Post by Michael Leighton on Dec 16, 2009 19:16:07 GMT -5
Just what the hell was he doing here? Seriously, he wasn't the drinking type, but somehow he'd been roped into some weird drinking game. When he'd had just enough that his pride fell by the wayside, he quit the stupid game and swaggered away from the group to sit by himself and stare at his perpetually-refilling glass of scotch. He was curious what kind of drunk he was, but he'd never thought he'd be the quiet type.
In a drunken haze, he contemplated his pokemon. He'd really messed up his Charmeleon. As a Charmander, he used to be curious, and hero-worship Michael. Now, he couldn't give a damn, except to find pokemon and people to beat up. Lackey, too. The poor pokemon was too scared to have a will of his own. His houndour seemed to be the only one unaffected. Mike played with Merc's pokeball as he pondered. He really should give away his Cyndaquil; Cynder was useless to him. Shy, nonaggressive... sober, he hated her; found her annoying. Now, he found her tolerable, at best, but it was still better than sober.
Mike looked up, suddenly hungry. He wanted... a sandwich. Did they even serve those here? Whatever. He'd order something; he was starving.
A hamburger later, Michael noticed he wasn't alone. "Just who in da hell're you?" he said, staring almost rudely at the person to his immediate left. He was completely oblivious, of course; this all seemed perfectly fine to him. He was totally justified staring at the guy that had just appeared next to him, sneaky, like a ninja. And Mike had every right to know who the hell snuck up on him like that.
In a drunken haze, he contemplated his pokemon. He'd really messed up his Charmeleon. As a Charmander, he used to be curious, and hero-worship Michael. Now, he couldn't give a damn, except to find pokemon and people to beat up. Lackey, too. The poor pokemon was too scared to have a will of his own. His houndour seemed to be the only one unaffected. Mike played with Merc's pokeball as he pondered. He really should give away his Cyndaquil; Cynder was useless to him. Shy, nonaggressive... sober, he hated her; found her annoying. Now, he found her tolerable, at best, but it was still better than sober.
Mike looked up, suddenly hungry. He wanted... a sandwich. Did they even serve those here? Whatever. He'd order something; he was starving.
A hamburger later, Michael noticed he wasn't alone. "Just who in da hell're you?" he said, staring almost rudely at the person to his immediate left. He was completely oblivious, of course; this all seemed perfectly fine to him. He was totally justified staring at the guy that had just appeared next to him, sneaky, like a ninja. And Mike had every right to know who the hell snuck up on him like that.