of kerosene and trash burning nearby, bleary. But that Shane outline, when it closed in, it wasn't Shane. It wasn't a twenties man, it wasn't the guy who held the moon for him and made him stand up for himself. This fucker wasn't Shoplifting 101, or first condom cautioned to, he wasn't the guy that Joey remembered playing look-out for countless times in their youth. This guy was old, and it was too early for his P.O to be coming around looking for him. Joey had been out for only a fucking day, right? Shit was weird here, but couldn't he have a fucking day at least? Still, he was street caution on the end of some freshlit nicotine.]
Haven't heard of him! [He told the tall shape that stood firelit in the dark, his words were an apologetic laugh. Sorry, better luck next time. He swigged cheap malt(which seemed weirdly more expensive since the last time he'd been out to buy it). He sucked back on a burning Newport, and he squinted. Fucked up, but cagey, like he thought that he might have to go flying out of the plastic chair and taking off at any minute. Maybe he owed this big sonofabitch money.]