Alright, I'll freeze for now — but I'll be back soon, because those who thirst shall gain knowledge!
He screeched the last line theatrically, and his outline snapped back into its former immobile boundaries.
Completely stunned, SeaAsia looked at her companion — but he was calmly rolling a cigarette again, doing so with maximum focus and silence.
No way.
Did he really not hear anything?
Now two entities were talking to her, and he didn't even get one. Lucky bastard.
— But where is it, then — this so-called happiness? In a fleeting vision of a provincial Western? Paradoxical, if this actually works.
Denzel asked himself rhetorically, while his newly minted (friend? Not yet…) companion had no idea what to reply.
So YourMom had to take the initiative in a fatherly manner ("good line. That's an appropriate turn of phrase") and pulled a massive, antediluvian camera seemingly out of nowhere:
— Please assume the most natural poses you're capable of. For example, lie down like a jellyfish and stick out your tongue. Something like that… unforced, familiar to the eye. Come on, comrades!
Both of them shot her an extremely heavy look, which didn't faze the owner in the slightest. She peered into the lens, cursed, and said with regret:
— Kids, cancelation. Switch to another register! This ancient hunk of junk doesn't work, so the photo session is off. No cocktails either — those only come with the program.
— How could you?!
SeaAsia jumped down from the counter.
— We waited, and you just ruined everything so cruelly.
The owner froze for a moment — and then suddenly whipped a revolver out of her holster (where the hell did that even come from?!) and went:
— Money on the table, kiddos.
Her little-girl voice clashed horribly with the words, but she tried to add a rasp that simply wasn't there.
— This is a robbery. You're paying me just for walking in.
Denzel slightly tilted his head toward his shoulder and informed the enthusiast of easy, tax-free profit in an icy tone:
— You're about to take that weapon and send it back to where it belongs. And you will do it.
YourMom didn't wait for a stare-down or escalation — her nerves snapped much faster:
— Ugh, I've seriously overdosed on this damn Wild West atmosphere! I'm so sorry. Good thing I lost the Guestbook, so you can't leave a negative review. Our website domain isn't paid for either, so that's another fail for you. Long story short — you won't screw me over, assholes, so get the hell out of my saloon!
- We're leaving," SeaAsia protested, trying to sound braver than she felt, - but after this I'm going to leave you a ton of bad reviews online. Just you wait.
Having said everything she thought necessary, she walked out of the saloon with her chin held high. Denzel followed right after her. He rolled up the sleeves of his denim jacket and, without breaking a sweat, tore the warped swinging doors off their hinges. Then he laid them out in the shape of a cross right in front of the entrance.
Effectively sealing the place.
After that, they stood there for a while, staring at passing cars, a flyer guy running away from a Saint Bernard, and had no idea where to go next.
Well… this is definitely not how a tender fanfic about two people who aren't in love yet is supposed to start. And the girls are expecting drama, by the way. And I just went and messed everything up. What a disaster! - The words flashed through SeaAsia's head and vanished just as quickly. In truth, she was craving something far cozier than that awful saloon.
- Coffee? - She suggested.
- An exhibition? - He countered.
They exchanged a look and played rock–paper–scissors to decide on a third option that would suit them both. They were already on their third round—since neither of them could win—when music drifted toward them from a nearby school. Loud, unmistakable sounds spilled out through open windows.
- Want to check it out? - Denzel suggested with just a look, and without saying another word they both ran over. The entrance, however, was boarded up.
- So how do we get in? -SeaAsia sighed.
- Since when has height ever been an obstacle for those who are always reaching upward?" Denzel replied softly, and—
Pixie Luchador's tattoo came alive. He was holding a cup of invigorating morning coffee, inhaling its aroma, and criticizing Denzel with visible disdain:
- These lines were clearly written for him by a neural network afflicted with glaucoma. Why glaucoma? I have no idea what that disease even is, but it sounds extremely threatening. My sensitive heart aches from hearing such banal nonsense come out of this pompous sap. Spare me!"
The tattoo dropped into a full split—and froze again.
By then, Denzel was already climbing the trunk of a sprawling tree with impressive ease.
What choice did SeaAsia have?