"I wear the clothes. They don't wear me." Hands on his hips, shifting his weight just so from one foot to the other. Showing off exactly what his not-date isn't getting. Kabal is taller, but Len's always had a special ability to look down his nose at any thug regardless of height.
"I can make an orange jumpsuit look good." Len swans around like he's wearing vintage Givenchy when in a torn sweater and blood-splattered jeans. He hadn't dressed up special for this party, and doesn't now feel uncomfortable in his own skin, like it was a complete waste of time to make an effort.
If the outfit ends up in the trash tomorrow, it's because Len's already gotten bored of it.
"I'm sure you'll find more where she came from. I can see approximately fifteen living, breathing women who look drunk enough to hook up with you from here... if they lose their contact lenses." A glance around the room, eyes scanning over the other guests like a jeweler searching for a diamond in the rough.
He spots a random girl, and there's nothing special about her. Minus the fact Kabal was more interested in her company than his. She could be an angel for all Len knows. Or cares.
Petty is his middle name. The 'Bitch' is silent.
"That one looks easy. Want me to be your wing-man? I'll tell her you can count all ten fingers and don't have the clap. She'll be super impressed."
If looks could kill, said girl would already have a chalk outline. She looks like Mick's type. Young. Fresh. Female. Not Len, the resident boss/nag/brother from another screwed up mother.
no subject
"I can make an orange jumpsuit look good." Len swans around like he's wearing vintage Givenchy when in a torn sweater and blood-splattered jeans. He hadn't dressed up special for this party, and doesn't now feel uncomfortable in his own skin, like it was a complete waste of time to make an effort.
If the outfit ends up in the trash tomorrow, it's because Len's already gotten bored of it.
"I'm sure you'll find more where she came from. I can see approximately fifteen living, breathing women who look drunk enough to hook up with you from here... if they lose their contact lenses." A glance around the room, eyes scanning over the other guests like a jeweler searching for a diamond in the rough.
He spots a random girl, and there's nothing special about her. Minus the fact Kabal was more interested in her company than his. She could be an angel for all Len knows. Or cares.
Petty is his middle name. The 'Bitch' is silent.
"That one looks easy. Want me to be your wing-man? I'll tell her you can count all ten fingers and don't have the clap. She'll be super impressed."
If looks could kill, said girl would already have a chalk outline. She looks like Mick's type. Young. Fresh. Female. Not Len, the resident boss/nag/brother from another screwed up mother.