[sticky entry] Sticky: OOC: Contact Post

May. 5th, 2012 05:12 pm
lt_shea62truck: (Default)
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lt_shea62truck: (sad lieutenant is sad)
"You'd be surprised how many people violate this simple principle every day of their lives and
try to fit square pegs into round holes, ignoring the clear reality that Things Are As They Are."
― Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh
lt_shea62truck: (what is this fuckery)
[Shortly after this...]

With a box of supplies and occult paraphernalia, plus the handy-dandy "Complete Idiot's Guide to Vampires," Voodoo and Kenny make their way up to Kenny's room -- which, to be honest, is kind of a mess. There are piles of clothes everywhere (to the naked eye, they aren't obviously separated into 'dirty' and 'still wearable'), and open packages of snacks are stashed away in every corner.

Apparently the Oompa Loompas haven't made their cleaning rounds yet. Either that or they don't want to touch this apartment with a ten-foot pole.

"Excuse the state of things," Kenny mutters as he locks the apartment door behind them, and gesturing to Voodoo to put the box down on a clear patch of what seems to be a table.
lt_shea62truck: (you have got to be kidding)
It's inside the bar.

And Kenny can move fast if he wants to. Oh, yes, he can.

"Lou!" Tommy calls as he chases after him. "Jeezus Christ, Lou, it's just me!"

Kenny reaches his apartment and shoves the key into the lock with a severely shaking hand. Eventually he gets the door open and ducks inside, away from what's chasing him, away from what's invaded his mind and seeped into his bones.

"Lou!"

Tommy slams his shoulder against the door before Kenny shuts it on him. For a few moments there's a struggle, each man pushing from either side.

"Go away!" Kenny shouts angrily. "You're leading him here!"

"Bullshit!" Tommy snaps. "You know I ain't! This's freaking me out, too, y'know! Lemme in!"

"Go away!"

"No!"



A sudden draft sweeps through the hall.

Read more... )

lt_shea62truck: (what is this fuckery)
Just as Kenny breathlessly stumbled into the bar, Tommy was headed out back for a smoke.

"Don't go out there," Kenny warned him before coughing into his fist.

Tommy fixed him with a confused look. "Why not? Are you okay?"

Shaking his head, he cleared his throat and waved him further into the room, away from the back door. "There's some weird shit going on in the woods."

Read more... )

lt_shea62truck: (sad lieutenant is sad)
Kenny managed to fit the key into the lock on his third try. On unsteady feet, he shuffled into his apartment and switched on the dingy yellow light. At this point the cockroaches didn't even bother to scatter, and just loitered around, regarding Kenny as an interloper. He was too drunk and apathetic to notice. He pulled off his jacket, dropped it on the floor, and plopped into the ratty armchair at the foot of the bed.

As if on cue, the upstairs neighbors started screaming again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, shut up," Kenny yelled at the ceiling.

That sort of thing never helped.

He turned the TV on and pushed the volume up to the highest level. It was the History Channel, and apparently they were in the middle of Hitler Week.

Kenny put his face in his hands.

If not for his paycheck and the flotsam and jetsam that he managed to sell after the divorce, he would be destitute. But it wasn't his ex-wife's fault. Sure, he was angry at her for leaving him with barely a scrap.

But his secret savings. He could still be living off of his secret savings. But no...that was gone, all gone. And he could only blame himself.

Miserable to the core, he dug around in an ash tray and retrieved a cigar stump, then fumbled in his pocket for matches.

The book of matches read Milliways.

This gave Kenny pause. He needed his own door. The door at the firehouse was fine, but it was Tommy's first, and he needed one for himself. Here. Now.

Heaving himself up and out of the chair (it took some effort to not tip over), he went over to the nearest door, that being the door to the bathroom, and flung it open.

"Shit," he said, because it was still the bathroom.

But then there was the closet door! He'd almost forgotten about it, because he never used it except to store the cardboard boxes full of shit he'd forgotten about. With a longing, drunken hope, he clutched the matchbook in one hand, put his other hand on the doorknob (but first shooing a cockroach away), and pulled it open.

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Lt. Kenneth Shea

June 2013

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