John'e eyes narrowed slightly. He decided in that moment that Pollution was going to be one of those few Manor residents (and Horsepersons) he virulently disliked. With War or Pestilence, it was at least possible to maintain a polite fiction that they were something other than what they were, punches and sneezes notwithstanding; but this one's work struck just a little too close to home. Brendan, Brian, his father, Cheryl, and John himself, among others, all owed a good bit of the misery and dysfunction in their lives (and for some, deaths) to substances under Pollution's direct authority.
Still, it was no use pretending: he was an addictive personality, always had been, and he'd come out here tonight for a reason. "See, though, that's the ringer," he replied, "it does matter. Because what I want to feel is that wonderful sense of relaxation I get when I've just smoked a really good joint, knowing there's nothing in it I haven't dealt with before and can't handle. Look, don't play games with me, eh? You and your lot have already had your pound of flesh and then some." (Literally. He'd spat at least that much lung tissue into the sink or the bog when the cancer had fully taken hold, and that wasn't counting what Lucifer had burned away.) "I'm just looking to score a little pot. That's it."
He was wet, cold, hadn't slept decently in days, was getting decidedly cranky, and would go elsewhere if he had to; that option was looking better by the moment, in fact. Pollution might be the ultimate drug dealer, but he was scarcely the only one in London.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-08-14 12:32 am (UTC)Still, it was no use pretending: he was an addictive personality, always had been, and he'd come out here tonight for a reason. "See, though, that's the ringer," he replied, "it does matter. Because what I want to feel is that wonderful sense of relaxation I get when I've just smoked a really good joint, knowing there's nothing in it I haven't dealt with before and can't handle. Look, don't play games with me, eh? You and your lot have already had your pound of flesh and then some." (Literally. He'd spat at least that much lung tissue into the sink or the bog when the cancer had fully taken hold, and that wasn't counting what Lucifer had burned away.) "I'm just looking to score a little pot. That's it."
He was wet, cold, hadn't slept decently in days, was getting decidedly cranky, and would go elsewhere if he had to; that option was looking better by the moment, in fact. Pollution might be the ultimate drug dealer, but he was scarcely the only one in London.