bobby grimaces as her poker skewers the mostly untouched drink. the smell of stale beer that wafts up from the wound she's inflicted on the aluminum is almost as bad as the sloshing swill inside she has to somehow avoid spilling on herself.

she does her best to flip the can on its way to her trash bag so it'll drain out of the open tab at the top. it's not the most graceful movement; and while it doesn't splatter bobby any, she isn't considerate enough to make sure those around her are left just as dry.

the moment it's in bobby's trash bag that stink of beer mixes with the other unpleasant scents collected there: grease, sunscreen, old food too full of preservatives to rot. she's still fighting the renewed urge to vomit when she turns to face the person foolish enough to talk to her.

foolish and gross; seriously, who uses the word "juicy" in this context?

"not even a little 'nice', actually," she sneers, nose wrinkled and teeth bared in disgust, "what part of any of this shit, especially that beer can, seems 'nice' to you?"

howl mccoy
mission

☉

oh god, bobby would rather gag herself than listen to this stranger's mindless dreck and pointless platitudes. her bag rattles and rustles as she presses one fist to her hip and takes to gesturing with the other that's holding her skewer.

"the sun? is trying to give me cancer. the 'nice weather'?" she shifts the poker so she has a couple fingers free to air quote with, "is the reason my trash bag is going rancid. and the environment? please. we're going to do all this cleaning and then saturday will come and the next poor group of 'volunteers' will be picking up where we left off."

the second half of their argument isn't any better. she doesn't even try to resist the urge to roll her eyes, letting her whole head go with the motion. how obnoxious can one person be?

"by the by, 'it could be worse' is literally always true," bobby continues, tone unabashedly condescending, "any situation could always be worse. i could be shoveling shit instead of trash, or dead bodies instead of shit. it could be raining, or snowing, or that fucking meteor in the news could be crashing right now instead of the sun being out."

drops of beer splatter the sand and fly in the direction of the person in front of her as she swings her poker about, like a careless conductor directing her spoken thoughts.

"this brainless, optimistic spin you're trying to put on the world is the actual 'exercise in futility'."

howl mccoy
mission

☉

the laugh might have been grating if not for the words that followed it. bobby already knew this person was dumb based on how they'd introduced themselves, they really don't have to try so hard to make it unquestionable.

of course she could leave things there. "edgelord" is hardly an insult worth gratifying with a response and as already stated she can't think of anything much worth adding to the one bemused sentence the stranger hand to offer. and yet she can't help herself. this is the closest thing to fun she's had all day.

"don't hurt yourself with the effort," she replies, voice cloying and sunny, "i'm sure keeping up this cheery cope of yours is already hard enough on whatever sad excuse for a brain you're working with."

howl mccoy
mission

☉

the party comment gets a shrug.

"i certainly used to be," bobby responds with a grin of her own, spearing a nearby burger wrapper out of obligation more than anything, "they used to flock to me, i brought the party favors."

in truth they didn't hate her at parties, but her presence was more business than anything. sure, bobby would dance a bit and have her fun flirting with some girl and (telling every dude to take it somewhere else); but she was mostly there to sell. people needed all kinds of shit to have a good time and she needed to sell all kinds of shit to have a roof when the month rolled over.

"i'm a bit rusty now. you though, you look like a real regular," she's being sarcastic of course.

the request after her name is bold -- especially sandwiched between sass and sarcasm the way it is. or maybe it's just another sign of how stupid this person ("howl") is. either way she figures why not throw the loser a bone. for moxie if nothing else.

"bobby, but try not to say it too much. adults who still call people 'crabbypants' get limited uses," she gestures at howl with her poker, burger wrapper still adorning its tip, "i'm pretty sure your balls have dropped, use them and at least call me a bitch or something."

howl mccoy
mission

☉

bobby's eyebrows lift curiously at the sudden shift in mood. honestly, it's more surprising than the momentary lightness that had filled a conversation she'd meant to go very differently. still this is a stranger. there's no way to know exactly what soured the mood or why and (in all honesty) bobby doesn't care enough to find out.

"yeah sure," is all she offers in response as howl all but flees from their spot of the beach. once they're gone she goes back to the routine from before, having no more fun with it than last time.

"still," she sighs to herself, thinking aloud, "it's better than prison."

though maybe a bit less so now. but she doesn't feel lonely. or guilty. she doesn't.

howl mccoy
mission

☉