Log:Put That Thing Away
| Put That Thing Away | |
|---|---|
| Participants | 24 August 2017 Agnes does some laundry, drugs her neighbor and makes a mess. Not in that order. |
| Location
Dirty Laundry | |
| Dirty Laundry! It's the most happenin' place to wash yer clothes in the a three block radius! It's got that... 'we started to renovate but ran out of money half way through' look to it that is so stylish, hip, and now. Since Count has hired the two most unreliable employees ever, there are times when he must actually pay attention to his Coin operated operation himself, which is to me, he is physically present, if often distracted. Currently Count is using one of the Counters along a row of washers as a personal lounge, phone in his hand, either playing some game or texting. Whatever it is he's smirking at the screen, looking vaguely pleased with himself. The beast is dressed in black (no doy), unlaced combat boots and faded jeans, and he's got on a sleeveless hoodie, leaving his arms bare. Currently the Laundromat contains only him, and an elderly chinese couple that are unloading their clothes into a basket from the drier.
So she enters the facility with her basket of things with her shoulders squared, her expression set to 'DON'T FUCK WITH ME' and her posture defensive. Striding past the Wongs, she doesn't even give them a nod before she picks a machine and begins to throw her delicate lady clothes into it. Toss! Toss! Toss!
Count is comfortable, relaxed, the proverbial jaguar asleep in a tree, except that it's a cheap formica countertop and Count is a lion. He's smiling up at his phone, and one hand is resting on his stomach, slowly sliding down under his belt... when out of the corner of his eye he sees Agnes walk in. Semi-Public self touching suddenly off the table, Count looks suddenly agitated and sits up a bit, tracking her across the way. He sighs and starts tapping away at his phone again before he tucks it away and rolls off the counter to the floor, landing on his feet, nearly silent. Count approaches, coming around the far end of the aisle, passing the Wong's as they leave, giving them a nod as he closes the distance to his neighbor. "That machine..." Count says "....costs double." Ohh look what she started! I mean unfortunately Count can't psychically force the machine to take more quarters but well, the words were said!
She grabs her little bag of quarters and shakes it at him as if to say 'here, see?'. Then she opens it. Sticks her hand inside. And starts throwing coins at him. "Twenty-five. Fifty. Seventy-five." One at a time, she whips them at his head, at his body, at his crotch. Wherever! She's paying the man, isn't she? Letter of the law. "A dollar. Dollar twenty-five. Buck fifty." She arches an eyebrow at him. "Happy now?"
He steps closer, getting in her face. "You are a rude, obnoxious, and spiteful little sow..." Who he had really really carnal dreams about the other night. Look, even Count doesn't understand his brain, only that Agnes sparks off a live wire in his brain. Hate and Lust are close right?
She reaches out and pokes him in the chest -- POKE -- and then flattens her palm to push back against him. "Now, get outta my face so I can finish my laundry." She still needs to get the rest of her stuff sorted and into another machine; the Wizened has more than just underpants and bras to launder it seems.
Her hand on his chest? Ohh that riles him, gets right up in his craw, and he pushes back against it, stepping forward as if trying to back her into a corner, 'cept that there is no corner behind her, just the rest of the aisle and then a path around to either side. Like the complete opposite of a corner really. There's a sound, like a snarl, and then he backs away, muttering to himself about 'new material' and 'getting creative' as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket and starts typing away again.
HARUMPH. Thankfully, he peels away and leaves her be. She glowers at him as he moves off muttering to himself, her hands balled into fists down by her sides. After a few seconds, she harshly brushes over her clothing to straighten herself out and then storms back to her laundry. Opening a second machine, she starts throwing in clothing as if each and every item wronged her somehow. Toss-toss-toss!
Count stalks back towards the little 'employees only' area, and then plants his ass on the Counter between the two, where people drop off clothes for the wash and fold service. He's looking at his phone, irritated, and then flustered, frowning, and then sighing. Text. Text. Text. Did Agnes bring her own detergent? There is a machine that of course dispenses it, except there is a sign on it, a piece of paper and tape that says 'Out of order, Please see employee for Detergent.'. of Course, Count is the only one here, and he's doing his best to ignore the woman. Probably dealing with his complicated hate for her, or fighting an erection.
Except.. Except.. She wasn't looking and set it on the edge. Too far on the edge. The tub teeters and, before she can catch it, falls over and a fucking /gallon/ of liquid Tide spills out aaaaaaaaall over the laundromat floor. For once, she is speechless. She just looks over the mess, completely aghast..
And then he hears the crash. The sound of a liquid filled plastic bottle falling to the floor and cracking open is a distinct sound, and one Count is more than a little familiar with. "OH COME ON!" Didn't she just accuse him of being uncreative? Using the same words twice in a row? The phone is shoved into his pocket, and Count is moving, and even as he moves he /knows/ what he is going to see, but still, he comes around the side of the washer-bank and stares at the bank of washers and just... boggles. "You... You..." Count is at a loss of words "You fucking did that on purpose!"
And then it's over, it's gone, her mouth snapping shut and her features storming into a scowl. "OF COURSE I DIDN'T DO THIS ON PURPOSE, YOU HALF-WIT!" she shouts, her cheeks flushing red with anger. The Wizened waves her arms around, visibly frustrated by him, the situation, the loss of her detergent. "WHY WOULD I DUMP OUT $10 WORTH OF TIDE ON YOUR FLOOR WHEN I COULD JUST TAKE A SHIT ON YOUR TILES FOR FREE?! GOD /DAMMIT/!" She wants to kick something but there is nothing to kick so she just .. just .. ARGH. Stomps her feet.
Count moves closer now, stalking down the space between machines towards the woman, a head of steam rising in his brain, those golden eyes gleaming, pupils shrinking in anger. "Don't get any fucking Ideas, I will rub yer god damned face in it, treat you like a misbehaving fucking dog." He closes in and his finger is pointing, poking her in the chest now, rising like a storm towards her, pushing her back... back into the puddle. A puddle that creeps under his boots. Step. Squeak. A few bubbles fly up, as Count slips down, and forwards, towards the Wizened.
He's pushing her back into the gooey puddle but she's actually well prepared for this kind of mess -- she's wearing what looks to be rainboots. Now, this might be a coincidence; she /does/ work in a flower shop and there is probably more than a hose or two out back. But, in Count's biased mind, this might present as evidence of premeditation. See? SEE?! She is wearing footwear that makes it easier to walk around in this stuff. THE BITCH PLANNED IT! Anyway, she gets pushed back and the woman continues to slap at his hands. "If you quit shoving me for a second and get a mop, I'll help you clean this up, you rotten bastard."
What is she saying?! He's losing balance, and thus he must reach forward and grab onto anything to maintain balance, and the closest thing, happens to be her, with one hand on her shoulder, and the other... well... remember the aforementioned breasticles? She and her traitorous boots are his pillar, and it only takes him a moment to find his balance again, eyes blazing in accusation. "YOU GET THE MOP!!" Irrational anger ignoring the fact that this is his house, and he knows where the things are. "OH for fucks sake." Okay so his brain catches up eventually and he tries to storm off, only to slip again and fall to one knee, soaking part of the pant leg in bluish goop, before he continues, using the washers to brace himself as he marches tot he janitors closet and yanks out the mop and it's yellow wheeled bucket.
ACTUALLY. He intends to march off to janitors closet. Yup, that was the plan. But see, he inadvertently grabbed her boob while he was trying to catch his balance. While he was yelling at her to get the mop, Agnes was just staring at his hand. On. Her. Tit-tay. Blink. Blink-blink. "WHAT THE FUCK!" she bellows as he starts to right him and she hauls off and SLAPS HIM. Soundly. Crack! Right across the face! No one touches her tit without her permission! Unfortunately, she puts too much /oomph/ behind this act of retaliation and /she/ slips in the detergent, her feet going out from under her. The woman -- much like Count before her -- grabs at whatever is nearby to stop her fall and latches onto the Beast. She goes down. Does he go down as well? We are seconds away from the two of them just brawling around on the floor in gooey Tide.
That's the rewind sound. No mop. Instead he is slapped across the face, which sparks an immediate reaction, and a raised fist. Except that she isn't there anymore, she's falling, and grabbing onto him, and the bottom of his boots are already slippery. He makes an effort to reach for the edge of the nearest machine, but his fingers only brush the edge, and he too is falling, tumbling down atop her onto the slick and filthy linoleum floor. He has no words, there is only boggling outrage and fmailing as he falls. You think she was mad when his hand touched her bazongas? Wait until his face falls into them, as the beast, skinny as he is, is oddly dense, falls atop her, and sends them both skidding a couple feet. One hand rises from the floor, soaked in detergent and finds her face, palming it as he tries to push himself up.
Slip! Slide! She's spitting mad, hardly capable of forming words other than a stream of insults that pour out of her like a dam that has been broken. The woman keeps trying to right herself, to roll over onto her knees or /something/ but whenever she makes a little bit of headway, she either slips or HE gets in the way. She punches. Blindly. At something.
Count however is tough, and can take it, but that does not stop him from hitting back, from kicking at her leg as she tries to stand, from grappling her down, and as she tries to get on top, he rolls with her, the both of them getting absolutely covered in soap, and floor lint, gum wrappers and whatever else. His own diatribe of profanity is going strong, unending and punctuated by leonine snarls. There's a loud sound as one of the washer takes his boot hard, and they are pushed the other way. At one point she manages to get on top, and he has to reach up and push his fingers into her hair, making a fist to drag her back down again, rolling atop her, pinning her down, leaning in and pressing his horns to her forehead. Wait. WTF is he doing?! His eyes drift half lidded, and while there's anger there, there's alsdo something else. Lust. Look, fighting is foreplay, especially physical contact. A switch in Count's brain went off and he's leaning in, his lips and inch from hers "Fuck you you stupid fucking goddamned..." but whatever he's saying gets muffled as his mouth moves into hers.
"You shit-eating mother fucker.." Kick! Wrestle! Roll! "Cock-gobbling son of a whore.." Pull! Kiss! Stroke! Wait, what? No! She's not sure how this happened and who did what first but his hands are in her hair and she's grabbed one of his horns, her leg is wrapped around him and his hips are thrust up against hers. Agnes is a mess, all sticky and gross and covered in all the crap that was one the floor of the laundromat that they have been katamari-rolling through. But they are kissing now and she's uncertain just when that started but their tongues are a tangled and .. and .. Her eyes go wide. And then they narrow. And suddenly her kiss is very, very, veeeeery sweet.
Making out on the floor isn't all that bad, is it? Part of Count's brain is shouting at him to punch her, to tear out her throat, spill her guts across the floor; but a far more influential part of him is shouting for him to stick it inside of her. That influential part being his penis. Mmm she doesn't taste that ba.... oooh sweet. Count's never tasted this before, and he pushes into it, deepening the kiss, making a sound, something deep and hungry against her lips as he pushes a rough tongue against hers, getting more. Life Tip: Drugs don't often make Count want to fuck you less. The kiss breaks, if only enough to gasp for air, and he looks at her, pupils dilated WIDE now, and then looks over to the storage closet, and then back to her. "In there?" he manages to slur.
She pushes at his arms, trying to peel him off her body like a wet bathing suit. "I am not going to fuck you in a closet or on the floor in a puddle of dirty laundry detergent. Jesus fucking christ!" Agnes starts to wiggle away from him, crawling along the aisle, and mutters lowly: "If you tell anyone about this, I swear to fucking God, I will cut your dick off.." Awww! She likes him!
"Oh like I'm gonna tell, who'd even believe me?!" He manages to turn now, grabbing the side of the washer, and slowly climbs, getting both his elbows up while his feet seek traction, looking like Jack on the side of the door right before he drowns.
She gets up and manages to extract herself from the puddle of detergent. Agnes looks down at herself -- UGH. What a mess. She's smeared head to toe with muddy Tide and tint. "Because you're awful and I hate you and that's that," she explains as she steps on her heel, pulling her foot out of that particular boot. Then she grabs the other, yanking it off. Does she though? Hate him? Hmmm. Setting her boots aside, she peels off her socks. And then wiggles out of her pants. And then yanks her shirt over her head. All these items get tossed into the machines that are already churning, adding them to her existing laundry. Standing before Count wearing nothing but her bra, underwear and a frown, she nods toward the back-counter. "You must have a lost-and-found box. Loan me a shirt and some sweatpants until my stuff is done." Aren't you forgetting something, girlie? SIGH. "Please."
Because you're awful and I hate you. The beast, having finally regained his feet, and managing to get out of most of the spill, the much mussed puddle now between them, stares at her, his expression hardening. Please. His lips pull back with a sneer backed by foul mouth and rebukes. "Why the fuck should I? Should leave you like this, take a few pictures..." too late tho, being on Count's property is like being on 'M-TV's The Real World.' But Count unfortunately, has a curse. It's followed him around his whole life, and that is Charity. He's still cursing under his breath, kicking his shoes off and padding, barefoot, to the janitors closet, where he goes to get the mop, and it's yellow bucket on wheels. What he also comes back with, is one of those huge, incredibly comfortable bath robes that he stole from a higher end hotel at one point. It had a little patch with the hotels name, but that was torn off some time ago. He makes his way back over to her, and then shoves both of them in her direction.
Sustained scowling. "Fine," she retorts with a huff. "I'll just walk over to my place and get a change of clothes then. Fucker." And she turns on her heel, fully prepared to march across the strip mall parking lot to her flower shop. But then he's heading over to the janitor's closet -- she pauses by the door, watching the Beast with a skeptical expression. "Thanks," she says /reluctantly/ when he hands her the robe, putting it on and tying the belt tightly around her waist. Giving his chest a little shove, she nods over toward the bank of chairs bolted together in a line along the wall. "Sit down before you fall down," she commands -- after all, he /is/ drugged off his ass. Once she's certain that he's not going to pass out and crack his skull on something, she starts to mop up the mess. The Wizened is quiet for a time as she tends to the task but, eventually, pipes up to ask: "Why are you such a dick anyway?"
Having no need for detergent, since his clothes were soaked in it, he closes it up and presses the HOT HOT HOT cycle. Only then does he goes and sit in one of the chairs, in underwear alone, his very clear hardon obvious to all, except perhaps him. "I'm not a dick, yer a cantankerous bitch." Yes Count, real mature. "I tried talking to ya like a resonable person, but getting ignored and hung up on tends to raise tempers."
"I am /not/ a cantankerous bitch," she retorts, pondering the dilemma before her. Does she continue cleaning and end up working a free janitorial shift for her jerk neighbor? Or does she stop and be driven insane by a job left unfinished? ARGH. Blue eyes flick up and over, settling on the Beast sitting there in his boxers. High. Sporting a boner. His hair sticking up in weird, sticky angles. She bursts out laughing. It's not even a mean laugh -- which is somewhat disconcerting, coming from her. It's actually a nice, happy kind of sound. Granted, it probably won't last long but for this fraction of a moment, she's amused by the ridiculousness of their situation. "Why do you want to buy this shitty strip mall anyway? If you have the cash to buy everyone out, why don't you spend it on something, I don't know, worthwhile?"
Then she starts to laugh, and he squints at her, and gives her a single fingered salute. A little birdie. "Who's to says what's worth while?" he asks her, but his eyes are on his knee, why is it that color? It's not normally that color. Man do his lips tingle. "Just because you got..." he looks up, what was he saying again? He tries to make his mind rewind a bit and then refocuses on her. "Who's... to... no." No, too far back. "Look, Look, whatever yer name is. Just because you got cash, you don't need to be some ostentatious twat right? I don't want no castle, I don't even really wanna advertise that I'm buying this shit up to th' genrl publick. But I mean, i used t' be really good at bein'a lap dog, livin' on other peoples places, and I'm kinda tired of that, I wanty some shit that's mine, more than just this place. It's important, just like it's important that most folks dont know that I'm a rick motherfucker, yeah?" His words, he's having trouble making them all coherent like.
Trippy. "Agnes," she tells him. "My name is Agnes." She continues to mop the floor, seeming to have decided that she cannot deal with leaving just one clean spot. And why not? She has to be here until her laundry is done anyway; might as well continue what she's started. "Don't you see that it's rude to just, like, fucking swoop in and buy up people's place? Folks put work into their businesses. Build them up. Put blood, sweat and tears into making them what they are. And then some asshole comes along with his checkbook and wants to throw cash at them, make them move. Some things are more important than a bunch of zeros." She says this all conversationally, the mop going back and forth and forth and back with occasional trips to the bucket. "Like, what would you plan to do with my flower shop, huh? Give it to your friend? Or just gut the place and turn it into, I don't know, an eyeliner store?"
Pause. "Did you drug me? Are you a Dornish Viper Woman?" he seems really suspicious about this "You better gimme the antidote, or Imma haunt yer cooter till the end of days." Then he shrugs "Could keep it, run It, I just wanna own it. or maybe, maybe /YOU/ should just suck it up and join us, the motley, take it all over, own little territory here inna brim." Did he just say that? He would never have done sober, but he's been reduced to a bit of a stream of consciousness babble at the moment.
She's mopped up the entire aisle now and rounds the corner, working on the next one. His question about being drugged goes artfully unanswered -- not that it takes much finesse to avoid conversational pitfalls with him in his current state. However, she /does/ keep an eye on him; unbeknownst to the Beast, she is a doctor and her monitoring of his reaction to her 'kiss' goes beyond just idle curiosity. And speaking of curiosity.. When he mentions his motley, she stops what she is doing and settles her full attention on the babbling fellow. "Who is 'us'? Who is in this motley? Just you, Floofy and the shadow-man? Or are there more?"
"But..." ugh he's lost track of the thought again, and now he's just kind of staring off. Tick. Tock. Tick. "...Not let people walk all over me. Sometimes you gotta push and you cant just cow because someones pride might be damaged. Don' try and guilt trip me fer trying to get something fer once In my fucking life." Sullen, grouchy.
Finishing up the second aisle, she starts mopping the area in front of the counter. "And fuck you. I'll guilt trip you all I want when one of the businesses you go after is /my/ business. I know it probably doesn't look like I give a shit about it to you but I do and no amount of zeros is going to make me wanna give it up. Besides, I hate packing and moving. I just did that a year ago; I'm not going to do it again just because you've got a hankering to be Lord of the Block." Sticking the mop in the bucket, she leans it against the wall so it doesn't tip over and wanders over to wear Count is stretched out. Pressing her hand against his forehead and then his cheek, she leans over to check his pupils. "How are you feeling?"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT Like that. He rolls to his feet and then staggers, bumping into the washer and opening it up. His wash is still going, and he looks really confused. "What?" Because the buzz came from Agnes's machines, not his. At least his erection is finally going away. "So you feel territorial, fine fine, i get it, we'll play lets make a deal, with you me and Cian and Lulubug, and then... then... then It wont be a problem, ONE OF US."
She wanders over to her washing machines, opening the lids. "God, you're even more annoying high than you are sober," she mutters, half to herself, as she transfers her wet clothes from the machine to one of those rolling baskets. "I will /think/ about it, okay? In the meantime, no more calls. No more emails. No more showing up in my shop asking for dyed black roses. I mean, really? Come on, now. That shit is just cruel." Rolling past him, she makes her way to the dryers and tosses her clothes into one of the tumblers. Agnes is wearing a fluffy hotel robe. Count? He's in his boxers, sporting half-wood. There is a mop in a bucket nearby and the floors are sparkling clean. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.
"So you /did/ drug me!" Count, sounding a /little/ woozy, points an accusatory finger. "Fucking knewit, Dornishwoman." squint. "What do you mean cruel? Plants don't have feelings." WHOOPS. "I mean yeah, you join us an it's yers and I'll stop trying to throw incredible ammounts of money at you, like it's the greatest burden in the world." When Count sobers up, he's gonna be mad at himself.
Clumsy clumsy moth. She waves, seemingly unfluttered by the various states of peopels dress. People get naked in this place often; boxers and a robe are not scandalous in the least. She's got a carpet bag thats suspiciously full of things, one of them is a hacksaw. Why is there a hacksaw sticking from Lulu's bag? Who knows. But she seems intent on getting it to her stash so she makes a Bline for the Employee Entrance.
And then there's Lulu. Now, see, the moth-girl might be completely untroubled by the scene before her but Agnes knows what happened -- or almost happened -- and immediately goes bright red. "IT'S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE," she says in a too-loud voice. She points at Count -- points! -- and then shakes her head vigorously, the liquid detergent that is still in her mossy hair flicking out in a light spray. "I WOULDN'T. NOT WITH HIM. WE JUST SLIPPED, THAT'S /ALL/." Which explains /nothing/ and only makes them seems ten million gajillion times guiltier. Before she can continue to deny deny deeeeeeny, the Wizened notices Lulu's bruises and blinks. "Hey," she says in a much more indoors-friendly volume. "I can help with those."
Count's hair, well half of it, is plastered tot he side of his head, in what appears to be laundry detergent. Count smells VERY STRONGLY of Tide Detergent. Now Lulu probably does too. Then he adds, in a hoarse whisper "She's a witch woman! She might not be a total cunt... occasionally." he looks back over at the super embarrassed Agnes and then adds "Right now she is tho."
To say she's nonplussed is, sort of, an understatement. Normally people have to be on Ludes to be as mellow as the moon mad moth. Even though she squirms at the pressure on the bruises she is brought back to Agnes after a moment. Just in time to hear the question about her bruises and Lulu blinks and lifts a hand to the nasty one that's across part of her chest, collarbone, and shoulder. "What? Why? They don't hurt much. As for her being a witch woman. I'm not surprised. Like Cher right? In that one movie with Jack Nickleson and Michelle Pfeiffer. She was super cranky too but was really nice when she was getting laid." Lulu blinks big velvety dark eyes at Agnes. "DO you need to have some sex?"
She goes to grab her laundry out of her roller basket but she's already put it all in the dryer already so .. there's nothing there. Whatever! She gives the basket a push so it rolls away from her and the Wizened crosses her arms, exhaling sharply through her nose. "..and I'm /not/ a cunt," she tacks on lowly, her mouth set to pout.
For Cian: There is a large patch of the floor in the Laundromat that has recently been mopped. The scent of laundry detergent is stronger than usual, and that might be because some of it is in Count's hair, plastered to his skull, while the other hanf of his hair is sticking up everywhere. He's also got a faint handprint on one side of his face. He's also only wearing a pair of boxers. Agnes, is only wearing a bathrobe stolen from a fancy hotel. When Agens explains that she hjas sex all the time with a lot of people, Count looks really confused, and then disbelieving and asks her "/Really/?!" with WAY too much incredulity, like if some neckbeared in a fedora and leather trench coat + cargo jorts ensemble was explaining to him how his whole 'bring nice and respecting women' thing got him laid 5 times a week. "Look Luu, i was telling her..." Woah things got fuzzy for him there, and he blinks SLOWLY, losing focous and then finding it again. "...telling her we wouldnt explode her store if she just joined the army. Er, Militia?" he's snapping his fingers, looking for the right words.
"Army? Militia?" She remains confused, "You want Agnes in a uniform?" Count has lost Lulu. Then again losing Lulu is as easy as pretty lights or something shiny. The bruised moth looks back and forth, or rather forth to Agnes and half to the side to try and peer at Count. "You smell like an Irish Spring."”
Stare. Eventually from the creeping shadows by the door unfolds a Cian. Confused, concerned and maybe a little cautious. Agnes is in /here/ first of all, that's odd okay - she should stay in her place, where she can smell like plants and bitch at customers. Pitch-black eyes are still staring as he stops creeping like a creeper, wide and flicking focus from the Count and Lulu clutch to Agnes in nothing but a bathrobe. Stare. Quiet steps continue, bringing the shadow ever so slightly closer to the group and probably surprising at least one person who wasn't paying attention. His brows are furrowed forward, nearly meeting over the bridge of his nose as he inspects Count carefully while he talks about Militias. Finally breaking the silence as his chin slips over Count's shoulder, "I'm not giving you a snappy salute," he whispers before lifting some to sniff at Count's head, a curious poke of a finger gets a :S face and he's instantly wiping his hand on his off-black hoodie. Ew. Peering around his Motleymates at Agnes he squints a little then swings around to Lu and Count's side, turning to side-eye Lulu, "Did they fuck already?"
STOMP. "And just because I won't jump onto that cocktail weenie between your thighs doesn't mean I don't get laid all the time so you can stop acting so surprised, assface! I'm fucking /charming/, I will have you know!" Charming has nothing to do with boning but .. okay. She's ranting so now is probably not the time to argue. Her clothes are nowhere near being dry but Agnes storms over to the dryer anyway, opens the door with a *BANG* and begins to haul out her wet things. She throws it all into her laundry basket as if it's done something wrong and starts to make for the door. "Fine. FINE. I WILL JOIN YOUR MOTLEY THEN." Turning so she can bump the door open with her ass, she flips Count the bird.. - and notices Cian there for the first time. Jesus, he's quiet. When did he get here? Agnes blinks, looks behind herself, looks back at the trio and then huffs. "I guess we're all friends now." Pause. "Jesus fuckin' christ.."
Twitch. Count's pulils are WIIIIIDE. "Woah, woah... WOAH." Count says, turning around to face Agnes, and then turns again to ACTUALLY face Agnes. "My cock, is not a coctail weenie, thank you very much, It's at least a decent sized bockwurst and you... well you DON'T, know it, but still, do some RESEARCH. Just because you probably normally fuck hippies and plant... sciencelovers, whatever." Where is he going with this? Wait waht? "Um, I don't think it works like that, these guys gotta say yes too, adn they dont know you like I do." Count isn't making a lot of sense right now, because SOMEONE got him really fucked up, and not in a low key good way. Squint. "Are your clothes dry already? What time is It? Luluhelp me?"
But then Agnes says they're all friends and Lulu brightens (literally) a soft moonlit glow seeming to light her from somewhere. Count's protests are only given some curious look before she lifts a brow at Cian and then back towards Count. "Help you what."
His easy smile, that velvety soft voice, he can be a soothing presence when he wants to be. "No one's fucking with your shop, I promise. But you really should get those all the way dry," he points to her clothing all damp still. "You could hang it up at home, or you could leave the pile here and I'll drop it off when it's done?" he offers, seeing as they're all friends! He's like Lulu with new friends, only he does the opposite of glow, he kinda disappears a little. The look from the moth gets one back and he glances at Count. "What do you need help with?" he strain whispers to get over the din of machines to the stoned bastard, just a little squeak at the end as his vocal cords protest.
Cue laugh track. "My clothes are dry enough," she says. To Lulu. To Cian. She'll probably have to hang her shit up somewhere because yeah. Definitely not dry but she's itching to leave. Setting her basket atop one of the machines, she takes off the robe she's wearing and tosses it toward Count. "He'll need looking after for the next few hours," -- because, you know. HIGH. With that, the mushroom lady picks up her basket of wet clothes and departs; she walks across the strip mall parking lot to the flower shop in her bra and underpants. Progress? This is a strange friendship.
BZZZZZZZZZZZT! Count's clothes are done! Count doesnt care, or even notice, he's just blinking slowly, now staring at Lulu's face. "Why are you purple?" Squint. "LavenderloooOooOoooo."
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