- - - WHY SAY IT AGAIN

[MERRICK LUCIUS DRAKE]

I'M TENSE AND NERVOUS
and i can't relax

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• • • • • • • • • • • EZRA GEORGE ![/font][/color][/font][/size][/center]

Merrick looked at the cash on the table of his, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms. He was leaned back on the old and broken couch, managing to evade the spring that stuck out. He was in only a pair of black jeans and his shoes, never daring enough to walk around without them in his own apartment. God knew what was on that floor, because he most certainly didn’t. He had a few options here. He could use the money to pay his rent, and he could pay paints with whatever was left over. He could buy drugs and paint, or he could buy drugs and booze. Now, what would the tiny man do? He definitely wouldn’t be paying his rent, so it would have to be drugs. Now the question was drugs and paint or drugs and booze. Booze, definitely booze. Now I know what you’re wondering: how did an unemployed junky manage to get this much money? Easy, thus unemployed junky was a painter. When Merrick shot up he managed to create the epitome of surrealism in a painting. He would use the cheapest paints he could find, the most expensive drugs he could afford, and get to work. He didn’t see it as anything special, but other people seemed to love them. Hey, if they wanted to buy his pieces of shit he wasn’t about to stop them. The old buildings of New Orleans were covered in graffiti created by the angry little man.

He stood and stalked over to his bedroom, which was a whole three steps away, and put on the first shirt he could find. If he had the choice he would walk around naked, but it was winter and it was cold outside. So instead he stuck with the first shirt he saw and his red and black hoodie. Merrick honestly couldn’t think of the last time he had bought new clothes. He had stolen this sweater the shoes off of someone he beat up, and the jeans he had had for years. Merrick hadn’t grown since he was around fourteen, so all of the old clothes he had would still fit him now. He didn’t have them though. They wouldn’t fit in his duffle bag. All of Merrick’s possessions fit into one little duffle bag. He owned next to nothing, and he certainly didn’t own clothes fitting for winter.

He had to be careful and sneak out of the apartment, opening the door just enough to allow himself room to slide out. He closed it without a sound and crept toward the fire escape, more willing to dare getting down that way than meeting his landlord down the stairs. The elevator had been broken for who knows how long. Not like the stairs were much safer than the fire escape though. The building was falling apart and probably crawling with rats. That’s okay though, because Merrick had his cat Jaws. Speaking of which, Jaws and Aragog needed food. He would have to take someone’s wallet tonight then. He made as little sound as he could crawling onto the fire escape ladder. Freedom. He was not in the streets.

His hands dug into his pockets, tiny fingers curled around the bills protectively. His head bent low and his hood covered his thick red and black hair, which created a curtain over his pale face. Merrick certainly didn’t look like much. He stood at four feet and nine inches, and weight ninety pounds soaking wet. His skin was pasty and pale, and his hair thick and dense and always in his face. Years of drug abuse had created dark circles around his eyes, and his cheeks had an almost sickly look to them. He was nearly skin and bones if you saw him with his shirt off, and covered in scars. Don’t you dare let his small size fool you though. Merrick was a scrappy little guy, and he wasn’t afraid to play dirty in a fight. He was certainly much stronger than he looked, which usually worked to his advantage. People didn’t expect a tiny guy like him to be able to fight much.

He walked all of the way to the Saloon, along the way texting a friend to say he would be there. It probably came as a surprise to Ezra, because Merrick’s phone barely ever had time on it. He had gotten a “friend” to do it for him. The guy owed him for a favour Merrick had done, so it was the least he could do. He took the back roads and alleys to get to the club, waiting in line along with the other low lives and shivering quite extensively. His shoes were wet and he was pretty damn cold by now. He flashed his ID and got questioned by the bouncer, his tiny size disagreeing with the age on his license. So he pulled out his birth certificate for proof, and inside he went. Yeah, Merrick was used to that. He wove his way through the crowd of people, doing his best to remain unseen and unnoticed. That was something Merrick was good at. He kept his posture small and followed behind a man, reaching through the people and snagging bills off of the bar counter. No one noticed, and if they did they didn’t care to tell anyone. He chose a secluded area of the bar to sit down and ordered a gin and tonic, using a stolen bill to pay for it.

words: 919
outfit: clicky!
lyrics: talking heads, psycho killer
notes: - - -

[EZRA BIANCA GEORGE]

SUBTRACT MY AGE
FROM THE MILEAGE

M E R R I C K L U C I U S D R A K E

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The clock ticked aimlessly onwards, counting the manifold seconds between one thing and the next. Reminding him with aggravating regularity just how much of his life he was wasting. He sometimes considered taking out the batteries and stopping the infernal device, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it – because without the monotonous sound there would be nothing to break the solitary silence in his dorm room. So the clock ticked onwards, and Ezra continued to stare dismally at the plate of carefully prepared dinner resting on the glass-top of the table. It had taken him an hour and a half to prepare. The meat had needed to be marinated, the vegetables carefully diced and stir-fried. Then there had been all the fiddly bits to make the sauce… And it looked fabulous. Smelt fabulous. It would probably taste fabulous, if he had any intention of eating it. But, with a heavy sigh, he acknowledged the fact that, like every evening, he had no desire to eat anything. It was the same every day. He sat on his small leather couch and stared at either a blank wall or a German book until it became unbearable… and then he moved. Got up, went into the kitchen. Picked the most ornate recipe he could find and, for a while, felt perfectly normal as he busied himself frying and grilling, chopping and grinding. He had really truly come to love cooking – the warmth of the stove, the delicate contrasts between flavours, the concentration required. It let him get out of his head for a while. But then, after the magic of making and creating, he was left to stare at the food with a sense on lonely despair. He hated eating alone, but he didn’t deserve anyone to eat with – and that made him feel sick to his stomach, which in turn put him off whatever delicacy he had made. He looked at the food a while more, as if one day it would magically change and all his problems would be fixed, and then he reached forwards and jabbed at the food with his fork. The cursory mouthful was chewed and swallowed – the rest discarded in the waste bin. Another half hour passed as Ezra painstakingly washed up each utensil he had used, putting each back into its own little nook in his highly-organised kitchenette.

He flung himself onto the bed, a tangle of too-long too-thin limbs, and stared upwards at the cheap roof tiles. It was pathetic, he decided in a moment of clarity, how much time he spent simply staring at things. Breaking the pattern of his life, he closed his eyes, tried to sleep. He gave up after a few minutes, deciding abruptly that lying in his dorm room and moping was never going to make him feel any better. Instead he got to his feet, grabbed his coat and scarf, shouldered his bag – and left.

Ezra had already been at the Saloon for almost an hour when he got Merrick’s text. Far too drunk for this early in the evening, he sat precariously perched on his bar stool and did his best to chat up the young lady next to him. After all he was lonely, and a meaningless string free night of passion was the easiest answer for that. Admittedly, there were a few obstacles in his ingenious plan – for example, the fact that men were his poison of choice, and that he was not exactly known for his charms… but there was always a much more plentiful supply of straight desperate women than homosexual desperate men, and the blonde next to him was desperate enough not to care too deeply about Ezra’s cold and insulting demeanour or the way everything he said to her was either insincere or rude. But the familiar vibration in his back pocket tore him away from his target long enough for her to be stolen by another, equally pathetic drunk – and Ezra really didn’t mind. Merrick’s company was infinitely preferable to that of his drunk and slutty new friend’s. With a grunt of satisfaction, Ezra pocketed his phone once more, ordered another drink, and made his way unsteadily over to the table Merrick claimed every night without fail.

He settled himself, and waiting for the familiar and welcome little figure to appear – and he didn’t have to wait long.. A grim smile crossed the hawk-like features as Merrick sat down, and Ezra raised an eyebrow. ”How the hell did you get minutes on that phone?”.

He had never been fond of the boring ‘hello’ convention.

[/center]

[MERRICK LUCIUS DRAKE]

I'M TENSE AND NERVOUS
and i can't relax

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• • • • • • • • • • • EZRA GEORGE ![/font][/color][/font][/size][/center]

Merrick wasn’t exactly the most conventional person you could find. His daily goals consisted of stealing money off of people and getting drunk before noon. Oh yeah, Merrick’s priorities were amazing. Such a model citizen this boy was. Yeah fucking right. Merrick was on the bottom of the social ladder, but he wasn’t the lowest of low. He wasn’t homeless. Yet. He was getting there though. One would think that he would pay his rent with the money he had, since he had more than enough to keep him there for a few months. No. Instead the man would spend it on alcohol and drugs. As per usual. Anyone who knew him would figure that would be the case. Anyone who knew him would know it was safe to assume he would do the opposite of what was suggested. Merrick was not a conventional person, not by any means. He also wasn’t a very cheerful person.

Not very many people knew the true story behind Merrick. With a strong tendency to lie about the smallest things, not many people believed what Merrick told them. And with reason too, even he was willing to admit that ninety percent of what he said was a lie. There was minimal truth behind what he said, and most of the time people were left to decide truth from lies on their own. In Merrick’s experience, it was the truths that most people assumed he was lying about. Whenever he said he watched his mother die people scolded him for being melodramatic. When he said he was a cancer survivor they didn’t even give him time of day about it. Those were both true though. The only way to know for sure about “lie” number one was to witness one of Merrick’s night terrors, which he never remembered by the time he woke up.

Truth be told, Merrick was pretty honest with Ezra. It was rare for him to lie to the only person he considered a friend. He had told Ezra of his mother, how she was a junky and he had watched her die. It was a hard thing for Merrick to talk about, but being drunk at the time her certainly helped. He told Ezra of his leukemia and being in the hospital for most of his teen years. The second he had gotten out he had turned to drugs and alcohol and fighting. Really, his father shouldn’t have been so surprised. People with anti-social personality disorder had a tendency for substance abuse, not to mention he spent the first seven years of his life lurking around the home of a junky. It was all true, and he had said it all to Ezra. The hawk of a man was the closest thing to a friend Merrick would ever get.

He pulled off his hood as he sat, looking like a child sitting amongst all of the men. He often cursed his small size, but he liked it. He made lurking about and stealing so much easier. No doubt Ezra had caught how much cash he had swiped off of the bar counter without notice, starting two arguments about the bartenders and some customers who claimed to have paid already. It brought a smug smirk to his usually scowling lips. “JD owed me a favour,”

[/color] he replied. A mutual junky friend who meant absolutely nothing to the small man. Not many of the people Merrick knew meant anything to him, really. The second his drink was set down on the counter Merrick had it to his lips and pouring into his body. A very friendly feeling. “That and I’m just that damn good,”[/color] he snorted, his superiority complex kicking in as per usual.[/blockquote]words: 621
outfit: clicky!
lyrics: talking heads, psycho killer
notes: - - -
[/blockquote]

[EZRA BIANCA GEORGE]

SUBTRACT MY AGE
FROM THE MILEAGE

M E R R I C K L U C I U S D R A K E

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---

Ezra was a master drinks mixer almost as much as he was a master chef. Even when he first began drinking, he had spent hours on end mixing liquors in an attempt to find the mixture which got him out of his head the quickest – and after years of practise he could whip up something horribly alcoholic in a few seconds. At some point or another taste had become a factor in his cocktails, and over the years some of his ingenious little ideas had found their way onto the cocktail menu at the Saloon. A lot of people thought that only straight liquor was a suitable mans drink, and that cocktails were actually quite gay. Ezra disagreed, having worked out that some cocktails were far more alcoholic than anything besides moonshine – and he was pretty much gay anyway, and as such had no qualms about drinking ‘a lady’s drink’. Today’s special drink had already attracted a few ‘I’ll have what he’s having’s from women around the bar – mostly because of the way it had separated into two layers in the glass – one pink and one aquamarine. Ezra was too drunk to remember what he had put in it, but what he could tell you was that it tasted like silver polish, and that he was close to forgetting quite how horrible his life was. And since that was the aim of the game, he grabbed the waiters hand as he deposited Merrick’s drink and slipped the man a bill. The unfortunate young man had served Ezra enough times in his life to know that the drink had best arrive quickly, and hurried back to the bar. The obvious lack of a drink having been efficiently dealt with, Ezra turned his attention back to his friend, and allowed a small smirk to flitter across his features.

He was actually pretty fond of the feisty little fun-sized man. Ezra knew he wallowed overmuch in self pity – but he seemed pathetically incapable of dragging himself free. Merrick was one of the few people who could handle Ezzie’s self-hating aggression, and despite how insignificant Ezra’s troubles were in comparison to his, Merrick never took a dig at Ezra’s constant moping. It wasn’t that the little man didn’t insult Ezra – he just insulted him for everything besides his… ‘issues’. It was an unspoken mutual law – respect for each others utterly and grotesquely messed up minds. He could say it of very few people – but he genuinely enjoyed Merrick’s company. In a weird way. And he worried about the small figure. He’d always been a good kid, and a part of him always wanted to ruin everything the two of them had (namely friendship) and try to sort Merrick’s life out. To pack the kid off to rehab, or at least pay his rent for him. But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do that. He’d known Merrick long enough to understand that charity was out of bounds – but he’d also worked out that leaving a few notes in clear view and unattended meant that the small man would get at least one meal a day.

He gave a derisive snort as JD’s name came up in conversation. The kid was an idiot, and an unwanted hanger on. Not that he had any idea how the two of them – the least approachable people in New Orleans, if not the world – had managed to develop followers. ”No shit – that kid always owes someone a favour.” His drink arrived, and vanished down his throat before the nervous waiter could avoid yet another note being waved in his general direction. Ezra paused momentarily, and arched a dainty eyebrow at Merrick. ”Hey – you want another round? It’s my father’s cash.” The hatred in his voice was absolutely obvious. Without waiting for an answer he tossed another bill at the man, and rested his pointy chi on a slender hand. ”So, my little junkie. Where have you been since last Thursday?”.

[/center]

[MERRICK LUCIUS DRAKE]

I'M TENSE AND NERVOUS
and i can't relax

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• • • • • • • • • • • EZRA GEORGE ![/font][/color][/font][/size][/center]

When it came to his alcohol Merrick preferred good, hard liquor. However, it was rare for him to be able to afford that. He usually went to the bars with someone who would listen to every one of Merrick’s drunken demands, and someone who he knew had a big pocket. There weren’t very many people like that in Merrick’s life at the moment though. He didn’t have very many well off friends who were willing to take his demands and his insults. He wasn’t exactly a nice guy. In fact, it was unlikely that he had a nice bone in his body. Or a nice molecule for that matter. Not even as a child had Merrick been a very friendly guy, though he was much different then than he was now. As a kid Merrick was much more reserved, spending his time in the library at his private school with his bowl cut and uniform. He would pour himself over old fables and tales and poetry, finding Edgar Allen Poe to be his favourite. No one who knew Merrick now would believe any of this, of course. His intelligence seemed a bit lacking, though he had plenty of street smarts. When it came to the streets Merrick was a bloody genius, but once school was involved he was out of there.

Merrick wasn’t quite sure where he sat with Ezra. The feeling of having someone who may possibly care about him, even just a little, was completely alien to the man. He had lived his entire life without anyone giving a rat’s ass about him, so he was constantly pushing people away. He wallowed in the knowledge that he was unlovable and impossible to care about, perhaps a little too much. Merrick seemed to have no desire to change his ways, which was probably why he took to Ezra like he did. Ezra didn’t try and convince Merrick he was ruining his life. Merrick all ready knew he had ruined it; he knew that years ago. He was at least gracious enough to not bother insulting Ezra about his issues, so long as Ezra didn’t bug Merrick about his. That was probably where all of Merrick’s niceness went. He used it all up on Ezra to bother with anyone else.

He gave a small shrug in response to Ezra’s comment about JD. “He’s a dumbass, but a useful dumbass,”

[/color] he remarked. JD fell under the previously mentioned category of Merrick’s company who he used entirely for their pockets. The guy was too stupid to realize this, and thought Merrick would return the kind deed of lending him money by getting JD out of trouble if he were ever in it. Fuck no, Merrick was only out for himself. Well, and Jaws and Aragog. Even Merrick found the concept of him taking care of pets ridiculous though. He was pretty sure that if not for the rats in his apartment Jaws would have died of starvation by now. He actually kind of cared about the cat though. He cared about his tarantula too, which he actually put effort into taking care of. He had been an expensive fucking spider. “Did you even need to fuckin’ ask? ‘Course I want another round,”[/color] he declared. While Merrick hated taking Ezra’s cash, he had no qualms taking Ezra’s father’s.

Ezra’s question was a very good one, and one Merrick seemed to struggle to answer. “Hospital on Friday,”[/color] he stated, staring up at the ceiling at he attempted to remember it all. “Fucking hell that was because I needed to be clean,.”[/color] he spat in annoyance. “Haven’t been at my place much, cause my landlord seems to think I need to pay him rent. Hell no,”[/color] he continued with a shrug. “Been around. Why? You miss me?”[/color] he teased.[/blockquote]words: 634
outfit: clicky!
lyrics: talking heads, psycho killer
notes: - - -
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