[open] I saw my old friend Gabriel down the perimeter ringing a bell

[samson]

Who| Brock Samson and YOU
What| Drinking and thinking (mostly drinking)
Where| Various bars, he is basically doing a bar crawl
When| RIGHT NOW I mean at night I guess
Warnings/Notes| alcohol...

This whole thing is kind of stupid. Annoying? Yeah, sure, but also stupid. It's more stupid than annoying, truth be told.

The way Brock dealt with most stupid things is generally by punching it in the face. He can't really do that to an idea and a concept though, much to his frustration, so he's just drinking instead. Sure. That's a decent enough compromise. If he can't punch shit, he'll just get loaded until he can better process everything.

Then he will punch shit.

He managed to find the least-dumb looking clothes available to him, ones that aren't decked out in sequins or feathers or holographic whatevers. Apparently plain T-shirts aren't befitting a Tribute, but like fuck he actually cares about that right now. He is anticipating not caring about it ever, to be honest, but one step at a time.

Most of the bars here are, like, stupid clubs with stupid names and stupid drinks with actual pounds of glitter poured into them. He can be found at any bar throughout the Capitol, getting progressively more drunk because that's how he do, but he doesn't spend much time at any of them.

Later in the night, he'll be at the Central Commons in the Tribute Center, and then when that gets too annoying, he goes up to the roof. Naturally, with a bottle of beer because whatever. Who's going to stop him? Seriously.

Though to be honest, maybe that would actually be helpful. He'd get to punch somebody, at least.

Comments

[culturalappropriation]

Being one of the Tributes without a brand has led to a lot of that Capitol groupie attention getting turned on to Punchy. He wishes he could enjoy it more, but it all feels very shallow, very cheap, to get all these babes (and more than a few dudes) flirting with him just because their other options turned out to be 'despicable traitors'. He should have been among the people in that jailbreak, and yet he couldn't manage it. He almost wants to tell all the girls to go home.

Then again, he could just get really drunk on booze he's almost-but-not-quite old enough to get in his homestate and then see if these fly-ass shawties perk him up a little more then. Maybe he'll get another impulse tattoo. Maybe he'll let his Stylists dye his hair hot pink or shave a scorpion into his hair. The world is his (smearing, off-balance, bright-light-filled) oyster when he's smashed.

He's actually getting into all the fawning when another Tribute comes in, and about seventy percent of Punchy's entourage peels off to investigate the gigantic, mulleted newcomer. Punchy scowls, takes another drink (four parts caffeine, six parts really strong gin) and steps up to the guy, all inebriated redheaded teenager who can't totally stand up straight.

"Dawg, you best step off. These bizzles is my crew and I ain't looking to split tabs on getting brain tonight."

And he pokes Brock in the chest.

Really, he should have come in cross-faded, too toked up to be in the mood to pick a fight with someone about Many Times His Size. Especially when Punchy isn't all that aggressive to start with. This isn't his best decision.

[samson]

Brock is accustomed to women flocking to him, so he doesn't really think much about the surge apart from the observation that everybody in this town wears way too much glitter all the time. It's like a constant stripper rave and he has a headache from all the neon. Still, they are women, so he jerks his head in very cool acknowledgment, already mentally picking out which ones he'll focus on until he gets off or gets bored.

The bartender just pushes over Brock's order, the most normal-looking and tasting beer he has found thus far, when some kid rolls over and says... something. Brock barely gets it. What the hell? Bizzles?

Brock makes a face almost like he is pained by the decision this kid has just made. Oh no.

"You want to repeat that with or without all your teeth."

[culturalappropriation]

Punchy sees the smart decision. He could walk away right now, could decide not to continue going up shit creek with a paddle that's slipping out of his hands. He could take the out.

Punchy's never been known for his amazing life decisions.

"I said yeezy best not be horning in on all my honeys just because he's some pasty-ass mofo with a mullet, you dig?" And he pokes Brock again.

[samson]

There are a lot of things Brock could do right now. He could ask him in what universe is he pasty, or maybe lecture him about women being free to go wherever they want. Or he could walk away, or ignore him, or whatever. It would be very easy.

But the poking, though. The poking.

Brock's face settles into a very humorless 'you are dumb' expression, and he reaches out to grab this kid by the finger and bend it back.

[culturalappropriation]

If Punchy were maybe a hundred pounds heavier and not shitfaced, he might be able to try and break the hold. He's superhero-trained, after all. He's known your basic throws and reversals since his first week at school.

But for obvious reasons, his vigilante-rearing high school didn't have a class on how to defend yourself against a goddamn giant when you're drunk off your ass.

"Jesus!" He tries to wriggle out of Brock's hold, feeling his finger - one of his favorite fingers! - getting painfully jarred back into its socket.

[samson]

It's not exactly breaking all the teeth in his face, but it's satisfying enough. Brock keeps the hold for, like, a second longer than is actually necessary, to the point where it's just starting to edge into 'wow is this guy proving a point or is this cause for some concern' territory. (Incidentally, some of the groupies have maybe decided that it's the latter, and have dispersed. But not a lot.)

"Next time," he says, releasing, "I'm feeding it to you."

[culturalappropriation]

"Shit!" Punchy pulls his poor, aching hand back and cradles it to his chest, giving Brock a look like a kicked (and totally shitfaced) puppy. "Damn, jackwagon, why you gotta be taking shit so personal?"

As if it's totally unreasonable for Brock to get mad at him for stepping on his turf and invading his personal space.

[samson]

Maybe Brock feels a little bad for being that violent, since this kid is pretty drunk. Maybe. Then again, he could have just murdered him, so... no, no, he shouldn't feel bad at all. In fact, he should feel good about it. Yeah. Good job, Brock; you held back and taught him a lesson. Good job.

He continues scowling, though. "Are you kidding me."

[culturalappropriation]

"I ain't frontin'!" Punchy tries his best not to whine, but it doesn't stop him from pouting. "Why you gotta be resorting to violence when you could use your words?"

[samson]

The real answer to that question is that Brock demands instant respect from everyone he meets. It's just how he operates. Treat him with disrespect, and he is going to break something at minimum.

But that is too stupid to say out loud and it makes him sound like a psychopath, so instead he just takes a step forward, looming down.

"Don't poke me. Ever again."

[culturalappropriation]

"A'ight, dawg, Jesus Creezy." Punchy, to his credit, doesn't cringe, even though that would be a natural instinct for anyone finding themselves overwhelmed by Brock's shadow.

"Just don't be horning in on my shawties and we be cool," he adds, as if he still doesn't get that he has exactly zero leverage in this conversation.

[samson]

"I wasn't... horning in on your..."

No, he's not going to do it. He can't.

Brock runs his hand down his face. "Are you even old enough to drink? Do they even card people in this place?" he says, looking around for a bouncer or something, redirecting his frustration so he doesn't slap this kid upside the head. He is starting to feel sorry for him now.

The fact that he's contrite while not cowering stupidly might have something to do with how sympathetic Brock is feeling, too.

[culturalappropriation]

"I's old enough in some hoods!" So, no. Certainly not in America, not that Punchy looks any less insulted for the comment. "Only card they be swiping's credit."

And as if to illustrate, he taps the wallet in his pocket with his non-injured hand. And then his eyebrows lift a little.

If he can attract ladies, and Brock can attract ladies, the two of them at the bar together will be like, infinite ladies.

"Buy you a drank?"

[samson]

Punchy you should maybe check your math, there.

Brock makes a face that is somewhere between skeptical and uncomfortable. Does he want to go drinking with... what, a seventeen-year-old? Maybe eighteen? It'd be like drinking with Hank. It's weird.

"You really don't have to..."

[culturalappropriation]

As hurt as Punchy looked when his finger was getting bent back, it's nothing on the puppy eyes being turned on Brock now. Rejection is anathema to Punchy's fragile ego, and the ambivalence with which it's delivered makes no difference. Punchy looks like he's been just had his heart flattened with an anvil.

"A'ight, dawg, if you say so." And he slinks off, looking like a cat that's just been punted out into the rain.

[samson]

Wow, that was... pitiful...

But Brock isn't about to chase after some kid to soothe his feelings. It's not his style. He will make it up to him later, maybe teach him how not to get totally murdered in the arena. Because he is pretty sure that kid is just going to get totally murdered.