10-17-2019, 12:48 AM
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[cw brief mention of abortion]
If Olga were his mother, he would have aborted himself in the womb. When it comes to matronly figures, she would be the last person to ever come to mind. In fact, he wouldn’t even consider her. She’s so … brash and irritating, he feels bad if she ever did have any children. Oh, those poor kids. They might as well be just as messed up as him--if she had been his mother, there wouldn’t have been any need to strangle him, since a minimum of 18 years spent with her would most likely have given him debilitating brain damage already.
Speaking of, Olga’s presence is enough to make Marco scrunch up his face as if he’s smelled something foul. In fact, he goes so far as to pluck the apple she touched from the bunch--the only red one among its kind--and toss it into the street. It doesn’t make it very far. Instead of throwing it, rather, he kind of just … drops it before he can fully extend his arm. It’s clear how much he struggles to do even that. Even so, his point still stands. "Ugh, ve--vete a la mierda..." He cannot stress how much he just does not want to see her.
Catalyst, as intimidating as they are, is a much more welcome sight than Olga. In fact, Marco is somewhat overjoyed to have someone else to focus on. At least they’re nice to him.
He nudges the basket once more, this time in their direction, in the hopes that they’ll take their pick … please, someone take an apple. Marco doesn’t know what he’ll do with all this fruit. Sure, he likes apples as much as the next guy, but after five or six it’s just kind of gross.
“I’ll look,” he mumbles, rummaging through the basket in search of a peach. He doesn’t remember what he packed in there other than apples and about one slice of mystery meat--which, honestly, he’s hoping nobody takes, as he’s craving something dead and right about now it’s starting to look like the most appetizing thing.
There it is--one singular bruised peach, hidden conveniently at the bottom of his basket, ripe for the taking. “Here.” He holds it out with one hand while using the other to adjust everything else to sit evenly in his basket. “Only one.”
[cw brief mention of abortion]
If Olga were his mother, he would have aborted himself in the womb. When it comes to matronly figures, she would be the last person to ever come to mind. In fact, he wouldn’t even consider her. She’s so … brash and irritating, he feels bad if she ever did have any children. Oh, those poor kids. They might as well be just as messed up as him--if she had been his mother, there wouldn’t have been any need to strangle him, since a minimum of 18 years spent with her would most likely have given him debilitating brain damage already.
Speaking of, Olga’s presence is enough to make Marco scrunch up his face as if he’s smelled something foul. In fact, he goes so far as to pluck the apple she touched from the bunch--the only red one among its kind--and toss it into the street. It doesn’t make it very far. Instead of throwing it, rather, he kind of just … drops it before he can fully extend his arm. It’s clear how much he struggles to do even that. Even so, his point still stands. "Ugh, ve--vete a la mierda..." He cannot stress how much he just does not want to see her.
Catalyst, as intimidating as they are, is a much more welcome sight than Olga. In fact, Marco is somewhat overjoyed to have someone else to focus on. At least they’re nice to him.
He nudges the basket once more, this time in their direction, in the hopes that they’ll take their pick … please, someone take an apple. Marco doesn’t know what he’ll do with all this fruit. Sure, he likes apples as much as the next guy, but after five or six it’s just kind of gross.
“I’ll look,” he mumbles, rummaging through the basket in search of a peach. He doesn’t remember what he packed in there other than apples and about one slice of mystery meat--which, honestly, he’s hoping nobody takes, as he’s craving something dead and right about now it’s starting to look like the most appetizing thing.
There it is--one singular bruised peach, hidden conveniently at the bottom of his basket, ripe for the taking. “Here.” He holds it out with one hand while using the other to adjust everything else to sit evenly in his basket. “Only one.”
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug