[ location: bronte beach ] let that igloo cooler mark your piece of paradise.

[theextras.livejournal.com]

Word has it, Taxon, that there's going to be a party. These rumors are not untrue, for one slaying has arranged something of a get together for the Fourth of July. Unfortunately, the Extras have caught wind of this soirée and are already in the presence of crashing it, rocking those holey jeans and chilling with some Lynyrd Skynyrd and good ol' Hank Williams. This is their kind of party.

Don't let them have all the fun. The sun is getting low, so get on out here and get your party on before fireworks start lighting up the faux night sky.

Comments

[location]

[honoraryhobo.livejournal.com]

"Yes, sir," Dick says gravely. He has no idea what regurgitation is.

As they near the cart he tries to keep his steps measured--Mr. Long never hurries, not even in speech--but curiosity and the promise of ice cream prove too much for him. He reaches the cart at an undignified scamper, gazes admiringly at the colorful pictures splashed across it: popsicles that look like rockets, in red, blue, yellow, orange, green, and purple; ice cream sandwiched between two cookies and sprinkled with chocolate chips; a yellow square with a gaping, cartoony smile and gumballs for eyes; cones--King Cones--coated in chocolate and crowned with nuts.

"There's blue ice cream," he says, unable to help himself. He needs to call someone's attention to it. "Blue ice cream and sprinkles."

[location]

[imperial-long.livejournal.com]

Long comes up more slowly, looking over the colorful logos with rather less enthusiasm than Dick does. He would give a great deal for a bowl of mango sticky rice right now. Alas.

"Blue," he echoes, lips pursed. "How-- how delightful. Sugar in all the colors of the rainbow. In China, a day like this would call for baobing-- shaved ice, with fruit and sweet syrups."

There are packets of nuts-- pistachios, peanuts, pretzels-- hanging on the side of the cart, outside of the frosty interior; Long collects one of the pistachio bags with a half-nod at the smiling Extra.

"This, and whatever it is the boy would--"

He breaks off. The metal of the cart is the polished smoothness of industry and brushed steel, but it does not reflect the glare of the sun.

"....like," he finishes after several seconds, brow furrowed as he stares at the shapes the metal gives back.