That first question drags Stan's eyes over to that face, he can't help it, and when he looks at it a little thought speaks up in his head: Hallucinations don't believe a damn thing, it says, all weak and feeble, and then it goes quiet.
But this voice, now, this other one, it's his brother's voice and it sounds sure, it sounds a lot of things but it sounds sure, too. And the words themselves, they sound- A deep breath digs its way inside Stan's ribcage and then another one, those words are hitting his insides and bouncing around just like bullets and he don't know whether they're hurting just like bullets too or if they're doing something else entirely.
There's a part of Stan that always looks out for opportunities, times lady luck's dice roll his way, little ins with the people around him, a part that just stays on the lookout for chances. There's a part of him that always will. That part of him sees a chance now, a last chance that's about to whizz right on by because he's on the edge of believing something, something stupid, and once he does fall over that edge the other shoe's going to drop and it's going to kick him directly in the ass.
But before that happens, while he's over here teetering on this, this cliff or whatever, anything he happens to say is just like - well, it's like hearing some especially deep, smooth voice of some radio announcer asking a question and answering back reflexively, it's like catching a look at some part of his face in the rearview mirror and muttering an observation about anything, about his latest run of bad luck, about himself, about traffic, and then muttering a reply right back, deeper, quieter so no one but Stan can really hear. It's just like that. There's all sorts of things you can say when you know no one's listening. Even the truth, sometimes.
"I can't decide if it's a miracle or a fuckin' joke, hearin' that." Stan thinks he can feel the words falling out of his mouth there, he can feel them on what's left of his skin tumbling right out the corner where those cuts keep pulling open and instead of blood trickling down his chin it's words, ones that want to get out quick before Stan can think too hard about locking them back in where they maybe oughta' be, where anyone wiser and smarter would probably keep words like that locked up. But this is his last chance, maybe one of his last chances, and let no one say that Stan Pines lets any opportunity pass him by.
"Hearin' it now. I coulda' heard that in Columbia. I coulda' heard it in Russia. I coulda' heard it in fuckin'- in fuckin' Jersey, on that stupid beach, hidin' out in that fuckin' boat! What I wouldn't a' gave to hear that back when I coulda', back when I didn't know-"
"This ain't even what I wanted to say to you. Ain't that funny? Earlier today- musta' been just like, this afternoon, I was thinkin'- I mean, what I wouldn't a' gave, you know? That's what I wanted to say, here. I just wanted you to know how much I always, I always wanted- maybe you or, or even just some Joe Schmoe, just anybody, to-"
Then it's like a brain-switch flicks inside of Stan, or maybe it's like a brain fuse box, taking too much emotional current and stopping it right there. Anything that mighta' been like desperation drops out of his voice and his eyes drop off that face and he looks at a puddle of gas nearby instead, he looks at all the colors in it shining under those bright gas station lights. He focuses on that. "But I guess it don't work, your dialogue sounds wrong. Go back and rework your script, maybe some day you'll come back and really sell it to me."
He looks down at that puddle over there and feels his eyebrows pulling together and his jaw pulling tight and the line of his lips shaking just a little and his hand loosens around that pill and turns around to try and give that six-fingered hand a hard squeeze and tries to hold on tight, maybe too tight, and a deep breath digs into him and Ford's words, that help you, that get you through this, bounce around in his chest like bullets.
no subject
But this voice, now, this other one, it's his brother's voice and it sounds sure, it sounds a lot of things but it sounds sure, too. And the words themselves, they sound- A deep breath digs its way inside Stan's ribcage and then another one, those words are hitting his insides and bouncing around just like bullets and he don't know whether they're hurting just like bullets too or if they're doing something else entirely.
There's a part of Stan that always looks out for opportunities, times lady luck's dice roll his way, little ins with the people around him, a part that just stays on the lookout for chances. There's a part of him that always will. That part of him sees a chance now, a last chance that's about to whizz right on by because he's on the edge of believing something, something stupid, and once he does fall over that edge the other shoe's going to drop and it's going to kick him directly in the ass.
But before that happens, while he's over here teetering on this, this cliff or whatever, anything he happens to say is just like - well, it's like hearing some especially deep, smooth voice of some radio announcer asking a question and answering back reflexively, it's like catching a look at some part of his face in the rearview mirror and muttering an observation about anything, about his latest run of bad luck, about himself, about traffic, and then muttering a reply right back, deeper, quieter so no one but Stan can really hear. It's just like that. There's all sorts of things you can say when you know no one's listening. Even the truth, sometimes.
"I can't decide if it's a miracle or a fuckin' joke, hearin' that." Stan thinks he can feel the words falling out of his mouth there, he can feel them on what's left of his skin tumbling right out the corner where those cuts keep pulling open and instead of blood trickling down his chin it's words, ones that want to get out quick before Stan can think too hard about locking them back in where they maybe oughta' be, where anyone wiser and smarter would probably keep words like that locked up. But this is his last chance, maybe one of his last chances, and let no one say that Stan Pines lets any opportunity pass him by.
"Hearin' it now. I coulda' heard that in Columbia. I coulda' heard it in Russia. I coulda' heard it in fuckin'- in fuckin' Jersey, on that stupid beach, hidin' out in that fuckin' boat! What I wouldn't a' gave to hear that back when I coulda', back when I didn't know-"
"This ain't even what I wanted to say to you. Ain't that funny? Earlier today- musta' been just like, this afternoon, I was thinkin'- I mean, what I wouldn't a' gave, you know? That's what I wanted to say, here. I just wanted you to know how much I always, I always wanted- maybe you or, or even just some Joe Schmoe, just anybody, to-"
Then it's like a brain-switch flicks inside of Stan, or maybe it's like a brain fuse box, taking too much emotional current and stopping it right there. Anything that mighta' been like desperation drops out of his voice and his eyes drop off that face and he looks at a puddle of gas nearby instead, he looks at all the colors in it shining under those bright gas station lights. He focuses on that. "But I guess it don't work, your dialogue sounds wrong. Go back and rework your script, maybe some day you'll come back and really sell it to me."
He looks down at that puddle over there and feels his eyebrows pulling together and his jaw pulling tight and the line of his lips shaking just a little and his hand loosens around that pill and turns around to try and give that six-fingered hand a hard squeeze and tries to hold on tight, maybe too tight, and a deep breath digs into him and Ford's words, that help you, that get you through this, bounce around in his chest like bullets.