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francis "voice of the heavenly rapture" highmore drunkenly asking cee to sing a karaoke song with them, cee telling them that they should just save her the embarrassment and piss all over her

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who in the daft hell does she think she is?  that's cee's primary question,  hunched  —gremlin-like,  at the high-top she and francis currently occupy at the star sign.  her tequila-sprite is sweating,  crying against the broad palm of her hand  —tongue loose,  too wet.   she knows she's shit-faced.  it's thick in her mouth and swimming in her pale eyes.  what she doesn't know,  is how she got to this point  —who,  what,  when?  she hasn't been going out very often  —she avoids the star sign like some sort of lesser plague for its general seduction and allure.  but tonight?  francis asked her out tonight.  it was such a rare,  uncommon occurence that she found herself jumping outright at the chance  —regardless of location.  they could have been knocking back tequila shooters in the bowels of dante's inferno,  and she likely would've said yes,  please,  want me to bring anything to smoke?  

that was how it was with francis.  they make her nervous,  but excited.  she'd probably had one too many shots,  downed her first two drinks too quickly and now she was swimming in her own head,  waves crashing to the syncopated beat of classic kylie minogue.  it's not so bad at all.  she's not nervous anymore,  arm casually drawn around the slender span of francis's waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  maybe it is.  they're a strange pair,  aren't they?  she's bobbing her head,  overgrown shag jerking to attention when francis's voice breathes,  sweet ichor,  against the shell of her ear.  goose bumps break against the back of her hot neck in spite of herself.  

their words have her grinning,  breaking a raspy laugh.  reaching to grip at the back of their neck,  hard line of her jaw turning to speak against their ear  —the many piercings,  glinting,  beneath changing bar lights.  

          "she's whisperin' 'cos it's so damn sexy,  frankie."    crooked smile,  rare as they come  —but she's loaded,  feeling alright.  so alright that francis's words don't make her immediately jump back into her shell.  she pulls back from them,  though,  as if she wants to get a good look at them before pressing on.  she takes that look.  their pretty dark eyes,  fringed with lashes  —the quirk of their mouth,  the color of a tender bruise.  they're looking at her with dizzy stars in their eyes.  it's nearly unbearable,  really.

          "you're mad."   she replies breathlessly,  though her smile grows.  the idea does not jar her as much as she might hope to convey.    "why don't you just  —go onstage,  piss all over me.  just do that.  it'd get the point across.  and i'd have more fun."

Starter for @gutterbrat Francis is draped against Cee Livingston like velvet in heat—slouchy, slippery, and entirely too tactile for their own good. The Star Sign is thick with smoke-machine haze and laughter, and they’re glowing at the edges—damp at the temples, shirt clinging just slightly to their sternum in the places where gin-slick skin meets cheap silk. Their voice, when it comes, is honeyed and hoarse, a soft slur that drips like liqueur over the rim of a too-full glass.

They press in close, shoulder to shoulder, hip brushing hip, watching the stage with the dazed reverence of someone encountering God—or at least Kylie Minogue—through the warped lens of six tequila shots and a half-chewed lime. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Cee,” they breathe, lips close to her ear, “What song should I sing?...” A pause. Their black star eyes narrow (all eyelash and black ink) with dramatic concentration. They're listening to the current song. Kylie Minogue but what the hell is the song? Why couldn't they remember? “Is it—fuck, is this the one about spinning? Or the one where she whispers about fever? Why is she always whispering? Do you think she knows something we don’t?”

They shift just enough to look at her fully, and the weight of their gaze is soft, slow, and soaked in affection. Their eyeliner’s halfway to gone, but their expression is a work of art—brow arched, mouth upturned, a little theatrical, a little cracked at the edges. “Anyway. We need to sing something. You and me."

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She watches the older cop hustle off with a sinking feeling in her chest.  Somehow,  she expects that whatever he is hurrying toward would not be in their favor. 

Easy,  Kerry says.  Whatever the problem,  whatever the end-means,  it would be easy.  It should calm her down,  soothe her twitching nerves and the seemingly irreconcilable need to run as fast as her skinny legs will take her.  There's some kind of disaster underway.  Can't sniff it out,  or listen for it,  but she can feel it all the same  —lighting her nerve-endings with a mounting paranoia,  pale blue eyes darting from Kerry to the uniformed officers.  Funny,  that this shit still scares her.  She and Kerry have been through worse together.  Bloody arrow-holes,  severed tendons and missing lovers.  A dinner table crowded with some of the worst people you could ever meet. 

The instinctual,  animal-urge to run is displaced by Kerry.  That's how it goes,  most of the time.  He calms her down,  levels with her like he's the one who can reach through the eye of the tornado and keep her steady.  She isn't sure how he manages.  He's a wreck,  himself  —but he's good under pressure.  Not like her.  Her knees turn crummy,  and she always says the wrong thing.  But Kerry's leaning into her,  and she's nodding without breath,  believing him for a moment.  Whatever they're on about,  it's not about them.  It can't be.  They've been fairly under the radar,  right?  Since their records were wiped,  since that bar,  then gas station just outside of Mayflower.  Cee's heart is throbbing vicious in her chest.  She grips Kerry's arm.  Nods again.

      "No,  yeah."  At the mention of a phone call,  Cee nods again,  image of the Highmore's thoughtful dark gaze immediately burning its imprint into her mind.  It makes her feel a little better.  Things might be okay,  even if they end up getting arrested for some fuck-all reason.  They weren't getting whisked off to a torture-chamber.  They'd get due process,  even if they weren't U.S. citizens  ( that was a thing,  right?).  Things were fine,  great,  cool.  She's about to say as much. 

The sudden chirp of impending sirens jerks Cee out of her hopeful reverie with a fierceness.  So quick,  near-whiplash.  She watches with a slack jaw as two patrol cars roll up onto the cobbles,  lights flashing,  a handful of uniforms jumping out like a caravan full of clowns but not nearly as funny,  she thinks,  while her pit sweat stains through her shirt and her bladder squeezes with the sudden urge to release.  Six cops.  What the hell do they need six cops for?

       "Freeze!  Don't move!"   Younger cop is now pinning them,  brandishing a hand-gun at them just in case they get any ideas.  Russell is spotted lumbering out of the patrol car with one hairy arm locked against the other  —handgun aimed,  his face stark crimson  —thrill of the hunt,  Cee can taste it in the back of her throat.

And Cee can't believe it.  It's not making any sense.  But before she can question it,  Kerry's being torn away from her by search and seizure of two strong-armed officers more capable than the pig sweating over them now.      "What the fuck!?"     Unwilling,  unyielding  —grabbing for Kerry's arm and wrenching as if she had any weight to free him,  pull him off. 

Some kind of adrenaline.  Not so dissimilar to mother's lifting SUVs to save their kids.  She wrenches vicious,  clings like a burr.     "Let him go!"   Not so dissimilar,  but she's no mother and Kerry isn't her son and the SUV has fucking hands.  They pull her,  pry her,  shove her back several paces.  It's causing something of a scene.  People are starting to stop and stare.

       "You're under arrest for aggravated battery."

Russell's addressing them now.  The world tilts slightly.  That just doesn't make any sense.    "No he's fuckin' not!"  Cee fires back,  lunging forward.  She's grabbed by the back of the wrists hard and restrained proper by a lean officer with sunglasses.  Russell continues,  stepping closer to Kerry and Cee.   With two men restraining Kerry,  Cee hears the heavy jingle of handcuffs.  She shakes her head in disbelief.

       "You got the right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be held against you."   There,  he flashes them a ugly ham smile.   "You can count on that."    

Kerry doesn’t bolt. Never has. Running from pigs? That’s not his style. Wasn't his style back in the UK where the police weren't so terrorizing and certainly wouldn't run here, not with how he took the world. He had weirder and more harsh run-ins on Venice Beach and on Santa Monica and they always cuffed him and eventually threw him back out.

Not even when the heat’s on and Cee’s clutching him like they’re cornered rats. He just stands there, shirt sticking to his back, jaw working like he’s chewing gravel. “I’m not leggin’ it,” he mutters, glancing sideways at her. “Nah givin’ ’em the satisfaction. Let ’em cuff me if they’re feelin’ bold.”

He wasn't worried. He couldn't be. Things have already been hard. A part of him was more worried about informing Toni or Simone, again, about this unprecedented issue that made Kerry an unreliable person to work at their bar. That was the lame part. He couldn't believe he was this stupid. He couldn't believe he forgot where they were.

Francis. Francis was someone he could call and it would be okay. That he knew.

But then the younger one says something low—too calm—and Russell peels off, muttering curses as he lumbers after. Kerry’s pierced brows twitch. His eyes follow the pair, suspicion already blooming behind them.

“Oi,” he breathes, barely audible, “that’s not about us.”

He leans just a touch into Cee. “If this goes sideways, don't worry 'bout me. Just keep your head down, yeah?” A pause. Then, dryly— “They’ll let me out by mornin’. Or I’ll climb out. Either way. You know who I'm callin.' That's how easy s' gonna be.”

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whew not gonna lie fambly i have taken like 3 naps throughout the day and am fighting for my life to stay out of bed RN. gonna try to wake up via injecting dbd into my blood stream and putting on inuyasha in the bg. then i'm going to start working on replies. ily all

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tell me why we did karaoke again last night

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did sloop john b for karaoke last night and it was so great BRIAN WILSON IS A GENIUS

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@punkzombie

mood

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‘Burn fascists not forests’

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Andre Passos for Nylon magazine, April 1999.

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quite reminder to not content mine my blogs. thank u