Participants:
| Scene Title | It's Gonna Be The Best Night Ever |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Anders meets Jason Toomes and unwittingly invites a SUPERVILLAIN to the night's festivities. |
| Date | March 09, 2010 |
The Toomes townhouse hunches on a corner at a boxy squat, four white walls and a roof with holes worn into composition shingles hemmed in by a lawn that's faded from sallow green to prickly yellow in recent months. Behind the front door, a bootlegged copy of the most recent Star Wars movie hums and shoomps and pew pews on a flatscreen tv that no doubt cost more than the couch fluffed in front of it.
And sprawled on the couch, with four cats, bowl of cookie dough and a massive wooden spoon, is Jason. He was hungry after work, so he was going to make cookies, except he couldn't find how long you're supposed to leave them in the oven for and with his computer lagged up downloading god knows what else, he has resigned himself to eating the dough with a bottle of Mountain Dew and some beef jerky left over from yesterday.
When a knock sounds at the door, he swings onto his feet with a grunt, nearly squashing two cats on his way to answering it with dough bowl in his left hand and spoon in his right. Tall but not that tall, punk but not all that punk, he looks a little stoned standing in the gloom of the house in a white polo with a popped collar on under a floral apron. He has way too much hair, most of which is standing up off his skull in gravity-defying spines, and he is looking out at Anders like he suspects he might be lost, mouth slacked open over a scrubby soul patch. "…Yo."
"Hey," Anders intones back, his a bit "Fozzarelli" sounding, before his face twitches into a crooked grin. "What's up, dude?" he glances over the guy's shoulder to see what's happening in the house, arching a brow. "Sweeet TV, dude. I'm watching a little 13 inch or something that I swear is older'n me. Sucks." He grins for a moment, as if expecting to be let in, before he realizes — or seems to — that this is a cold call, and Jason doesn't know him. Anders is no Fuller brush man, that's for sure!
A flourescent green flyer is pulled and held out. "Party tonight, man. Over under the bridge. Bring some beer, bring some bud, bring some betties, whatever you're into, it's cool!"
"Werd," sayeth Jason once he's reached to take one of the offered flyers, spoon pushed into dough bowl so he has a free hand to hold it with. Same hand has a black leather band with spikes on it 'round the wrist. 'Cause everyone knows those things are hardcore. Even against a flowery apron backdrop.
"You new in town? Where's my manners at? I'm Jason. …I don't got any beer dawg," and he says 'dawg' with the kind of unsettlingly earnest ease of someone accustomed to using it in every day conversation, brow knit as he scans over the flyer and flips it over as if expecting to see more detail on the back, "but I'll see what I can work up for some refreshments. Thanks for the heads up."
"I got some beer. I work at the QuickStop so you know. Discount. Orrr fudged inventory… whatever works, am I right?" Anders says. "Not too new, been here since just before Christmas. Over on the east side of the apartment building. Name's Anders Stuart. You can call me either. One of those two first names or maybe it's two last names kinda things. Clearly my ol' lady thought I'd be a lawyer or something. She was smoking crack. Literally. But what can you do." He cracks a grin and nods to the bowl. "Munchies?"
"Yeah man my last name is Toomes. 'O M E S' tho, not like with a 'B' and dead people." The munchies question kind of answers itself. As such questions have a way of doing. "That's cool, that's cool. Maybe I'll switch. I've been rockin' the 7-Eleven, you know, down on Mercer? But that asshole white boy at the register is always given' me shit for paying for gas in small change, like he don't know how to count or something. It's quarters and dimes man, not fuckin' pennies. Not like you need a motherfuckin' calculator." He tries to do some kind of gang-type gesture to emphasize his indignation, but he's still got the green paper in hand and it crinkles against his efforts.
"Anyway, whatever. You seem cool, Stu, but I forgot to push pause," somewhere in the background, a cat bell tinkles when one of two tabbies tumps over a stack of DVDs and a calico scrambles out've the way, "so I better get back or I'm gonna miss the ice monster and old Spock and shit. Sorry about your mom, dude. See you at the party."
"Yeah, I won't give you shit for that. Come on down and see you at the party," Stu says amiably enough, waving with his fingerless-gloved hand and then turning to pound the pavement once more, and hand out the last of his flyers before heading home to prep for the party. Duuuude. It's gonna be awesome!
