"…An' that's how I found out Skwisgaar has a latex fetish," the wiry redhead concluded.
The bemused bespectacled brunet watched as he finished his short, convoluted tale with an overly generous gesture, and the brandy in the silver flask he was drinking from sloshed out and onto the upholstery.
"Shouldn't you be a little careful? This…is Murderface's birthday car, after all."
"Aah, it's fine. 'Sides, he hardly ever drives it anymore, since Toki 'n that clown took it fer a joyride."
Ofdensen accepted the flask and made a noise of agreement into the mouth of it as he drank. He looked down at his own sock-clad feet, where they rested on the car's crimson velour-upholstered backseat. He sat on the convertible's back end, suit coat hanging open and shirt half-unbuttoned and tie apparently missing-in-action.
Said purloined article of clothing was currently tied around the scrawny redheaded drummer's head like a bandanna. Said scrawny redheaded drummer had let the Murdermobile's passenger seat all the way back and was sprawled over it, half in and half-out if the backseat. The drummer was shirtless, and wearing only a pair of scrubby black jeans, and the stolen tie.
The car was parked in the back of Mordhaus' jet-hangar-sized garage, and they were utterly alone; the rest of the band was currently engaged in a heated game of Find the Toki Before He Eats Himself Into Another Sugar-Coma after he'd found and raided the Mordhaus stash.
"I…still find it hard to believe that Skwisgaar has a MySpace."
"Aw, why nat? C'man, dood, how do ya think 'e keeps such a steady chain a' groupies in his bed? Dood gets 'em ta sign up on his page." Pickles snickered and thumbed his alcohol-pinkened nose. "Dood's gat, like, a hundred-page waiting list."
Ofdensenhad to smile a little, at this. He said, "I…didn't think he knew how to operate a computer. Or what the Internet was, much less how to get on it."
Pickles grinned at him upside-down, his head lolled over the seat's back. He handed the flask to Ofdensen under-handed.
"Ya never did answer my question there, Chief."
Ofdensen, caught off-guard in mid-drag off the flask, swallowed and raised his eyebrows in question.
"About tha' Internet. C'man, work with me here, gahd."
" 'What…is…the Internet?' Wasn't that your question?"
"Yeah. So what is it?"
"Every computer—or at least, most of them—in the world, all interconnected, a pure feed of raw information, crossing oceans, spanning continents."
"And a lotta porn. Can't forget tha' porn."
Ofdensen smirked and leaned back against the car carefully, and regarded the ceiling, where the gutted shell of a jet Toki had bought hung suspended from chains.
"Well, Pickles, depending on who you talk to…porn is information. Maybe not the…right kind of information—"
"Okey, okey. So…like…tha' Internet's like, tha' effin' fountain a' all knowledge."
Ofdensen had drunk enough of the expensive brandy to be feeling sufficiently 'smiley', even in the face of such a glaring error as that. He sighed a little, smiled a little wider, and took another pull off the flask before handing it back to Pickles.
"Yes, Pickles."
"Okey. So, y'know how they always say Gahd's, like, all-knowing?"
"Where…are…you going with this, Pickles?"
"Tha' Internet, dood! It's like Gahd!"
Ofdensen was too pleasantly liquored to contest that point. In fact, he even understood it, after a faction. But before the drummer could come to any more absurd conclusions, he leaned down and kissed him.