he doesn't know what a fuckin' americana is, but the song slaps anyway. he's shifted away from instagram and into the photos on his phone, which are literally just pictures of sam from every angle imaginable, most of them naked. and then cute photos of the two of them. and then hot photos of the two of them. 

some videos. 

high on legal marijuana / raised on biggie & nirvana

god, she's such trash, but if she doesn't tickle his brain in the best way possible. 

kid. 

he straightens from his slouch and hops up, shoving his phone in his hoodie pocket. 

"senior citizen," he quips back.

Fletcher Hyland

☉

is it the cotton candy hair? is it the sparkles under his eyes? is it the purple mascara? is that why he looks younger, mr. fletcher? 

or is it because mr. fletcher has age lines and an ugly mug? 

that's why.

"what, to sit? yeah, i get to watch all the street rattata fight over a miller high life." he points down the street where two scruffy men drunkenly come to blows over a 40 oz. a spilled bottle. still draining and rolling around. 

"they spilled it - " he checks a children's vaporeon watch on his wrist - "twelve minutes ago and still haven't noticed."

surely the old man isn't here for the drug$.

Fletcher Hyland

☉

thirteen minutes now. old man moves some type of way and knox picks up on a few things - a slight trembling of his hands, the draw of his shoulders, that tight, wanting look in his eyes. oh, he's got it bad.

rockefeller gets in a good slug and monaco goes down, but as his jaw scrapes the concrete, he realizes he's closest to their prize. fingers grasp for the bottle. piss-colored ambrosia sloshes out the side as he raises it up to his lips. 

"what kind of dough have you been spending?" he says, lips lilting - "what kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately?"

he bats his pretty eyelashes and laughs. 

Fletcher Hyland

☉

monaco gets his prize, but it's gone. it's always gone. it's always gone too fast. down at the bottom of the bottle, he sees his reflection and he sees the grimy streets and he sees everything he's ever done wrong with his life and fuck, it kills him it kills him it kills him. 

he turns to rockefeller and says, you foohkkkken speeled it, sputtering the blame, off of him and off of him and off of him please he can't take the blame anymore. 

knox grooves with it. he thinks, been there done that, poor schmuck, but all the world's his oyster and a trapper's looking at him and asking how fuckin' much he's charging. 

"shit's pristine," he says. "one ten a gram." it's not. it's highway robbery. the shit he gets from moro is better, but they're running an empire here. 

"my brain's already scrambled; life's more fun that way. but thanks for lookin' out, old man. you want? you want? you want?"

Fletcher Hyland

☉