Post by DAMON CARNEGIE on Oct 4, 2011 16:39:41 GMT -5
Despite the approaching season of autumn, the weather channel predicted relentless heat. O, and humidity too, in case things weren't uncomfortable enough to suit your unfancy. Not only was one liable to get a sunburn, but possibly scalded as well.
Art had insisted that the two of them spend the weekend in Driftveil. Arthur Greenburgh and Damon Carnegie, on crappy vacation as a crappy queer couple. Pride, y'all. They were lodging at the immense Spanish mission style mansion, owned by Damon's surly Patriarch, Clay. Art found himself frequently disgusted at Clay's firm and often ill-tempered reign over the household. Namely, he felt oppressed by Clay's one major rule, "ya' can't be running around here in yer' underbritches any time ya' damnwell please." This put a kink in the usual routine, and as a creature lacking control over most things in his life (including his bowel movements, on occasion), Art suffered.
On this dreadfully hot and humid day, Arthur took control for a brief moment, much to the chagrin of Damon and the sick pleasure of his Father. He grabbed Damon's fat pink wrist and dragged him, XBOX controller still in hand, out to the gravel drive where the Prius was parked. Heat wave or no heat wave, the two of them would be spending the day at Driftveil's renowned farmers' market. Being lifelong Driftveil natives, Damon and Clay had grown sick of the market early on. Clay found the market to be uninteresting, the vendors were mainly peddling "hippie rabbit food." No pork rinds or whiskey to be found. Damon found the market to be utterly terrifying as, during his first and last visit when he was five, a very angry hornet got caught in his hair. No one was stung or maimed or whatever it is that big, beefy hornets do, but both the hornet and Damon parted feeling negatively about the situation.
Damon and his Father had taken to calling the place "The Market de Sade." Both claimed originatorship of that lame but slightly amusing nonetheless pun and argued about it every time the chance presented itself. (Note: Damon maintains that the wordplay was indeed his idea and that his Father is a fat old fart in leather chaps)
2 o’clock in the afternoon. Families bustled about, fathers pushing strollers while mothers corralled older children and told them to hold still while the hay was dusted from their hair and backs. Damon stood alone against a weathered wooden support-column in the covered section of the market. Art, the only reason he was here in the first place, had wandered off elsewhere. Perhaps he was applying for a job as a scarecrow or something. Whatever the case, Damon was getting nervous. He held in his hands a bright orange pumpkin, about the size of your standard size-seven bowling ball. The pumpkin was less greasy than most bowling balls, thankfully.
Art had insisted that the two of them spend the weekend in Driftveil. Arthur Greenburgh and Damon Carnegie, on crappy vacation as a crappy queer couple. Pride, y'all. They were lodging at the immense Spanish mission style mansion, owned by Damon's surly Patriarch, Clay. Art found himself frequently disgusted at Clay's firm and often ill-tempered reign over the household. Namely, he felt oppressed by Clay's one major rule, "ya' can't be running around here in yer' underbritches any time ya' damnwell please." This put a kink in the usual routine, and as a creature lacking control over most things in his life (including his bowel movements, on occasion), Art suffered.
On this dreadfully hot and humid day, Arthur took control for a brief moment, much to the chagrin of Damon and the sick pleasure of his Father. He grabbed Damon's fat pink wrist and dragged him, XBOX controller still in hand, out to the gravel drive where the Prius was parked. Heat wave or no heat wave, the two of them would be spending the day at Driftveil's renowned farmers' market. Being lifelong Driftveil natives, Damon and Clay had grown sick of the market early on. Clay found the market to be uninteresting, the vendors were mainly peddling "hippie rabbit food." No pork rinds or whiskey to be found. Damon found the market to be utterly terrifying as, during his first and last visit when he was five, a very angry hornet got caught in his hair. No one was stung or maimed or whatever it is that big, beefy hornets do, but both the hornet and Damon parted feeling negatively about the situation.
Damon and his Father had taken to calling the place "The Market de Sade." Both claimed originatorship of that lame but slightly amusing nonetheless pun and argued about it every time the chance presented itself. (Note: Damon maintains that the wordplay was indeed his idea and that his Father is a fat old fart in leather chaps)
2 o’clock in the afternoon. Families bustled about, fathers pushing strollers while mothers corralled older children and told them to hold still while the hay was dusted from their hair and backs. Damon stood alone against a weathered wooden support-column in the covered section of the market. Art, the only reason he was here in the first place, had wandered off elsewhere. Perhaps he was applying for a job as a scarecrow or something. Whatever the case, Damon was getting nervous. He held in his hands a bright orange pumpkin, about the size of your standard size-seven bowling ball. The pumpkin was less greasy than most bowling balls, thankfully.
