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taxonomites2012-02-06 02:02 pm
smecker) wrote in taxonomites2012-02-06 02:02 pm
Entry tags:
[Accidental Visual ---> Visual]
It's another beautiful day in paradise, or Taxon as the case may be. Well, not beautiful exactly, but the weather's taken a turn for the warmer the last few days. Paul Smecker's in one of the city's grocery stores, shopping-- the produce that's available bears no relation to whatever season Taxon is pretending to be, and he's accordingly loading up a handbasket with various vegetables. Some bok choy, water chestnuts, peppers, sweet onions... Stir-fry sounds good tonight. His tablet is blinking away in his basket, not that he notices.
There's a couple of reasons he bothers to get his food in the markets. He still thinks that it tastes better than hatched food, even if it's just a psychosomatic thing. And two, the hatches deduct money from his bracelet, and Paul-- over a year into his time in Taxon-- still refuses to pay whenever he possibly can.
It's more than routine now; he loads up his basket, heads for the door. The clerk at the register calls after him, "Sir! Sir! Excuse me, you'll need to come over here to pay for that! Sir, if you don't stop I'll have to call the police!"
The latter threat is new, just started in the last few months, but nothing has come of it the many times he's done this now, so Paul absently flips off the Extra cashier and keeps walking for the door.
And comes face to face with a man wearing a badge.
Paul stops, blinking-- partly because he's pretty sure that the guy hadn't been there five seconds ago. He didn't walk in, he didn't jump out from behind something, he was just... there. Where he hadn't been.
It's that damn fake-homey-small-town sheriff asshole, the one who'd locked up Party and Kobra and all that a few months ago.
The Sheriff offers an easy smile, hands planted firmly on his hips. "Afternoon, sir. Maybe you'd like to go pay for those groceries?"
"Maybe you'd like to suck my fabulous dick," Paul answers in a conversational tone, his eyes quickly scanning the man for weapons-- yeah, there's a gun. Smecker doubts the guy will actually need to use it, although he didn't actually see the fight between Party and Kobra and the Sheriff. The aliens don't need to shoot you, they can just glitch out your brain to follow like a fucking sheep.
The Sheriff doesn't respond to Paul's obscenity, just shakes his head mildly. "Now, sir. Be reasonable, please. You can't just go stealin' from nice folk like the people who own this store. That cashier over there, he's trying to feed his family, you don't want to be takin' food from his children, now do you? That isn't being a good neighbor."
".....really?" Paul echoes, both brows climbing. "Really? This is the tack you assholes are taking? 'Be a good neighbor'? Oh fuck me. No, fuck you. I'm not playing your goddamn game."
The Sheriff looks disappointed in Paul's answer, sighing, his arms crossing on his chest. "Real shame you're choosin' to play it like this, mister. Real shame. You get a salary now, it isn't like you can't afford it, and it ain't unreasonable to ask you to pay for what you use, sir. You're an officer of the law yourself, aren't you? Come on now, sir, you ought to be upholdin' the order of things, be a good member of society."
Paul's eyes narrow; the Sheriff's apparently hit a nerve with that. The tablet records his fist clenching into a ball. "Good member of society? This is a prison, you fuckbag. We're not a fucking society, we're your test rats running your test city for you, we're playing the fucking Stepford City for you shitcunts, and just because I can't get the fuck out doesn't mean I'm going to participate in your bullshit fake economy, your bullshit rewards-for-being-a-good-prisoner system. Fuck. You. Fuck you in whatever fuckass alien orifice you use for fucking, Jesus Christ.
"You're going to take me out, then fucking do it, asswipe. Shit or get off the pot, as the saying goes. Let's go, I'm not getting any younger here."
The Sheriff arches a brow. "Well, alright then, sir, if that's how you feel." And the tablet feed cuts out.
***
It's a good twenty minutes later when Paul's tablet kicks back on, showing him in... a jail cell, one that looks familiar from the past feeds of Party, Kobra, and DG being imprisoned. Paul Smecker is leaning back against the wall, looking a bit disheveled although uninjured. There is a leafy bit of bok choy sticking out of his hair.
"Have I mentioned in the last few months how much I hate this fucking city?" he asks Taxon at large, rubbing at his wrist with the hand not holding the tablet.
[OOC: As with previous arrests, the tablet will not show Paul's current location. Those who have been to the jail before (DG, Party, the various doctors of Taxon) will find that if they attempt to go to the location in Central that held the prison previously, there is only a small donut bakery in its place. Apparently the aliens learned from Kobra's tracking down of DG.]
There's a couple of reasons he bothers to get his food in the markets. He still thinks that it tastes better than hatched food, even if it's just a psychosomatic thing. And two, the hatches deduct money from his bracelet, and Paul-- over a year into his time in Taxon-- still refuses to pay whenever he possibly can.
It's more than routine now; he loads up his basket, heads for the door. The clerk at the register calls after him, "Sir! Sir! Excuse me, you'll need to come over here to pay for that! Sir, if you don't stop I'll have to call the police!"
The latter threat is new, just started in the last few months, but nothing has come of it the many times he's done this now, so Paul absently flips off the Extra cashier and keeps walking for the door.
And comes face to face with a man wearing a badge.
Paul stops, blinking-- partly because he's pretty sure that the guy hadn't been there five seconds ago. He didn't walk in, he didn't jump out from behind something, he was just... there. Where he hadn't been.
It's that damn fake-homey-small-town sheriff asshole, the one who'd locked up Party and Kobra and all that a few months ago.
The Sheriff offers an easy smile, hands planted firmly on his hips. "Afternoon, sir. Maybe you'd like to go pay for those groceries?"
"Maybe you'd like to suck my fabulous dick," Paul answers in a conversational tone, his eyes quickly scanning the man for weapons-- yeah, there's a gun. Smecker doubts the guy will actually need to use it, although he didn't actually see the fight between Party and Kobra and the Sheriff. The aliens don't need to shoot you, they can just glitch out your brain to follow like a fucking sheep.
The Sheriff doesn't respond to Paul's obscenity, just shakes his head mildly. "Now, sir. Be reasonable, please. You can't just go stealin' from nice folk like the people who own this store. That cashier over there, he's trying to feed his family, you don't want to be takin' food from his children, now do you? That isn't being a good neighbor."
".....really?" Paul echoes, both brows climbing. "Really? This is the tack you assholes are taking? 'Be a good neighbor'? Oh fuck me. No, fuck you. I'm not playing your goddamn game."
The Sheriff looks disappointed in Paul's answer, sighing, his arms crossing on his chest. "Real shame you're choosin' to play it like this, mister. Real shame. You get a salary now, it isn't like you can't afford it, and it ain't unreasonable to ask you to pay for what you use, sir. You're an officer of the law yourself, aren't you? Come on now, sir, you ought to be upholdin' the order of things, be a good member of society."
Paul's eyes narrow; the Sheriff's apparently hit a nerve with that. The tablet records his fist clenching into a ball. "Good member of society? This is a prison, you fuckbag. We're not a fucking society, we're your test rats running your test city for you, we're playing the fucking Stepford City for you shitcunts, and just because I can't get the fuck out doesn't mean I'm going to participate in your bullshit fake economy, your bullshit rewards-for-being-a-good-prisoner system. Fuck. You. Fuck you in whatever fuckass alien orifice you use for fucking, Jesus Christ.
"You're going to take me out, then fucking do it, asswipe. Shit or get off the pot, as the saying goes. Let's go, I'm not getting any younger here."
The Sheriff arches a brow. "Well, alright then, sir, if that's how you feel." And the tablet feed cuts out.
***
It's a good twenty minutes later when Paul's tablet kicks back on, showing him in... a jail cell, one that looks familiar from the past feeds of Party, Kobra, and DG being imprisoned. Paul Smecker is leaning back against the wall, looking a bit disheveled although uninjured. There is a leafy bit of bok choy sticking out of his hair.
"Have I mentioned in the last few months how much I hate this fucking city?" he asks Taxon at large, rubbing at his wrist with the hand not holding the tablet.
[OOC: As with previous arrests, the tablet will not show Paul's current location. Those who have been to the jail before (DG, Party, the various doctors of Taxon) will find that if they attempt to go to the location in Central that held the prison previously, there is only a small donut bakery in its place. Apparently the aliens learned from Kobra's tracking down of DG.]