latino_menace | OOM: Mary Anne again

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OOM: Mary Anne again

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Ramon feels just a little light-headed as he opens the door to the house in Portugal. Probably just his body getting used to having blood again after losing a few pints. Or maybe it's just shock...but it doesn't matter, because the only thing he wants now is a drink, regardless of whether he should or not.

And one other thing. There's something he needs to see, though he'll never admit it. It can wait a few minutes anyway because he needs to get the blood off his hands first...and he's pretty sure that Mary Anne wouldn't mind a drink either.

'Still like tequila?'

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'What deal?'

He's only mildly curious. He's not planning on talking to her again, if he can help it. The idea of being under an obligation to her is still playing on his mind a little.

"Sold her soul to Satan."

She drains the glass. "For protection for Sands and binding him to her, so she said."

'Yeah?'

Ramon tops up his own glass, then pushes the bottle back towards her.

'She says she's in love with him. Sands, not Satan. I suppose...no, I don't know. Stupid bitch.'

He sares moodily at nothing, then shoves his feet up on te glass coffee table.

'Fuck it. Let them have her.'

Love makes you stupid sometimes, she thinks but does not say. They both know it.

She refills her glass, eyes the level of tequila in the bottle--which takes a moment as the alcohol has impared her depth perception--then sets the bottle back down.

"She seems happy enough with it. Said something about being his anyway, because of the blood drinking...Fuck it, I don't get vampire politics."

'I don't know why anyone would want to be a vampire,' he says, grumpily, his head spinning a little.

'Did you know Montparnasse when he was around? He chose to become one voluntarily. I don't get it.'

"Roadkill? Or was it something about lettuce...yeah, Gorlim mentioned him once."

She shrugs. "Don't get it either. I'd say for the living but...it's not really living, is it?"

'Yeah, that's him.'

He doesn't get Gorlim's weird nicknames either, but then, it's Gorlim. He's not that easy to understand.

'No, it's not living. Can't go out in the sun and only blood to drink? I can't think of much that's more boring than that.'

"And no more garlic," she adds with a sigh.

"Not that you'd probably even be able to eat solid food but yeah, think the minuses outweigh the pluses on that one."

'Garlic blood, maybe?' he hazards, taking another swallow of tequila.

'Garlic alcohol? No...blood alcohol, that's what I mean.'

Yes.

Ramon's really feeling quite drunk. And surreal, sitting here with her, in his house, talking (mostly) like nothing had ever happened.

Her head's a little heavy, but she can hide it by leaning against the cushions. She's in his house and they're killing a bottle of tequila together just like old times and it's glorious and she is rather drunk and it's gonna be alright.

"Whole new spin on Bloody Marys," she says and mostly keeps a straight face.

He doesn't. He cracks up and almost splurts tequila across the table.

'...si!'

A moment to collect himself, and then, 'Maybe they can do that. Force people to drink a lot of that sauce when they're hung over, and then bite them. It might work the same way.'

She does not spit. She does make a strangled sort of tongue-swallowing noise, though.

Once recovered, she makes a disgusted face. "Tomato sauce and no vodka? People'd have to be hung over to convince them to do it."

'Well, vampires.'

He waves a hand airily.

'Super strength and all that. They can probably just force them, or something. Maybe that's one advantage of being one. Strong.'

"Yeah, impress all your other pale and blood drinking friends with your ability to make a human cocktail."

She blinks, replaying the last few minutes over in her head.

"...juice. It's tomato juice, not sauce. God, I'm drunk."

Ramon blinks back at her.

'...what?'

Bzuh?

'Oh...no. Si. Tomato juice. Worcester sauce.'

Beat.

'Don't think a vampire could get the benefit of a raw egg through anyone's bloodstream.'

Another beat.

'Maybe a chicken's.'

"Worcester sauce?" Which comes out faintly garbled and with more consonants than it naturally posesses. Damn alcohol.

"Where did steak come in? Steak and eggs...And chickens have those scrawny little necks biting them would be hard."

'No...what?!'

He stares at her.

'Bloody Mary's have Worcester sauce in them, s'what makes them tangy. What the hell has steak got to do with sauce?'

He is officially confused, not being familiar with sauce being used for that.

'...maybe they could bite the chicken on the ass?'

"Oh, that's what's that part. Sorry, didn't remember that...if I ever knew it."

He's not the only confused one in the room.

"Steak...you never had sauce on a steak? Like, barbeque sauce or nothing?"

And the mental image of anything sinister and befanged attempting to bite a chicken on the ass has her in another fit of laughter.

'Steak and...ketchup? No, not ketchup, I never had that. It's common.'

He reaches for the bottle, taking it in a somewhat precarious grip.

'Fuck, I don't know. I can't remember.'

And attempts to pour...but no, his coordination is way off and the bottle falls, smashing loudly on the wooden floor.

'...fuck.'

She winces.

"Shit."

Her first thought is they've wasted good booze.

The second is they don't have enough coordination to clean up glass without hurting themselves.

The third is that there's a child sleeping a couple rooms away.

Or there was.

"You think he heard that?"

"Geh?"

The he in question asks, bleary and sleepy, with his stuffed black kitty held firmly by the tail in one hand.

Ramon looks round - not much less blearily than the child, it has to be said - then down at the glass, then up at Mary Anne and back to the boy.

'Fuck,' he says again. Then gets up and steps over the puddle, going over to pick him up.

'Glass on the floor Martin, you'll cut your feet.'

Pause.

'Do you know where your dad keeps a brush?'

"Closet."

He comes up with eventually. In a mix of "sleepy" and "wtf, pai picking me up?"

'Right.'

Which closet is the next question, but he figures he can work that out on his own. He looks over at Mary Anne on the sofa now and wanders over, plumping Martin down next to her.

'This is Mary Anne, Martin.'

And to her.

'Keep him off the floor while I locate more drink and a brush, please?'

"No problem."

She sets her glass down on the table and turns a little to get a better look at Martin. This is just shy of weird and she's not exactly sober, but she attempts to put on her sober hat for this one.

"Hey, kiddo."

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