"Sure." Stan lets himself be moved, sitting in the seat easy as can be, sniffing and wiping at his eyes without any of the self-consciousness he'd show any other time. Then he looks at his sleeve, torn all to hell and coated with who knows what, and laughs a little. He probably just got the one clean part of his face all dirty, didn't he? Ma'd just spit on it and try again, wouldn't she? Yeah, that would work a treat just now. Whatever.
"Sure thing, smart guy. That was always you, wasn't it? I remember. The man with the plan." He tries to swallow a bunch of that blood-and-spit again, gets some of it down, and tries to spit out the rest on the concrete quick before the car door closes. "Fuck."
"I guess that's more like you than that other stuff, huh? You'd uh, you'd come up with somethin' great with that big old brain, you wouldn't, uh, you wouldn't waste time lyin' to me about forgiveness or, you know, all that stupid..." Stan leans his head against the window, slumping in the seat and gritting his red-stained teeth, shifting around to try and find a way to sit that don't set those huge raw scabbed places over his back and butt to yellin' at him.
"Books, huh?" He rubs the side of one hand against his eye, then rubs hard against his temple, still grimacing. "Shit, my head. Okay. Books. I like the ones with the... All those crusty old guys, you'd think they'd just write boring shit but there's a lot about, uh. About the sea. Boats. Sailing. I always wondered, you know, if they made you read the same sorta' shit at your fancy school, if maybe you were readin' at the same time as me and thinkin'..."
"Stupid," he mutters, "stupid shit," and turns his head a little so he's still leaning his head against the window - the glass ain't cool, everything's hot, heavy and hot and close, but sitting like this is kinda' comforting, anyway - but he can look at Ford, too, make sure he's still here. "So what's the plan, brain? Are we gonna', uh, am I gonna' be hidin' out here for a while? Gotta', gotta' lose 'em and then come back, um, quick, before they decide to do somethin' with my stuff. My car." Stan don't sound angry just then, but almost, frustrated and tired and maybe a little bit worried. They'll be watching his car. All his things.
"Nothin' for it," he mutters, frustrated, trapped, and he knows it. "Shit."
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"Sure thing, smart guy. That was always you, wasn't it? I remember. The man with the plan." He tries to swallow a bunch of that blood-and-spit again, gets some of it down, and tries to spit out the rest on the concrete quick before the car door closes. "Fuck."
"I guess that's more like you than that other stuff, huh? You'd uh, you'd come up with somethin' great with that big old brain, you wouldn't, uh, you wouldn't waste time lyin' to me about forgiveness or, you know, all that stupid..." Stan leans his head against the window, slumping in the seat and gritting his red-stained teeth, shifting around to try and find a way to sit that don't set those huge raw scabbed places over his back and butt to yellin' at him.
"Books, huh?" He rubs the side of one hand against his eye, then rubs hard against his temple, still grimacing. "Shit, my head. Okay. Books. I like the ones with the... All those crusty old guys, you'd think they'd just write boring shit but there's a lot about, uh. About the sea. Boats. Sailing. I always wondered, you know, if they made you read the same sorta' shit at your fancy school, if maybe you were readin' at the same time as me and thinkin'..."
"Stupid," he mutters, "stupid shit," and turns his head a little so he's still leaning his head against the window - the glass ain't cool, everything's hot, heavy and hot and close, but sitting like this is kinda' comforting, anyway - but he can look at Ford, too, make sure he's still here. "So what's the plan, brain? Are we gonna', uh, am I gonna' be hidin' out here for a while? Gotta', gotta' lose 'em and then come back, um, quick, before they decide to do somethin' with my stuff. My car." Stan don't sound angry just then, but almost, frustrated and tired and maybe a little bit worried. They'll be watching his car. All his things.
"Nothin' for it," he mutters, frustrated, trapped, and he knows it. "Shit."