[Dreaming was still a weird thing for Joey. Hell, sleeping still felt strange. But when he awakens face down on the sand, damp and sore, with the barrel of a shotgun aimed right at his face...he's almost certain this isn't a dream. None of the dreams he's been having are this detailed. He wouldn't be able to smell the gunpowder and salt of the ocean, or feel the sand in his shoes, or the pain in his back and his head. His dreams are more abstract, like a shitty piece of art you spend way too long trying to get meaning out of before deciding it's a waste of time.
For a moment he thinks he's dead again. That those months he spent alive was bull — that he reverted back to one of those spooks who go along living their un-lives like they aren't as solid as a cloud and missing their legs. But even so, this still doesn't make sense.
The sound of a shotgun cocking brings him back to reality.]
Alright...[he drawls cautiously, bending his knees to push himself to his feet as slowly as he can manage, grabbing his nearby fedora and shaking it free of sand before placing it back on his head.
When he notices someone nearby entering the scene he barely moves, gaze still trained on the gun before him, but clearly addressing the newcomer.] Do you mind? We're in the middle of a riveting conversation here, in case ya can't tell.
[And yet, there's something in his glib tone that says "help a guy out, will ya?"]
b
[At some point or another, or maybe because that's just his luck, he ends up in the hot spot for crime. Crime Town, as he dubs it to himself, because he's sure he's being original and absolutely no one else refers to it as such. Either way, he's here, and he's confused as hell. He mentally marks streets, landmarks, that one window with a purple candle in it — oh wait, there's another one, but that one is on the corner with a trash can in front of it, which he's sure he walked by about three times already.
When he makes it a point not to make the turns that lead him right back to this spot he does it again anyway.]
Ah, come on. [he laments, dropping his hands to his sides.] I know my sense of direction isn't that bad.
c
[A bar. Thank god. Doesn't matter where it is, or what kind of a dive it is, he's there and he's sitting at the bar and ready to order a drink.]
Don't care what's in it, just make it strong.
[Especially after the day he's had. He would still think he's dreaming if it hadn't been days already. He feels like he went back in time, which is strange considering how familiar a lot of things are, but that's what happens when you pass time as a dead guy, he guesses.
Still, there are some things that don't make any sense. That technology that he saw Red always ogling for example...there's a lot of stuff they didn't have when he was alive, yet he sees it plenty here. And then some.
He can't help but think that things would be easier to deal with if Red were around. Well, she'd probably have a ton of restraining orders against her by now, offend the locals some way or another, but...ah, to hell with it. His drink is here. Time to not touch those thoughts with a ten foot pole.
He grabs the dark drink, knocks it back like a shot...and immediately grimaces. Whatever this drink is he's never had it before.]
What in the hell is this? [It's fruity. But also...pretty damn strong.] Keep 'em coming.
d
[After a couple of drinks he's at a table now with some food, staring down at that black computer thing someone shoved at him, insisted he would need in this place, and left. The look on their face...they thought they were being helpful, but all Joey can do is practically scowl at the damn thing.]
We don't really need these, do we? [He sounds like a child being told he must eat all his veggies. Eventually he flips the laptop open with one hand, like it'll explode if he makes one wrong move.] And don't these things usually come with a...whadya call it...a moose?
[He means mouse. And apparently doesn't understand trackpads.]
d(network)
[In an attempt to try — which is an extremely half assed attempt — to understand these stupid things, he accidentally posts to the network.]
< username > help
[Yes he thought typing in "help" would bring up some kind of menu. These things are supposed to be smart, aren't they?!]
e [wildcard! if you have an idea or wanna plot something out hmu at nicknacked ! things to note is that joey is blue in his icons because he's normally a ghost but he's not now so IGNORE THAT.]
Joey Mallone | Blackwell series
[Dreaming was still a weird thing for Joey. Hell, sleeping still felt strange. But when he awakens face down on the sand, damp and sore, with the barrel of a shotgun aimed right at his face...he's almost certain this isn't a dream. None of the dreams he's been having are this detailed. He wouldn't be able to smell the gunpowder and salt of the ocean, or feel the sand in his shoes, or the pain in his back and his head. His dreams are more abstract, like a shitty piece of art you spend way too long trying to get meaning out of before deciding it's a waste of time.
For a moment he thinks he's dead again. That those months he spent alive was bull — that he reverted back to one of those spooks who go along living their un-lives like they aren't as solid as a cloud and missing their legs. But even so, this still doesn't make sense.
The sound of a shotgun cocking brings him back to reality.]
Alright...[he drawls cautiously, bending his knees to push himself to his feet as slowly as he can manage, grabbing his nearby fedora and shaking it free of sand before placing it back on his head.
When he notices someone nearby entering the scene he barely moves, gaze still trained on the gun before him, but clearly addressing the newcomer.] Do you mind? We're in the middle of a riveting conversation here, in case ya can't tell.
[And yet, there's something in his glib tone that says "help a guy out, will ya?"]
b
[At some point or another, or maybe because that's just his luck, he ends up in the hot spot for crime. Crime Town, as he dubs it to himself, because he's sure he's being original and absolutely no one else refers to it as such. Either way, he's here, and he's confused as hell. He mentally marks streets, landmarks, that one window with a purple candle in it — oh wait, there's another one, but that one is on the corner with a trash can in front of it, which he's sure he walked by about three times already.
When he makes it a point not to make the turns that lead him right back to this spot he does it again anyway.]
Ah, come on. [he laments, dropping his hands to his sides.] I know my sense of direction isn't that bad.
c
[A bar. Thank god. Doesn't matter where it is, or what kind of a dive it is, he's there and he's sitting at the bar and ready to order a drink.]
Don't care what's in it, just make it strong.
[Especially after the day he's had. He would still think he's dreaming if it hadn't been days already. He feels like he went back in time, which is strange considering how familiar a lot of things are, but that's what happens when you pass time as a dead guy, he guesses.
Still, there are some things that don't make any sense. That technology that he saw Red always ogling for example...there's a lot of stuff they didn't have when he was alive, yet he sees it plenty here. And then some.
He can't help but think that things would be easier to deal with if Red were around. Well, she'd probably have a ton of restraining orders against her by now, offend the locals some way or another, but...ah, to hell with it. His drink is here. Time to not touch those thoughts with a ten foot pole.
He grabs the dark drink, knocks it back like a shot...and immediately grimaces. Whatever this drink is he's never had it before.]
What in the hell is this? [It's fruity. But also...pretty damn strong.] Keep 'em coming.
d
[After a couple of drinks he's at a table now with some food, staring down at that black computer thing someone shoved at him, insisted he would need in this place, and left. The look on their face...they thought they were being helpful, but all Joey can do is practically scowl at the damn thing.]
We don't really need these, do we? [He sounds like a child being told he must eat all his veggies. Eventually he flips the laptop open with one hand, like it'll explode if he makes one wrong move.] And don't these things usually come with a...whadya call it...a moose?
[He means mouse. And apparently doesn't understand trackpads.]
d(network)
[In an attempt to try — which is an extremely half assed attempt — to understand these stupid things, he accidentally posts to the network.]
< username >
help
[Yes he thought typing in "help" would bring up some kind of menu. These things are supposed to be smart, aren't they?!]
e
[wildcard! if you have an idea or wanna plot something out hmu at