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fuckthistown2019-02-23 10:36 pm
rebirthorder) wrote in fuckthistown2019-02-23 10:36 pm
Entry tags:
Test Drive Meme #2
TEST DRIVE MEME
Well, I'm alone there now...
In our 'special place'...
Waiting for you...
Waiting for you to
come to see me.
In our 'special place'...
Waiting for you...
Waiting for you to
come to see me.
I. Blue Catfish Diner - Daytime
Supplies in the Inn and Hotel have run low, so what is there to do but search the town? And restaurants and diners seem a good place to find something to eat.
It may take some doing to force open the diner's door, and the inside of it smells of dust and rotted food. There are dishes still on tables, and a horrible smell floats in from the kitchen. The roof must have developed a leak in its years of abandonment, and the black-and-white tile floor has cracked and mildewed without care. What were once shiny golden ceiling tiles are now black and grimy with tarnish -- and quite possibly mold -- and even the jukebox that looms over one corner has seen better days.
In the kitchen, a few cabinets hang open with huge cans visible. A closer inspection reveals things like Spam, canned chicken, cream of mushroom soup, and creamed corn. Not appetizing, maybe, but edible. Maybe even plentiful.
Just as you finish your inventory, something in the main room blares out static, and then the jukebox snarls a gamut of sounds from the beginnings of songs. It eventually settles on Folsom Prison Blues, but every so often, the playback intercuts with something else entirely --
The music cuts out, interrupted by a woman screaming something incoherent and agonized, or a man begs some merciless other for his life, or somebody else wails for everyone in earshot to run, run, don't look back.
Just as suddenly as the screaming started, it stops, and Johnny Cash returns to singing about the train he watches going by. Considering the things that happen in this town, the real question here isn't what happened, or how, but whether the jukebox is worth investigating, and what it will do if you try to change the song.
Supplies in the Inn and Hotel have run low, so what is there to do but search the town? And restaurants and diners seem a good place to find something to eat.
It may take some doing to force open the diner's door, and the inside of it smells of dust and rotted food. There are dishes still on tables, and a horrible smell floats in from the kitchen. The roof must have developed a leak in its years of abandonment, and the black-and-white tile floor has cracked and mildewed without care. What were once shiny golden ceiling tiles are now black and grimy with tarnish -- and quite possibly mold -- and even the jukebox that looms over one corner has seen better days.
In the kitchen, a few cabinets hang open with huge cans visible. A closer inspection reveals things like Spam, canned chicken, cream of mushroom soup, and creamed corn. Not appetizing, maybe, but edible. Maybe even plentiful.
Just as you finish your inventory, something in the main room blares out static, and then the jukebox snarls a gamut of sounds from the beginnings of songs. It eventually settles on Folsom Prison Blues, but every so often, the playback intercuts with something else entirely --
The music cuts out, interrupted by a woman screaming something incoherent and agonized, or a man begs some merciless other for his life, or somebody else wails for everyone in earshot to run, run, don't look back.
Just as suddenly as the screaming started, it stops, and Johnny Cash returns to singing about the train he watches going by. Considering the things that happen in this town, the real question here isn't what happened, or how, but whether the jukebox is worth investigating, and what it will do if you try to change the song.
II. Lumber Yard - Daytime
There's only so much furniture you can break down for fires, not to mention only so many broken stairs anybody can skip and stay sane. Assuming anybody is still sane and you're not all having the same hallucinations.
For example: somebody closed the lumber yard's fence and chained it shut, and left a crucified man to watch over the entrance like some demented scarecrow. They left a mask and goggles on him -- or forced him to wear it, just to make his crucifixion more painful -- but if it was ever air-tight, something shattered the lenses in its eyepieces, and rather than eyes, dark, jagged holes stare sightlessly from where the lenses used to be. The person or persons who crucified him wrapped his wrists in barbed wire, and one clenched fist has fallen loose from its moorings. In his other hand, he clutches a knife, and somehow didn't let go, even in death.
What are the odds they promised they'd let him live, if he could cut himself free? Knowing this town, you probably shouldn't bet against it. Especially since it would take some serious strength to cut barbed wire with a single serrated blade.
Beneath the body, somebody painted the word O U R S in jagged white letters.
If you choose to enter the lumber yard despite this warning, you'll need to climb the fence. There is lumber here for the taking, though none of it looks high quality. But you're trying to stay warm and repair some stairs -- you're not exactly building your dream house.
Getting it out might prove to be a problem. You'll either need bolt cutters for that chain, or a key for the lock.
The corpse might not be a bad place to start, but neither would the dilapidated building.
There's only so much furniture you can break down for fires, not to mention only so many broken stairs anybody can skip and stay sane. Assuming anybody is still sane and you're not all having the same hallucinations.
For example: somebody closed the lumber yard's fence and chained it shut, and left a crucified man to watch over the entrance like some demented scarecrow. They left a mask and goggles on him -- or forced him to wear it, just to make his crucifixion more painful -- but if it was ever air-tight, something shattered the lenses in its eyepieces, and rather than eyes, dark, jagged holes stare sightlessly from where the lenses used to be. The person or persons who crucified him wrapped his wrists in barbed wire, and one clenched fist has fallen loose from its moorings. In his other hand, he clutches a knife, and somehow didn't let go, even in death.
What are the odds they promised they'd let him live, if he could cut himself free? Knowing this town, you probably shouldn't bet against it. Especially since it would take some serious strength to cut barbed wire with a single serrated blade.
Beneath the body, somebody painted the word O U R S in jagged white letters.
If you choose to enter the lumber yard despite this warning, you'll need to climb the fence. There is lumber here for the taking, though none of it looks high quality. But you're trying to stay warm and repair some stairs -- you're not exactly building your dream house.
Getting it out might prove to be a problem. You'll either need bolt cutters for that chain, or a key for the lock.
The corpse might not be a bad place to start, but neither would the dilapidated building.
III. Playing Field - Nightmare
The Playing Field overlooks the river, sloping gently down toward the water, but there are glints in the grass that hint at the presence of broken glass or maybe needles, and the river itself looks like a roiling mass of black sludge. Even under ordinary circumstances, the place might make you shiver. After all, is there anything worse than an abandoned playground?
Turns out yes: a not abandoned playground in Silent Hill's nightmares.
The worst part is the way they shake their heads: too quickly, so swiftly it's a surprise they don't snap their own necks. Back and forth, back and forth, like some sort of twisted bobbleheads, and the patches of hair still left to them bounce as they move.
No, the worst part is that as they move toward you, they scream with a noise that sounds like a baby's cry. It's a long, endless, almost gurgling wail, the kind of sound that would cut to the center of any parent's brain, right through the eardrums. The sound that means they need something. They need to eat. They need to be changed. They're scared and lonely and need to be held, to be reassured.
No, the worst part is their little shriveled gray fingers and how they end in what look almost like fishhooks. The better to catch you with and never let you go. At least not until they rip you to shreds.
No, the worst part is they know you're here, and they're toddling toward you, ungainly step after ungainly step. Slow, for now, but there's no guarantee they'll stay that way.
In the corner of the play yard, one of the swings is still moving sluggishly, back and forth, back and forth, creaking as it goes. It's the only swing left; the others all have rusted chains and have fallen to the ground.
Not a bad weapon. Just one problem: the children are between you and the chains.
The Playing Field overlooks the river, sloping gently down toward the water, but there are glints in the grass that hint at the presence of broken glass or maybe needles, and the river itself looks like a roiling mass of black sludge. Even under ordinary circumstances, the place might make you shiver. After all, is there anything worse than an abandoned playground?
Turns out yes: a not abandoned playground in Silent Hill's nightmares.
The worst part is the way they shake their heads: too quickly, so swiftly it's a surprise they don't snap their own necks. Back and forth, back and forth, like some sort of twisted bobbleheads, and the patches of hair still left to them bounce as they move.
No, the worst part is that as they move toward you, they scream with a noise that sounds like a baby's cry. It's a long, endless, almost gurgling wail, the kind of sound that would cut to the center of any parent's brain, right through the eardrums. The sound that means they need something. They need to eat. They need to be changed. They're scared and lonely and need to be held, to be reassured.
No, the worst part is their little shriveled gray fingers and how they end in what look almost like fishhooks. The better to catch you with and never let you go. At least not until they rip you to shreds.
No, the worst part is they know you're here, and they're toddling toward you, ungainly step after ungainly step. Slow, for now, but there's no guarantee they'll stay that way.
In the corner of the play yard, one of the swings is still moving sluggishly, back and forth, back and forth, creaking as it goes. It's the only swing left; the others all have rusted chains and have fallen to the ground.
Not a bad weapon. Just one problem: the children are between you and the chains.
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<Water no good? I've only been drinking it as an animal, just in case, but good to know. No way to strain it out or clean it enough for a good wash?> Not as much of an issue for him since there were morphs he could use that could clean himself off, but sucked for her. He just didn't want to bring it up because then it would seem like he was just trying to get her to take a bath and while yeah, she was hot, the 'not dying' was way more important and Marco knew how nice doing one normal thing felt in weirdo-ville.
Plus he still had to smell her. So ew.
<Marco.> He answered, <You? Or should I just call you 'less-crazy Rachel'?>
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"No, the water's fine." At least, she hopes it's fine. She's in for a world of hurt if it isn't. "It's just that there's nowhere to take a bath, at least, not at the bar. Unless... "I mean, we could always try using one of the empty kegs?"
It wouldn't exactly be ideal, and she might be too gangly to fit all the way, but it would be a way to get at least partially submerged. And kegs are watertight by definition. She feels a flush of excitement, the first since she got here, at the idea of a lukewarm bath. It doesn't even have to be a good one, she just has to be able to get her hair wet and strip some of the gore and grease out of it.
"Deandra, but my friends call me Sweet Dee." Is it a sarcastic nickname? Did she used to be sweet and then evolve into the massive bitch she is today? Is her group of friends so horrific that she qualifies for noteworthy sweetness? Jury's out! "And I don't know who this Rachel chick is, but you need to just bang her already and get it out of your system."
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< Oh, you're one to talk about banging. > He shot back, < Nobody names their friends sweet anything unless they want some of that. Also, I'm sadly not into necrophilia, so I'll have to pass on banging Rachel. Besides, bird-boy would gouge my eyes out.>
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"Gross. My friends are my legal dad and my brother and a gay guy in the closet." And Charlie, which is about as stupid an idea, but she can't think of a way to neatly sum up 'illiterate janitor who probably thinks babies come from storks'.
When she says it out loud, it sounds really sad, because all her friends are related to her or are her brother's friends who don't even particularly like her. They don't even want to touch her; sometimes she wishes they did, just to have the power to tell them to get fucked. Payback for a twenty years of bird jokes and getting told she's ugly. She'd get so mean they'd need therapy if she could have just an inch of power over them. She'd grind their balls into dirt under her heels.
"Do you always talk like madlibs? I've got no idea who bird-boy is, and it's not my responsibility to know that your crush is dead."
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<Oh.> Marco said, < So it's more of a 'mocking the sister' thing. Gotcha. That was the worst part about being an only child: Nobody to tease without going over to someone else's house, and that's stupid.>
<I do. Choose noun here. Nah, she wasn't a crush. Maybe for a while, and don't get me wrong, if she wasn't dead I'd totally hit that, but she was Grade A nuts. Bird-Boy's her boyfriend. He just happens to be stuck as a bird. Don't even ask me how that worked.> Like, Tobias was 13 as a human. So ew, there. And as far as he knew, Rachel didn't have a red-tail morph.
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Dee hasn't been here long enough to start missing Dennis and their weird symbiosis. Right now, it's a bit of a blessed relief to be away from his constant belittling, his possessiveness, his need to cut her down all the damn time. She gets back at him, sometimes; no one knows someone's weak spots like a twin. She always just has to wait for the right moment to lunge in and stab that fleshy insecurity. She hasn't been here long enough to miss that thrill of the hunt.
She wobbles a little bit when her shoe catches something on the street, but doesn't fall. "Over there. Neely's Bar. Fuck Neely, it's mine now."
Sweet Dee's Bar. No. Sweet Dee's Standup Comedy Club.
Nothing of what Marco's saying seems to track very easily, and she imagine it probably all makes a lot more sense in context, like her dead cats. Only weirder.
"Yeah, well, sorry she's dead and sorry he's a bird, I guess." She doesn't sound sorry. "Where I'm from people don't turn into birds or gorillas."
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Hmm. Dee's Bar? Nah. <Your name sucks for owning a bar> The gorilla said bluntly.
<We didn't either, until aliens showed up. So no aliens in your universe. Cool.> That'd be nice, he guessed. Sometimes Cassie had tried to bring up what they'd be like without the war before she got the hint Marco did not want to talk about it. For someone so good with people, sometimes she was idiot. What, did she want Marco to say, 'I don't know, Cassie, since my life since I was 9 involved being raised by an alien overlord and then thinking my mom was dead and trying to keep my dad from hanging himself'?
He'd given up on 'what if' way before Elfangor showed up.
<And I'm pretty sure Tobias went bird half on purpose. His life sucked.> Which said something, coming from Marco.
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And if it's a standup bar, she'll be the main attraction. The fantasy unfolds in her head, the idea that there's going to be a moment where the world suddenly fills with luminous color, the way it does to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Like any moment now it's going to happen. Any moment now.
Which is why she snorts when Marco brings up the absolutely ridiculous idea of turning into a bird to escape your problems. "Loser. Everyone's life sucks, that doesn't mean you should pussy out on it."
No one needs to know about her suicide attempt. No one would care anyway, usually, and that's an immense and perverse comfort.
She's starting to piece together Marco's whole gig in her head, the aliens and the dead chick and the bird guy. It's like she has the concepts more than the outline. "I'm guessing you're about to say that I'm lucky because my Philadelphia doesn't have alien abductions? We just have serial killers and toxic waste spills and the usual."
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Sense of appropriateness? What sense of appropriateness?
It luckily wasn't a long walk to the bar. Marco wasn't tired, but having to time his morphing was nerve-wracking and even moreso without any of the other Animorphs for backup. Still, he laughed when Dee judged Tobias < Yeah, shut up. You don't know the first thing about Tobias, lady.> Some 30 something year old hot lady who could walk out and live wherever she wanted, and didn't have to deal with her legal guardians abusing her? Yeah, she could shut it. Tobias was ridiculous, but he was not a pussy.
<I was.> He confirmed, <But then you told me you live in Philadelphia.> He joked.
Not that he knew anything about Philadelphia except it wasn't California, but whatever.
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She doesn't seem at all bothered by the inappropriateness of Marco talking about prostitution; she probably would've started talking about whores at some point too. It's a regular topic of conversation for her type: the weather, the price of milk, whores.
She gestures for him to come in and giggles to herself. An actress and a gorilla walk into a bar...The first thing to notice about the bar is that it's dusty as hell. Dee's shoes track steps into a wispy layer on the floor, and there are trails where she was walking around investigating stuff earlier. She coughs into her elbow.
"South Philly. Even worse." No one knocks their hometown better than the residents. "Our paper has a daily column for last night's stabbings."
And on the note of stabbings: "so where are you holing up? Because basically every animal...thing out here seems to have claws or a suckerface."
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"Me? I'd name it something awesome. Obviously." The fact that he had no better answer was blatantly obvious. Marco wrinkled his nose as they walked in. Initially, it looked like he might be disgusted, but in a few short seconds the teenager let out a giant sneeze. Well, better dust than things that want to eat your face, "Oooh, that's fun. Like when people would try to follow me home from the shitty 7-11. At least our shitty part of town was warm."
"Roofs on buildings with no access, mostly. You're not wrong about the animals. I'd try to acquire one, but no way am I getting close enough for that."
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Nothing but shriveled limes.
"It's plenty warm in the summer. There's a sun in Philadelphia. Wherever your people are from, you don't have a monopoly on that." She wrinkles her nose at his sneeze. "Don't get snot all over my bar, you dwarf."
He looks even smaller in contrast to the earlier gorilla. It's almost as pitiful as it is funny.
"Don't acquire one. Pets just lead to dead cats in the wall, you know?" She gestures to the door to the basement. "Furnace is down there. I went down once and then figured it was haunted and scooted my ass on out."
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"My people?" Marco raised an eyebrow and pretended to be offended for a beat, then snorted, "I'm from California." He knew she meant his universe and his friends. He just liked screwing with people, "Maybe I wouldn't be sneezing if you knew how to clean. Jeez. I started doing all the cleaning when I was 11 and it was better than this."
Acquire... oh, right. The normal meaning of the word. Marco walked around, leaving his own set of tracks in the dust, "Nah, I meant to turn into. Problem with that is I have to get nice and close to whatever I want to morph into and touch it as myself. Lots of animals get sort of dopey, but not all of them, and I'm betting these things would just chomp my arm off and follow it with the rest of me. Pass."
"What is it with you and dead cats? Do you hate cats?" Marco asked, then looked at the door, "Yeah, can't blame you there. Who wants to go into normal basements, much less ones in creepy-death towns? Still, furnace." He walked over and opened the door, noting the ominous creak.
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"Do I look like a maid? I just moved in and you want me to make it spotless?" Dee makes a raspberry sound as she moves the last of the wood in and approaches the basement.
"I just brought up the dead cats the first time because you were talking about all this weird stuff and I felt left out, so I brought up the first weird thing I could think of. Jesus. Now you're trying to psychoanalyze me when you come from a place where people turn into animals and spacemen exist." She's chattering partially because they're heading into the basement and she hopes noise will scare anything down there out.
There isn't. The basement is disgusting and reeking of mildew, but it doesn't appear to be haunted. She covers her nose with her hand and starts to shove a board into the chute of the furnace, then notices a door to what appears to be a store room behind it. She doesn't say anything when she walks over and tugs at it (locked), but she turns to him right after.
"You know how to pick locks or are we going to have to have you go all gorilla again?"
Or she could try and break the lock. Which she just might.
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She felt left out? Marco barked out another laugh. It was good to feel left out of his life, "Nah. Just wondering what it was with you and cats. I'm more of a dog person." He wasn't really much of a pet person, but once in a while he could convince Jake to morph dog with him, and that was good.
The stairs creaked on the way down, and Marco couldn't resist the urge to make a 'WhhoOOOOooo' noise. "I'm alright at it." Lock-picking, "But not great, and I haven't done it in a while and I've got nothing to pick it with. I could just morph something small enough to go under the door and unlock it from the other side." It was dark enough that hopefully his morphing wouldn't make her puke, "That way you can keep the lock, if there's anything you want to put in there." Assuming they could find a key.
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“It’d be too easy if the key to the front just worked...uh.” And that is what it does. Dee decided on a whim to try it, and the sound of the bolt going is unmistakeable. She makes a noise of delight that’s a little like a squeal and a little like a snort. The door isn’t an easy go; she almost has to manhandle it before it opens, rusty hinges screeching. The room inside is pitch black.
“Any chance you can turn into a flashlight? Or, I don’t know, an electric eel?” Probably ill-advisedly, she starts to feel around blind. Metal shelves. Boxes covered in cobwebs (she’s pretty sure a spider runs across her fingers, and though she jerks her hand out, she also shoves it right back in). Even more dust than outside. Cans. Bottles.
“Get a goddamn flashlight. Or get-“ she doesn’t really wait to do the smart thing. She lurches past him to the furnace, rushing to snatch a piece of wood from the furnace with her bare hands.
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The key worked. Marco couldn't help it, he laughed at her, "Man, I don't know who you are, but you are lucky. With how my life goes, I expected the lock to try to kill us, or to get in the room as a bug and end up eaten or whatever." Not that he would have gone as a bug. He wasn't morphing fly in this place. No reason to, and no other Animorphs to tease him about it.
"Uh, I can, but I like breathing." Marco started to answer as she went and just grabbed a plank of wood that was on fire, "That works." He shrugged and grabbed one himself, "It's your bar to burn down." He swooped the light around, feeling the suckiness of his human eyes, "So, as far as I'm concerned, we're looking for booze, food, and cleaning products. In that order." He grinned in the darkness. Priorities.
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By the light of their makeshift torches, the contents of the store room are revealed: boxes of peanuts. Jars of pickles. Bags of dessicated lemons and limes. Canisters of hand wipes and spray bottles of cleaning solution. Rat traps. Toilet paper rolls. And alcohol.
“Oh, mama,” Dee whispers, grabbing a bottle by the neck. She’ll have to ration this out. She’ll have to make sure she’s the only one who ever has the key. She’ll have to hide it in her underwear or her mouth or her ass when she sleeps. She’s found her purpose in this weird scary world and it’s keeping everyone else out of this room.
Maybe she should kill the kid, club him with the torch so he doesn’t tell anyone. She only doesn’t take that option because she doesn’t know how long it would take him to turn into a tiger and eat her face. She takes a drink, still looking at him like she’s measuring up how fast he can run.
“You’re right. I am lucky.”
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He recognized that look, and tilted his head at her. That was the 'What can I do to take this person out' look. Marco held her gaze, "Look, alkie," He didn't say it as an insult, just as a fact. She was obviously an alcoholic, but it wasn't exactly his place to judge anyone else's coping mechanisms. Hell, he'd probably have an alcohol problem himself if he didn't have to go out in public so much so everybody would leave Jake alone, "First, you can't take me, so don't try. Second, chill out a bit, okay?"
It was disgusting, but Marco sat on the floor, "You've got to taper. That or figure out how to make booze. Who knows how long you're going to be stuck here, and this doesn't strike me as a good place to go through detox. Something's gonna eat your face. If you want to be fucked up the whole time you're here, I can't blame you, but you should find something sustainable."
"Plus, if you wander around reeking of alcohol and don't share, people might kill you if the monsters don't. So I'd recommend dialing it back or learning to share."
Marco watched her closely, "I mean, or you can drink yourself to death. Whatever. I'm not your dad."
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He sits down, which is an obvious cue of “I could kick your ass so quick I don’t even need to watch my back”, and that’s infuriating. For once, she doesn’t succumb to her first and most petty impulse.
“I’m not an alcoholic so stop being a little bitch. I’ve got habits. I work at a bar, for god’s sake.” She swigs from the gin in the bottle (good shit). “Now, crack, I am totally a crack addict. I miss crack like I’d miss a kidney. Now grab some of those peanuts and let’s go upstairs and have dinner before it gets dark.”
It’s weird, using that as a source of humor, but what can you do?
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"Okay, so you're an alkie and a crack-addict," He said cheerfully. Like he didn't try that type of misdirection constantly: 'I'm not traumatized, I'm just a psycho'. Please. People gave Cassie all the credit when it came to reading people, but then again they didn't realize that not caring didn't mean he couldn't read people, "So what, you withdrew here by yourself? That takes some balls."
Then he shrugged and stood, "Sure." He'd said his piece. Like he said, he wasn't her mom. If she wanted to drink herself to death, it wasn't his problem.
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"I'm not an alkie and a crack addict, I'm a bartender and a crack addict, and who asked you anyway? You're like, twelve, give yourself a few years to ferment and you'll probably be tying off for heroin." She tucks the bottle into the waist of her pants and grabs a jar of pickles. It's bound to be nice and warm upstairs by now. She starts to head up.
She did withdraw by herself, or rather, with her twin brother, but no rehab or medical care was involved. Just the willpower to move on to the next thing and leave that brief chunk of her life behind. Amazing how an addiction that last a few weeks permanently carved the word "crack" into the back of her brain.
Greatest life success: kicked the drug habit she developed trying to scam the government for benefits. She's doing great.
"Not going to be much in the way of table setting, but I'll bet there napkins and silverware around here somewhere. We'll find them tomorrow." She's assuming he'll stick around all night, if only for practical reasons. Monsters are creepy in the day; at night they're outright terrifying, or at least, that's what she assumes.
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"Yeah, but the question is did you become a bartender because you're an alcoholic or did that start after? For the record, I'm 16 and yes, I like heroin." It helped him sleep. One thing Marco had to give to the world of the rich and famous was that nobody cared what you did as long as you didn't make the world look at it. Which was pretty much his job: Make the war, and them, palatable to the public. Not that he was an addict or anything.
He was far too paranoid to get himself addicted to anything. Dependency on anything was weakness, because you could always end up having to live without it.
"Oh man, napkins and silverware? You are fancy," He teased. Really, it was fine. He'd lived in the middle of the woods with an Andalite.
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She actually does sound concerned. She isn't, really, except in the way that being in close proximity to someone who might get hurt is innate to the human condition. Give her an hour and she'll forget entirely about it. Put it on TV and she'll laugh about it.
She sets their bounty on the bar and pulls up a stool. There are saucers behind the bar, presumably for coffee, and she sets them out. "Welcome to Sweet Dee's. We've got pickles, peanuts, and a jerk kid who thinks our name's shitty."
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"So will sleep deprivation." Marco retorted, "Besides, I'm not an addict. Anything you're addicted to is something people can use to control you, so no thanks." Was it a good or bad thing when the only thing stopping you spiraling was unhealthy PTSD-induced paranoia? He had no idea.
He grinned and plunked himself down on his own stool, which was one of the ones that spun, so he spun it around a few times, "Hey, what else do you need? I bet for here this counts as five star dining. Oh my God, I've missed salt." Marco picked up a handful of the peanuts.
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