"Didja' take some bad shit an' decide you're in a show a' the fuckin' Twilight Zone? Is that what's fuckin' happenin' to me here?" Stan's cursing's getting significiantly less colorful now, and his voice is high and stringy. His hand drifts toward that little edge he can see underneath the spot that hasn't been stitched up yet, the unmistakable shine of metal. If he were ten years younger, he might try to grab the shit and pull it right off here. He is absolutely freaking out hard enough to do that. But isn't Ford just so lucky that Stanley ain't? Stanley ain't ten years younger, and you don't go pulling shit out of people like that, he knows this almost instinctively. And when they're bleedin' like Ford is, or was because maybe if they're lucky the blood has started to realize it belongs inside of Ford's damned stupid head instead of - well, yeah, with that blood and all, you especially don't just reach in and yank.
"Go on," Stanley says, and he's earned a fuckin' trophy, he's earned a goddamn medal, because his voice may still be a little too high there and it may still kinda' shake but it almost sounds calm, ya' know, like it might wanna' be calm when it grows up, even if it's a calm that might very well break into something sharp and nasty at the smallest wrong movement. "You do that. You explain it to me, you goddamn son of a bitch, and it'd better be damn good but first tell me - how to take that shit - out of your HEAD!"
Okay. Maybe he lost the trophy at the end there. But it's fine. It's all fine. Depending on what Ford says now, it's all gonna' be just. Fuckin'. Fine.
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Or maybe that's just Stanley.
"Didja' take some bad shit an' decide you're in a show a' the fuckin' Twilight Zone? Is that what's fuckin' happenin' to me here?" Stan's cursing's getting significiantly less colorful now, and his voice is high and stringy. His hand drifts toward that little edge he can see underneath the spot that hasn't been stitched up yet, the unmistakable shine of metal. If he were ten years younger, he might try to grab the shit and pull it right off here. He is absolutely freaking out hard enough to do that. But isn't Ford just so lucky that Stanley ain't? Stanley ain't ten years younger, and you don't go pulling shit out of people like that, he knows this almost instinctively. And when they're bleedin' like Ford is, or was because maybe if they're lucky the blood has started to realize it belongs inside of Ford's damned stupid head instead of - well, yeah, with that blood and all, you especially don't just reach in and yank.
"Go on," Stanley says, and he's earned a fuckin' trophy, he's earned a goddamn medal, because his voice may still be a little too high there and it may still kinda' shake but it almost sounds calm, ya' know, like it might wanna' be calm when it grows up, even if it's a calm that might very well break into something sharp and nasty at the smallest wrong movement. "You do that. You explain it to me, you goddamn son of a bitch, and it'd better be damn good but first tell me - how to take that shit - out of your HEAD!"
Okay. Maybe he lost the trophy at the end there. But it's fine. It's all fine. Depending on what Ford says now, it's all gonna' be just. Fuckin'. Fine.