Drunk Lewis

The night wasn’t one to remember, assuming he had been sober enough to remember it. It’d show up in due time as the future would hold, but for right now, it wasn’t something to remember. What he did remember was downing a full bottle (well, maybe it was two, or six) of whiskey before winding up putting his face against the leather of the sofa. Actually, that couldn’t have been right either. He wasn’t allowed a bottle. Which was something that he didn’t understand. When had he ever denied himself a bottle, especially when it was working so well to get a certain fellow out of his mind? Apparently, he did so the previous night, given that he remembered receiving no bottle of regret and grief, and he was slowly starting to remember where he was, and that certain fellow. No.

Lewis shook his head involuntarily at the thought, grimacing at the sudden suction that was quickly starting to endanger his ability to breathe. He hadn’t had a bottle, that was for sure. He could still feel that he had a body, rather then a balloon for a head, or just a head at all, really. With that information in mind, he forced himself to flip over, which resulted in a tangled mess of movement accompanied by the shuffling of blankets and the springs of the sofa. Very slowly his eyelids lifted, presenting him with a fine view of the living room as seen through a drunken man’s eyes. More or less, he could make out shapes. He remembered he had a table, and a television, and some sort of ridiculous series of shelves cobbled up around the walls. There were bottles hidden there, he remembered. He’d grin if it was a task to make him happy, but in the moment, his body was still stuck to the sofa, and while it was awkward, it was oddly…cozy. Did he have to move? Absolutely not. In times like these, he had left a bottle on the table. There was a 80% chance it was bone dry, but that was only 80%, so chances are it’d have something in it to suck on. 

He forced himself up onto an elbow as small bits of detail started to flesh out the remainder of the room. When his mind started to expand to remembering he was in a house, he stopped it. One room at a time, jesus christ. If there is still an outside world, he didn’t need to know it existed. He was out there somewhere, that person he wasn’t supposed to be remembering. He didn’t need that. No one needed that. Lewis cursed at his thoughts and fought against his muscles to sit up. It was a losing battle. Instead, he remembered he had arms. They were long enough to reach the table, surely. Why the hell would he move it out of arm’s reach? It’s a table, for christ’s sake. It’s meant to be within reach. With this new bit of info, he thrust his arm forward towards what looked like a bottle…but was apparently his coat hanging along side the television. This data came a little too slow to a one Mr. Lewis Robertson. As a result, he found his body moving with the meager amount of momentum his arm had produced, but it was more than enough. Far more than enough really, as he went through the ever slow process of realizing his body was moving downwards. Couches shouldn’t do that, he thought to himself. Something’s wrong with this sofa. 

CRASH! 

Lewis groaned into the carpet, a series of obscenties he no longer knew how to pronounce coming out of his mouth as it attempted to make the proper motions. Neither seemed to be working for him. Bottles were his enemy now. They weren’t even fucking bottles now, they were coats. Coats located seventy miles across the room. What bullshit is that? He sighed, again trying with his arms to maintain any form of strength. He succeeded, if only through the painful reminder that they existed. Slowly he pushed up, until he was able to get his body in a sitting position. He inspected the table just a bit more thoroughly, and realized, much to his surprise, that there was nothing on the table. Whereas couches shouldn’t be moving people downward, tables shouldn’t be eating. And from what Lewis could remember, there were items on this table. And it seemed to have eaten them. For the moment, it was irrelevant. He needed a bottle. If the table thought his wallet was tasty enough to suck down into its mahogany stomach, so be it. Just not the bottles.

“Oh! You’re awake. You’ll probably be out again shortly.” Lewis jerked as he felt an arm on his own, hefting his up. He felt as though not even the Titanic could lift him up, but somehow, someone was. It lasted for all of a few seconds, and he found himself flumped back onto the sofa. This sofa was a traitor. It pretended to be a floor, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to be a floor. He went to move, forgetting about the invisible person for a moment. A hand to the chest told him this was probably a bad idea. “The doctor said the medication would last a while. Until then, back onto the sofa, and nothing but water.” Doctors. Doctors and medication. Medication, water, doctors, sofas, floors, tables, stomachs, coats, bottles, peaches. Oh fuck. PEACHES. There was a bit of a jerk that was mental in his mind as the keywords struck him as hard as ivory keys on a piano during a concert. What about peaches? I love peaches. He loved peaches, but right now his mind was telling him peaches were the last thing to want. Especially now. Something was wrong with that statement, but he left it for right now. Right now there were more important things. Something about doctors and medication and sofas that were floors. He was drugged. That was the reason there were no bottles. All because of peaches, his mind told him. Bullshit. Water?

“…Yes, of course. Whatever you say, sugar. I’m going to go get you some water so you can speak something more intelligible. Stay there.” The last words were said sternly, and by the end of it, Lewis had come to the conclusion there was a woman in his house. If this was his house. It certainly seemed so. Another conclusion was that this woman was reading his mind. Fantastic. Mind-reading women in his house. He was set for life. 

The woman came back in and sat down next to him, and he became aware of the edge of a glass to his lips. Finally, something to drink. AS it raised, he felt the liquid cross into his mouth, and suddenly the taste. It was repulsive. This wasn’t beer. He made a face and some sort of motion to jerk away, but was apparently refused the ability to do either as he was forced to drink more of the vile liquid. By the time it was removed, he was pissed. That wasn’t beer. That wasn’t even whiskey. Why would you make something like that?

“Alright, lie down. You’re in no position to stand, let alone think.” She sounded amused at this, as though it was funny. What is funny about not thinking? He could think. He could stand. He could absolutely think to stand. Standing was a simple thing. It was also work. He put up no fight when she made him lie down, and his excuse to himself was that standing was too much work. He tried to explain this. He had his pride yet to defend, and if there was going to be a mind-reading woman in his house, he might as well keep it. “I’m sure you do, sugar. Go to sleep.” Do? Do what? Standing? He wasn’t sure he was standing. Hell, he probably was. He shrugged and mashed his face into the sofa again, a motion the woman apparently had to prevent, as soon enough he felt a pillow beneath his head, and even sooner, he was gone. 

There were the sounds of dishes, the sounds of cursing, sometimes the sounds of things being shuffled about. From the times he had opened his eyes, he could see things disappearing from his view, and things coming into view. The woman was still there. He didn’t even remember how she got into the household. She mentioned something about doctors and medication. Maybe there was an ambulance. That was a disturbing thought, but not one that was outlandish. He had been drinking enough. Perhaps he was in a hospital and just hallucinating about his home. That didn’t make any sense, either. But it seemed to fit. Every now and then he’d see a cowboy, but those mirages were just as foggy as the woman and the household itself. Nothing seemed to fit after a while. Once that happened, he found it more appealing to just stop thinking. And so he did.

After a while though, the mind has to think, lest it die of disuse. This normally results in death, and as far as Lewis had remember and could remember, he sure as hell wasn’t dead. There were too many times he felt he was being suffocated for that. Death was nothing like that…that he could think of. So he wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t moving. He felt pinned, as though it was impossible to get up. In times like these, one would look for the source of the problem, in this case, the thing pinning one down. Groggily, his eyes opened again, and again he saw his ceiling. Again he saw his table with the shape-shifting bottle to coat, and again the table had made the items of its surface it’s dinner. He’d have to talk to it sooner or later. He needed his wallet. But not right now, right now he was pinned. He looked down and was presented with darkness. Or at least, what was appearing to him as darkness. He blinked a few times, and soon the black became a muddled red with depth and texture. He lifted his free arm and ran a finger over it. Leather. His brow furrowed in confusion as he plucked a finger at the leather around the edges. This was too small to be pinning him down. That didn’t make any sense. With a sigh he grabbed the edge and tugged on it. It gave no resistance, lifting right off into his grip. He froze. This was a hat. Leather hat, cowboy hat. There was something about cowboys he had remembered when he was asleep. Western movies. Something like that. He looked at the hat, then turned his attention to where it was, suddenly greeted with a tassled mess of blonde hair. He craned his neck, looking around the hair and froze. Cowboy hat. Blonde hair. Face. Face. Face. Face. Cowboy blonde hair face. Oh shit.

Oh fuck. You’re not supposed to be here. That’s not even possible. Lewis’ face contorted into a series of emotions, none of which seemed to be doing the trick. The thing pinning him down was a cowboy, an actual one, one that, if thrown off the side of the sofa, probably would have the same experience he had….a day before? …Days? Possibly weeks, he wasn’t sure. Point being, there was damage to be done if the cowboy fell. Pinned he had to be then, he decided. Since the solution to the problem was a problem in and of itself, Lewis couldn’t find anything more to do other than yell. 

“Oh, oh, shh, shh. He came in the other night, drunk as you. Well, he looks like he can handle it better than you.” Came a voice. Familiar. Feminine. Mind-reading woman. He babbled an intolerable amount of words, waving the cowboy hat like a three year old in front of her face when she came into view. She nodded and took it gently from him, putting it back on the cowboy’s head. That wasn’t what he wanted, or even what he was trying to say. For a mind-reader, it seemed to only work in cases of absolute silence, he figured. He shut up. “Yes, that’s his hat.” Lady, I know it’s his hat. It’s on his head, of course it’s his hat. He made a face, pursing his lips. “Just stay there. Lord knows you’ve been crying about him enough, and he’s here. So let him be, and go back to sleep. You both need it. You two can explain yourselves when you’re better.” What the hell are you talking about? Lewis huffed, annoyed. She didn’t seem to understand this cowboy wasn’t supposed to be here, and he didn’t seem to possess the speaking capabilities for some reason to tell her this. He could just shove him off, but that’d do no good. He wasn’t going to do that to him. But he wasn’t supposed to be there either. “And don’t you dare shove him away.” Lady. I already thought of this. I’m NOT. Jesus christ. So he let her disappear from wherever she came, irritated at the lack of communication success between the two of them. Lewis looked back down at the hat, and risked tilting it up again. The cowboy made no motion to move, no indication he was even disturbed. Normal people probably would have flipped at the idea that a man was laying with another man. This cowboy clearly didn’t give two fucks. Lewis lowered the hat again, but over the course of thirty minutes found himself lifting it back up, then down. Up, then down. The monotonous motion eventually distracted him enough to sleep, but the question was still there. 

How?

Dez Hunters International

Para: Don't remind the ghost how he died
Para: That's not very nice
Para: Hey Dez
Para: Remember that day
Sigma: You got AIDS?
Para: YEAH THAT DAY?
Sigma: And your wife was a huge cunt.
Para: REMEMBER?
Sigma: And your song never met his father?
Sigma: And your sister lost her brother?
Sigma: And you left Lou?
Para: HUH. HUH. HUH. HUH.
Sigma: And let Twain have him?
Para: FUN WASN'T IT.
Sigma: Cus "He likes peaches"?
Sigma: AND THEN
Sigma: YOU HELPED HIM FIND THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE
Sigma: AT A BAR
Sigma: HU?!
Sigma: HUH?!
Sigma: HUH DEZ?!
Sigma: REMEMBER?!
Para: Oh ouch.
Para: Yes
Para: exactly
Para: Not fun
Sigma: *Nods*
Para: *puffs cheeks out*
Sigma: Kind of dickish.
Para: When I die and become a ghost... I don't want no-one bugging me about that.
Para: I'll smack em upside the head.
Sigma: We'll haunt the fuck out of people.
Para: yes
Sigma: YES
Sigma: KEEP
Sigma: REMINDING HER
Para: can I hug this woman.
Sigma: ABOUT HOW HER FAMILY MEMBER
Sigma: DIED
Sigma: SO
Sigma: HORRIBLY
Para: HEY LOU.
Para: REMEMBER
Sigma: REMEMBER HOW YOUR LOVER DIED HORRIBLY?!
Sigma: OF AIDS
Sigma: AND LET YOU MARRY TWAIN
Sigma: AND THEN HE HAUNTED YOU
Sigma: AND HUNG AROUND YOUR...SON-NEPHEW-YOUNG CHILD PERSON
Sigma: AND WAS HIS BEST FRIEND
Para: sdkjfnkldj XD
Sigma: AND THE REASON HE'S STUCK
Sigma: IS BECAUSE HE'S WAITING FOR YOU.
Sigma: HUH?!
Sigma: LOU?!
Sigma: HUH!?
Sigma: REMEMBER?!
Sigma: I HOPE YOUR FUCKING CRYING!
Sigma: HERE LET ME RUB SALT IN YOUR WOUNDS.
Sigma: LET ME PUT SOME LEMON JUICE IN THERE TOO
Sigma: AND SOME CIGARETTE BURNS
Sigma: LET ME LIGHT A MATCH IN YOUR EYE
Sigma: WHILE I RECOUNT OF DEZ
Sigma: DYING
Sigma: SO
Para: TOSS YE OUT A WINDOW
Sigma: YOU
Sigma: CRY
Sigma: LOU
Sigma: LET ME DRINK YOUR TEARS
Sigma: LET ME TELL YOU THAT YOU'LL DIE BEFORE TENOR.
Sigma: AND THAT YOU'LL LEAVE HIM ALONE
Sigma: BUT HE'LL HAVE VICH.
Sigma: AND TWAIN.
Para: OOOOOOOOOO ELECTRO SHOCK
Sigma: BUT TWAIN'LL DIE TOO
Sigma: AND FUCK IT!
Sigma: *FLIPS TABLE*
Sigma: Let's watch this shit.
Para: *SHAKES YOU*
Sigma: *Is shook*

Kids

fly-free12:

Decided to just add base color’s to these two fella’s. Because i don’t think ill be able to fully color them asdjklfjs.

Tommy and Toby moments. Tommy would play with Toby because the baby would never leave him alone. XD

Also, Tommy learned a new thing about kids, never let them play with your hair, because then they will never let go and will yank on it till it actually comes off. 

OH MY GOD PRECIOUS BABIES.

The squirt is Toby, Crawford’s kid. The older boy is Baylee’s adopted son, Tommy.

GOD FLY THIS IS PRECIOUS.