There's so much Len could say. Too much. He's not going to respond to Kabal's half-assed (painfully real) insults, because he's above that. Above him.
And yet-- is the air conditioner broken in here? Because Len can't seem to keep his cool. He's tempted to smack Kabal in the face for the brief moment it's visible. Len hates that he still finds him attractive. Burns and all.
He narrows his eyes, tossing the butter knife onto the buffet. RIP any innocent bystanders who get splashed with cocktail sauce. Your sacrifice is definitely in vain. That's not coming out later.
"You'd be two country-fried assholes in a pod. He couldn't think past the tip of his burnt dick either. If I had his number, I'd give it to you. So you can both screw off into the sunset and have the time of your lives, breaking crap and lighting it on fire, until the next shiny thing comes along."
A glance around the room. Len can't help himself. If Mick were here he would know, or already be dead. Len hasn't seen singed hide or hair of him since their last spat on the network. They almost talked. Came close, between barbed insults and hurled threats.
Len wanted to think Mick was thinking things through for the first time in his life, but deep down he already knew the truth. Mick was gone. By his own volition or a higher power. Len still doesn't understand how this place works. He's starting to think it's some kind of limbo. Punishment for screwing it up so bad in your own universe you blip out of existence.
Will the team notice he's gone? Would any of them care? It figures he would end up doing the leg-work for all this 'saving the world bullshit', and get cut from the credits in the end.
Kabal can't be cheating, because they were never really together.
Len's never really been with anyone.
He knew a long time ago he'd be dying alone, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. Which is why he'll wash it down with a mouthful of whiskey and the sad remains of a melted ice-cube, tossing the glass aside (into a plant, or the train of someone's skirt) with a heavy sigh. He's only half acting.
"It was fun while it lasted, but I think you should go. Before I jam that fork into your eye-socket. I doubt there's anything you could say to save what's left of our little arrangement, but I'll give you one shot." A sardonic smile. Daring Kabal to take it. Knowing he won't.
In the end, that's better for both of them. Men without hearts will never be anything more than they already were.
no subject
And yet-- is the air conditioner broken in here? Because Len can't seem to keep his cool. He's tempted to smack Kabal in the face for the brief moment it's visible. Len hates that he still finds him attractive. Burns and all.
He narrows his eyes, tossing the butter knife onto the buffet. RIP any innocent bystanders who get splashed with cocktail sauce. Your sacrifice is definitely in vain. That's not coming out later.
"You'd be two country-fried assholes in a pod. He couldn't think past the tip of his burnt dick either. If I had his number, I'd give it to you. So you can both screw off into the sunset and have the time of your lives, breaking crap and lighting it on fire, until the next shiny thing comes along."
A glance around the room. Len can't help himself. If Mick were here he would know, or already be dead. Len hasn't seen singed hide or hair of him since their last spat on the network. They almost talked. Came close, between barbed insults and hurled threats.
Len wanted to think Mick was thinking things through for the first time in his life, but deep down he already knew the truth. Mick was gone. By his own volition or a higher power. Len still doesn't understand how this place works. He's starting to think it's some kind of limbo. Punishment for screwing it up so bad in your own universe you blip out of existence.
Will the team notice he's gone? Would any of them care? It figures he would end up doing the leg-work for all this 'saving the world bullshit', and get cut from the credits in the end.
Kabal can't be cheating, because they were never really together.
Len's never really been with anyone.
He knew a long time ago he'd be dying alone, but it's still a bitter pill to swallow. Which is why he'll wash it down with a mouthful of whiskey and the sad remains of a melted ice-cube, tossing the glass aside (into a plant, or the train of someone's skirt) with a heavy sigh. He's only half acting.
"It was fun while it lasted, but I think you should go. Before I jam that fork into your eye-socket. I doubt there's anything you could say to save what's left of our little arrangement, but I'll give you one shot." A sardonic smile. Daring Kabal to take it. Knowing he won't.
In the end, that's better for both of them. Men without hearts will never be anything more than they already were.