What Would Butch Cassidy Do If He Were Here Right Now? (crossposted to ![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
non_plot)
This, for some reason, was inspired by a few Kevin Smith movies. Schuyler and Kismet are only half-siblings; they have the same mother, different fathers - they're three years apart in age, which is (from my own observations) about the amount of time most likely to cause hideous sibling rivalries. Juanita is Schuyler's beloved 1981 Fiat Spider, which he has enough of an attatchment to that it should really be listed as a character.
Schuyler punched a key on his cellphone and wished that it would just go ahead and top off his day by spontaneously combusting. At least then he could use it as a flare.
"So this is ... what, now, the worst possible day of my life?" he sighed to himself. Juanita was in the car-hospital; the poor baby had kept him up all last night worrying about the oil leak, which of course would have torpedoed his ability to get to classes had Mik not been cool enough to give him a ride in even though he technically had the day off - definitely an awesome side effect of moving in together. He had an exam in the stupid geology class he was failing due to boredom, which he'd forgotten about, and Kismet had put little pink post-its all over the kitchen with french vocabulary on them - and then gotten all whiny because he'd lost a few of them when he was trying to find a clean tasse to have his cafe along with his morning box of du Raisinettes and de la Pop Tart. Damn sisters. At least now that Mik was living there he had reinforcements against the armies of Hello Kitty.
Mik was supposed to be picking him up. But apparently he'd lost the phone in the glut of boxes and surplus VHS tapes (strange, given that Kismet had insisted on tying another goddamn bow around the antenna) which were hopefully going to be unpacked before the next major quake decided to bury them all in an avalanche of cheesy porn and bootlegged kung-fu movies.
He searched his pockets fruitlessly - a couple of folded singles and a crumpled five, but not enough for a cab. Damn it. Looked like he'd have to take the bus - at least he had enough for that.
"What the hell is the good of having a sidekick when Sundance doesn't even show up when you need him?" he muttered under his breath. "Butch Cassidy never had to take the goddamn bus."
* * *
By the time he got home the cellphone was deader than a dead parrot and he'd had enough of socializing, little sisters, school and pretty much anything else you could name; some woman had tried to give him Jesus literature on the bus and the only phone call was from the mechanic who told him that Juanita would have a seven hundred dollar hospital bill. Bank of America would probably be sending him thank-you cards soon. He could picture it now. Hi, my name is Sascha and with my portion of the profits from the crippling interest fees my father's bank is charging you, I went up a whole cup size!
And of course, nothing from Mik. Mik was nowhere to be found. The van was in the driveway, so he couldn't have gone far... but the house was silent.
"Mik?"
No answer.
"Kismet?"
Still no answer. Schuyler tripped over a box that was spilling crap everywhere and fell sprawling. Picking himself up with a muttered curse, he limped off toward the rest of the house to investigate.
"Mik? Kismet?" Through Mik's bedroom door, he could hear something - voices he thought.
"Goddamn you, Petrovitch, where the hell were you?" He threw the door open
and
his eyes fell
out of his head.
The noises ... were not voices. There was a shriek, a shuffle of flying clothing; Schuyler stared in stunned, speechless disbelief at the sight of a naked assistant director half covered in a Hello Kitty bedspread and half covering his only barely street-legal little sister.
Kismet blushed, a triumphant grin on her face.
Mik coughed. "Uh ... hi, boss-man."
Schuyler cleared his throat, trying to figure out what Butch Cassidy would do.
Fuck that. Butch would never in a million years have to deal with this.
He cleared his throat again, wishing fervently for a drink. A large drink. A very large drink. Large enough to snorkel in.
"Our mother," Schuyler coughed, "is going to kill you."
* * *
There was not enough scotch in the world to deal with this, and certainly not enough in the house. He had to make do with amaretto, which he barely tasted anyway. He paced around the living room, staring at both of them as they sat sickeningly close together on the secondhand couch. "How did this happen?"
"Well-" Kismet began.
"Never mind, I don't want to know. What the hell were you thinking? Mik, you don't even know her! She's crazy!" He tripped over a box and kicked it out of the way, yelping.
"Uh ... I think I'm okay, boss-man." Mik mumbled, his arm around Kismet's shoulders.
"Our mother is going to kill me! I'm supposed to be looking after you, not letting you consort with strange directors!" He sank down into a chair for a moment before popping back up again to pace. "I'm a dead man."
"I'll tell mom." Kismet shrugged, finger-combing her dark curls. "I don't think she'll care. It's not like Mik's a drug dealer." She stared pointedly at Schuyler's plastic glass that was half-full of amaretto. "Or drinks too much or something. I mean, if I dated someone who drank too much, she might have a problem. Or maybe not."
Schuyler refilled the glass and drained half of it.
"Or, well, she might." Kismet murmured, adjusting her bathrobe over her knees.
"So ... this is a permanent thing." Schuyler clarified.
"Well, uh, yeah." Mik nodded, rattling as he shook his bleach-blonde dreadlocks into some kind of order.
Another silence.
"Great. Just great. Absolutely great. I'm dead, and no one gives a damn." Schuyler took off his dark glasses to glare at Kismet. "You are telling mom. And you are telling her it's not my fault, too. And if you hurt him I swear to God I will sell you into slavery. Understand?"
Kismet looked like she was about to say something, sighed deeply, and nodded. "What-ever."
"Hey, Boss-man, it's cool." Mik smiled, trying to break the tension with the sheer force of his goodwill. "I mean, so what? Kizzie and I are a thing. It's not like we're not still Butch and Sundance, you know? And I mean, we can use the third bedroom for editing now! Isn't that cool?"
"You're so smart!" Kismet chirped. "I never thought of that."
"I need Chinese food." Schuyler groaned, falling into the chair again and jamming his glasses over his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to avoid watching them kiss. "Lots of greasy chinese food. And another drink."
Schuyler punched a key on his cellphone and wished that it would just go ahead and top off his day by spontaneously combusting. At least then he could use it as a flare.
"So this is ... what, now, the worst possible day of my life?" he sighed to himself. Juanita was in the car-hospital; the poor baby had kept him up all last night worrying about the oil leak, which of course would have torpedoed his ability to get to classes had Mik not been cool enough to give him a ride in even though he technically had the day off - definitely an awesome side effect of moving in together. He had an exam in the stupid geology class he was failing due to boredom, which he'd forgotten about, and Kismet had put little pink post-its all over the kitchen with french vocabulary on them - and then gotten all whiny because he'd lost a few of them when he was trying to find a clean tasse to have his cafe along with his morning box of du Raisinettes and de la Pop Tart. Damn sisters. At least now that Mik was living there he had reinforcements against the armies of Hello Kitty.
Mik was supposed to be picking him up. But apparently he'd lost the phone in the glut of boxes and surplus VHS tapes (strange, given that Kismet had insisted on tying another goddamn bow around the antenna) which were hopefully going to be unpacked before the next major quake decided to bury them all in an avalanche of cheesy porn and bootlegged kung-fu movies.
He searched his pockets fruitlessly - a couple of folded singles and a crumpled five, but not enough for a cab. Damn it. Looked like he'd have to take the bus - at least he had enough for that.
"What the hell is the good of having a sidekick when Sundance doesn't even show up when you need him?" he muttered under his breath. "Butch Cassidy never had to take the goddamn bus."
* * *
By the time he got home the cellphone was deader than a dead parrot and he'd had enough of socializing, little sisters, school and pretty much anything else you could name; some woman had tried to give him Jesus literature on the bus and the only phone call was from the mechanic who told him that Juanita would have a seven hundred dollar hospital bill. Bank of America would probably be sending him thank-you cards soon. He could picture it now. Hi, my name is Sascha and with my portion of the profits from the crippling interest fees my father's bank is charging you, I went up a whole cup size!
And of course, nothing from Mik. Mik was nowhere to be found. The van was in the driveway, so he couldn't have gone far... but the house was silent.
"Mik?"
No answer.
"Kismet?"
Still no answer. Schuyler tripped over a box that was spilling crap everywhere and fell sprawling. Picking himself up with a muttered curse, he limped off toward the rest of the house to investigate.
"Mik? Kismet?" Through Mik's bedroom door, he could hear something - voices he thought.
"Goddamn you, Petrovitch, where the hell were you?" He threw the door open
and
his eyes fell
out of his head.
The noises ... were not voices. There was a shriek, a shuffle of flying clothing; Schuyler stared in stunned, speechless disbelief at the sight of a naked assistant director half covered in a Hello Kitty bedspread and half covering his only barely street-legal little sister.
Kismet blushed, a triumphant grin on her face.
Mik coughed. "Uh ... hi, boss-man."
Schuyler cleared his throat, trying to figure out what Butch Cassidy would do.
Fuck that. Butch would never in a million years have to deal with this.
He cleared his throat again, wishing fervently for a drink. A large drink. A very large drink. Large enough to snorkel in.
"Our mother," Schuyler coughed, "is going to kill you."
* * *
There was not enough scotch in the world to deal with this, and certainly not enough in the house. He had to make do with amaretto, which he barely tasted anyway. He paced around the living room, staring at both of them as they sat sickeningly close together on the secondhand couch. "How did this happen?"
"Well-" Kismet began.
"Never mind, I don't want to know. What the hell were you thinking? Mik, you don't even know her! She's crazy!" He tripped over a box and kicked it out of the way, yelping.
"Uh ... I think I'm okay, boss-man." Mik mumbled, his arm around Kismet's shoulders.
"Our mother is going to kill me! I'm supposed to be looking after you, not letting you consort with strange directors!" He sank down into a chair for a moment before popping back up again to pace. "I'm a dead man."
"I'll tell mom." Kismet shrugged, finger-combing her dark curls. "I don't think she'll care. It's not like Mik's a drug dealer." She stared pointedly at Schuyler's plastic glass that was half-full of amaretto. "Or drinks too much or something. I mean, if I dated someone who drank too much, she might have a problem. Or maybe not."
Schuyler refilled the glass and drained half of it.
"Or, well, she might." Kismet murmured, adjusting her bathrobe over her knees.
"So ... this is a permanent thing." Schuyler clarified.
"Well, uh, yeah." Mik nodded, rattling as he shook his bleach-blonde dreadlocks into some kind of order.
Another silence.
"Great. Just great. Absolutely great. I'm dead, and no one gives a damn." Schuyler took off his dark glasses to glare at Kismet. "You are telling mom. And you are telling her it's not my fault, too. And if you hurt him I swear to God I will sell you into slavery. Understand?"
Kismet looked like she was about to say something, sighed deeply, and nodded. "What-ever."
"Hey, Boss-man, it's cool." Mik smiled, trying to break the tension with the sheer force of his goodwill. "I mean, so what? Kizzie and I are a thing. It's not like we're not still Butch and Sundance, you know? And I mean, we can use the third bedroom for editing now! Isn't that cool?"
"You're so smart!" Kismet chirped. "I never thought of that."
"I need Chinese food." Schuyler groaned, falling into the chair again and jamming his glasses over his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to avoid watching them kiss. "Lots of greasy chinese food. And another drink."
"Butch Cassidy never had to take the goddamn bus."
((WWBCD?)
Re: "Butch Cassidy never had to take the goddamn bus."
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject