I
Iliana
Guest
Original poster
Mornings are never a good time to do something important. There's always that sense of forgotten sleep, the seconds dwindling by as one sits on the bed looking into nothing in particular. A man forgets who he is while he's in the state. Coming out of the womb was never as bad as sitting erect in the bed trying to adjust to atmosphere. Eyes ever blinking and not seeing anything. Senses going askew until further notice. It's the sitting leeway of the day, where one tries to find oneself before they get to important matter.
Me, personally, I don't do well with either. Mornings never cut it for me, never really have. I think it's all a misunderstanding about the time of day. I always seemed to have to wake up to get ready to do something, and, once I do it, I have nothing to do for the rest of the day. Why is it that, soon after I sleep, I have to do some kind of work? I never understood that yet I have always requested for something to be done at dawn.
It was my own fault that Derby nearly trampled my toes into molasses that morning when I hustled him over to the corner of Birchwike and Pinton street, the corner of Old Rocken's Pup. I always take a gander up at the sign, pulling my lips into a confused frown. I always thought they misspelled the word 'Pub' and put 'Pup' in the title in its place, but I will never question that misconception out loud. I heard from some old sleazy cat woman that a man did that one time and, two days later, was infested with rabies. Dricker sure had some high levels of insanity and chaos here; it's a wonder why I even stuck around this long.
Derby neighed in annoyance for I don't know what number of time, but whining wasn't going to stop me from pulling him up to that bar. We were the earliest to get there by the looks of it. Good ole Jaxin, always being a step ahead of the game. I didn't look like a team player though. For starters, I had no hat; just a head full of tousled, cacao colored hair that was stringy with morning dew. How dew happened to get on my hair, it's a wonder to me, but it was there. I didn't wear the usual button-up get-up I usually dressed in. Most of my good clothes was in the bag hanging next to Derby's ass. I settled with a light blue tee and some kind of denim. It didn't matter which kind. Just Denim.
"Early ale is the best ale, yeah?" I lifted my head up to put on a smile for the Chuck Rocken. That man had more mood swings the a woman in heat on a 103 degree day with no water. You had to be careful with that one. He wasn't as uptight as Big Paul was, but Big Paul didn't own ale. Sure, money is a little more valuable than an ale shop, but imagine if Big Paul didn't have a dime to his name. Would you be more uptight about cool, dark ale or some horse feed?
Yeah, I thought so too.
"I wish I could getta tall one, Rock," I replied, while we both slapped each other's shoulders before pulling away to not be borderline bromance. "I could use one, too. Ya know how hard it is packin' at the crack of dawn witha mare who don't know his own ass from a hole in the groun'?"
"I suspect it be much like you and yer finances,"he retorted back. "They're both retarded."
"Hey, now!" Derby even huffed at that one. Rocken coughed, laughed, and spit out something brown that would have made Derby chuck him right in his balls if it landed on his hooves. The horse was not retarded, and neither was my finances! They were both...sensitive, is all. It didn't matter to me one way or the other, turning away from the man to check the straps of my bag tied around Derby's muscled hips. I heard the distant trotting of another horse behind me. Rocken heard it to.
"Another one of ya comin' this early in the morn'? Suspicious actin', that is."
"Oh, calm yourself, Rock. It's a party!"
"I don' wan' no party up in my pup."
"In your what, now?" He didn't bother answering. He just gave glaring eyes towards those that rode up to the shop.
"Hope y'all got money, waltzin up to my shop lookin' like tumbleweed!" Like I said, the man has a terrible mood swings.
Me, personally, I don't do well with either. Mornings never cut it for me, never really have. I think it's all a misunderstanding about the time of day. I always seemed to have to wake up to get ready to do something, and, once I do it, I have nothing to do for the rest of the day. Why is it that, soon after I sleep, I have to do some kind of work? I never understood that yet I have always requested for something to be done at dawn.
It was my own fault that Derby nearly trampled my toes into molasses that morning when I hustled him over to the corner of Birchwike and Pinton street, the corner of Old Rocken's Pup. I always take a gander up at the sign, pulling my lips into a confused frown. I always thought they misspelled the word 'Pub' and put 'Pup' in the title in its place, but I will never question that misconception out loud. I heard from some old sleazy cat woman that a man did that one time and, two days later, was infested with rabies. Dricker sure had some high levels of insanity and chaos here; it's a wonder why I even stuck around this long.
Derby neighed in annoyance for I don't know what number of time, but whining wasn't going to stop me from pulling him up to that bar. We were the earliest to get there by the looks of it. Good ole Jaxin, always being a step ahead of the game. I didn't look like a team player though. For starters, I had no hat; just a head full of tousled, cacao colored hair that was stringy with morning dew. How dew happened to get on my hair, it's a wonder to me, but it was there. I didn't wear the usual button-up get-up I usually dressed in. Most of my good clothes was in the bag hanging next to Derby's ass. I settled with a light blue tee and some kind of denim. It didn't matter which kind. Just Denim.
"Early ale is the best ale, yeah?" I lifted my head up to put on a smile for the Chuck Rocken. That man had more mood swings the a woman in heat on a 103 degree day with no water. You had to be careful with that one. He wasn't as uptight as Big Paul was, but Big Paul didn't own ale. Sure, money is a little more valuable than an ale shop, but imagine if Big Paul didn't have a dime to his name. Would you be more uptight about cool, dark ale or some horse feed?
Yeah, I thought so too.
"I wish I could getta tall one, Rock," I replied, while we both slapped each other's shoulders before pulling away to not be borderline bromance. "I could use one, too. Ya know how hard it is packin' at the crack of dawn witha mare who don't know his own ass from a hole in the groun'?"
"I suspect it be much like you and yer finances,"he retorted back. "They're both retarded."
"Hey, now!" Derby even huffed at that one. Rocken coughed, laughed, and spit out something brown that would have made Derby chuck him right in his balls if it landed on his hooves. The horse was not retarded, and neither was my finances! They were both...sensitive, is all. It didn't matter to me one way or the other, turning away from the man to check the straps of my bag tied around Derby's muscled hips. I heard the distant trotting of another horse behind me. Rocken heard it to.
"Another one of ya comin' this early in the morn'? Suspicious actin', that is."
"Oh, calm yourself, Rock. It's a party!"
"I don' wan' no party up in my pup."
"In your what, now?" He didn't bother answering. He just gave glaring eyes towards those that rode up to the shop.
"Hope y'all got money, waltzin up to my shop lookin' like tumbleweed!" Like I said, the man has a terrible mood swings.