Right, right. [They are in public after all, and making a downright spectacle of themselves. Richie glances to the side and sees a trio of young girls hurriedly looking away, tapping on their phones. He gives another sour laugh.] Can't take a shit around here without nine people knowing what color.
[He thrusts his hands into his pockets and starts towards a nearby tavern. Gonna need some good liquor to battle this one out. And if he can't get the good, he'll take the strong.
Once they're settled inside and there's a pint poured for each, the pair drop down at dim table in the corner, taking refuge under the din of the reveling regulars. Richie takes a long gulp of his slop before speaking.]
Kee-rist, that's pure motor oil if I ever licked the underside of a Chevy. My tongue's gonna be dead meat by the time we get back to civilization.
[Yet he drinks down another gulp. Slower this time, and looking off to the side. The picture's still in his pocket, eating a hole through the side of his coat and into the meat of his brain. He'll need somewhere private to dispose of it, and he'll do it soon. Just not here.]
All right. So even if I was to keep it sweet and simple, I have to start with Bill and Georgie Denbrough. Bill was my best bud as a kid. 1958, we were about ten? Ten years old for sure. And his little brother George was a pipsqueak still, just six or so and pocket-sized. Cute lil' bugger.
That fall, they found George dead by a sewer drain. His arm had been torn off, and he'd died of either shock or exsanguination not too long after. No one saw what happened, even though it was in the middle of the damn street.
no subject
[He thrusts his hands into his pockets and starts towards a nearby tavern. Gonna need some good liquor to battle this one out. And if he can't get the good, he'll take the strong.
Once they're settled inside and there's a pint poured for each, the pair drop down at dim table in the corner, taking refuge under the din of the reveling regulars. Richie takes a long gulp of his slop before speaking.]
Kee-rist, that's pure motor oil if I ever licked the underside of a Chevy. My tongue's gonna be dead meat by the time we get back to civilization.
[Yet he drinks down another gulp. Slower this time, and looking off to the side. The picture's still in his pocket, eating a hole through the side of his coat and into the meat of his brain. He'll need somewhere private to dispose of it, and he'll do it soon. Just not here.]
All right. So even if I was to keep it sweet and simple, I have to start with Bill and Georgie Denbrough. Bill was my best bud as a kid. 1958, we were about ten? Ten years old for sure. And his little brother George was a pipsqueak still, just six or so and pocket-sized. Cute lil' bugger.
That fall, they found George dead by a sewer drain. His arm had been torn off, and he'd died of either shock or exsanguination not too long after. No one saw what happened, even though it was in the middle of the damn street.