M. Censored

Barrett · 06-11-2011, 11:35 PM

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Barrett didn't consider marijuana to be anything less than the prefect drug, a preference made abundantly clear as he popped his head out to investigate a light rap he'd heard at the door. A thick cloud billowed out from behind him and for all the smoke hanging about the garage's interior in a haze, the flickering flames seemed to reflect off the air itself. It took his senses a second to orient—his eyes to the pale light cast by the waxing moon, his nose to the fresh air—but soon he beheld a large, ghastly figure nearby. A female he did not recognise, whom hailed from a pack with which he was also unfamiliar... hmm, could word of his little enterprise be spreading already?

After a moment's pause, his baritone cut tentatively through the darkness: “What's good?” Perhaps, mingled amongst the overpowering stench of his herb, she would catch the stinging scent of alcohol on his breath. He'd only broken into the latter recently; it was a celebratory thing. At last, he'd finished writing the note to his mother—he'd even gotten halfway through another to Anselm before the muscles in his hand screamed for no more! and he surrendered to the capricious nature of his intoxicant of choice, opting to address other random things around the garage instead. He'd actually made decent progress: the garage was the cleanest it had been in months, maybe years.

The chocolate yearling usually couldn't care less about presentation, but he supposed women were sometimes appreciative of such things. “Wanna come in?” he invited, only a skip and a beat after his initial salutation. He stood to one side—looking perhaps a little proud—so she could peer in and behold how orderly and inviting the place looked for a change. The table was cleared, with all the tools he'd left laying around back in their chest; the larger instruments cluttering up the work bench were shelved; the shovels, rakes, and hoes hung neatly on the wall, rather than leaning haphazardly against it; the floor had been swept, with the dirt and other little bits of refuse now confined to an old bucket he used as a waste bin. Perhaps most impressive of all, the rug and couch cushions had been shaken and beaten, dislodging the dust that had left them looking listless and dull.

Only a freshly cracked bottle of clear liquor and a smouldering bong sat out on the table; only his pen, ink, and half-finished letters were left on the work bench, already long forgotten. Barrett was done cleaning, done writing—he was done with everything aside from entertaining himself and his new guest.

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