An author's rambles:
You know, maybe sane people consider it unhealthy to watch the same movie every day for a week. Hmm.
In other news, I'm giving some thought to attempting to write a chaptered story with at least a semi-meaningful plot. Though I doubt I would stay with it for terribly long. Drat me and my evil, procrastinating ways.
Matt's watching that goddamn movie again.
He's watched it at least once a week for the past two months, and frankly, it's getting old. It's gotten to the point where he's memorized at least a third of it. The days he doesn't watch it are spent quoting the protagonist incessantly, and every so often, Mello contemplates seizing the unoffending lamp that sits atop the living room table (which Matt has pushed aside in order to make room for the colorful array of snacks and booze he gathers on the floor in his apparent quest to pursue diabetes) and chucking it at him and possibly breaking his face with it.
And Mello admits that this logic is slightly flawed what with fact that Matt has gone so far as to actually purchase a Guy Fawkes mask and has been strutting about the apartment (which, coincidentally, is so tiny that to accomplish the feat of strutting is an extraordinary phenomenon in and of itself) with it pulled over his face, rendering any immediate attempts at face-breaking somewhat futile. He knows first-hand that the thing is virtually indestructible.
Mello concludes sagely that V for Vendetta is going to hell.
He enters the room just as the credits roll onscreen and finds Matt sprawled on the carpet, beer cans and chip bags littering the floor. His mustachioed mask lies before him, and after he glances up and Mello and clambers slowly to his feet, he dons the forsaken mask and clears his throat.
Mello knows the monologue that follows by heart.
"Voila!" Matt says exuberantly, faking a thick British accent. "In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate."
Mello marvels at how he enunciates each word with minimal slurring. If he didn't know any better, he would have never dreamed that the idiot had just downed a six pack and half a bottle of vodka.
"This veneer," Matt continues, gesturing to his mask so jerkily that he nearly stumbles. He straightens, trying for indignant and failing miserably. "This visage," he recovers, "no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished; a vital voice, once venerated, now vilified." Mello attempts to skewer him with his Look of Doom, but it proves fruitless.
Mello can't see his face, but he just knows that bastard's smirking triumphantly, and his fingers twitch. Been a while since they'd been wrapped around something. Like a trigger. Or maybe a throat.
"However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation now stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violent, vicious, and voracious violation of volition!" Matt says this part all very quickly, and Mello half expects him to physically trip due to the impressive speed with which he rants relentlessly.
Meanwhile, Matt struggles because he can't remember the rest.
"The only... the only verdict is vendetta... no... uh... vengeance... a vendetta held in votive... not in... vain?" Matt stares into space, groping for the decidedly obnoxious alliteration.
Mello resolves right then and there that if he hears Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture ever again, he will commit homicide armed with only a single stiletto.
A few moments of silence, and then:
"Stupid."
"Your face," Mello says cheerfully.
"What resilience," Matt comments sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Color me impressed." He hesitates, and then adds, "I meant it was a stupid way to die. He left Evey even though..." He trails off.
"He didn't die," Mello finally says. "Ideas don't die."
Matt takes off the mask and looks at him. "I could see you doing that." He shakes his head and sighs. "Arrogant dipshit."
"If you don't shut up right now, I'm going to kick nine kinds of living shit out of you," Mello remarks offhandedly, trying to scrape the wrappers and cans into a pile with his foot. Matt grins.
"I knew you read it, you passive-aggressive geek."
"I hope you enjoy having your skull knocked in."
"You wouldn't."
"You're right," Mello replies, picking at his cuticles idly. "But I can't wait to see what miracles that hangover holds in store for you." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. "And we have quite the abundance of pots and pans in the kitchen."
Matt giggles, collapses on the couch, and promptly falls asleep.
Mello smothers a smile and wastes no time in finding shaving cream and a Sharpie.
An author's conclusions:
Oh, AP classes. You do not make a student a particularly happy camper.
Why is summer halfway over already?!
Allstate commercials make me laugh.
Thank you for any feedback that you may provide, and remember that a revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having!