I never learn

[Laurel Booth]

*too lazy for a table part 2039023592305* Lyrics from here, another epic song.
[html]

_____On a short stint, Laurel had snuck away to the city. But it wasn't because he needed the escape, only because they had run out of booze sometime during the previous night. Whether it was his own doing or some one else (it was easier to blame someone else, god forbid he be the reason they ran dry) didn't matter much; he had borrowed Jasper's wagon and had returned to the souvenir shop where he and Nikita had come across quite a stash in the upper loft. One of the crates gave a squeaky protest as he pried it open with a crowbar, the wooden lid lifted up easily with nails and all.


_____When there was just enough of a gap to grab a firm hold on the lid and pull, he did so, favouring a more hands-on approach at opening things than using the crowbar for everything. The wood was musty and old, though far from brittle as he bent it back, whistling a tune as though he didn't have a care in the world. But the truth of the matter was that he was there because the nightly consumption of alcohol had been more or less a returning staple for him. He could keep up appearances like Nikita wanted him to, but at night a bottle of whiskey made the world seem all right.


_____Not the diseased cesspool it was shaping up to be. Reaching inside of one crate, he pulled gently at the bottles that were packed in tightly, pulling them one by one and setting them on the floor. He had plans to put them in a box to carry down the stairs to put in the wagon, and then simply pull the wagon home. Jasper wasn't going to care that much, he didn't really know the difference between day and night from what Laurel understood. And things had been more noisy than usual, with the screaming and the sounds of rage behind closed doors. It was frustrating for the sick and just plain depressing to him.


_____But away from it all, he was very good at keeping up appearances. So good that a passer-by may have thought him just to be an ordinary looter; someone who was gathering things in order to get by and survive. “I've been leanin’ on you without reason or truth,” were the simple words that he started to sing, uncaring whether or not someone heard him, “and I'm dreaming of leaving my demons… and the first one I'm leaving is you.” Picking up the last bottle he had room to take, the hat-wearing coyote pried the cap from it and haphazardly took a drink.

[/html]