Slashed Tires Chapter 23
A/N: A little sappy and strange. This chapter tried something else, since I need to wrap it up soon. Did more than one person's story. Anyway, the little ~ sign means that it's a different place and possibly, time than what was previously written. But y'all probably knew that already and I'm just being annoying and blithering on and on about - okay I'm stopping.
P.S. It's really long.
P.P.S. It's a little boring in places. Sorry.
~
Soda flipped himself over yet again, catching himself on the edge of the bed just in time. Frustrated, he punched the pillow beneath him. His bed had never been so uncomfortable. He sat up, squinting in the darkened room at his clock. Four-thirty a.m. And he hadn't slept a wink. Giving up of the idea of sleeping, Soda untangled himself from the sweaty pile of sheets on his bed. He tugged the cord dangling in the middle of the room, once, twice, three times. Swearing through gritted teeth, Soda gave the cord a good yank. It pulled off with a snap, and golden light flooded the room. Tossing the piece of string into a corner, Soda picked up a book. He read four sentences before throwing it down in defeat. He hated reading. He dropped down in the chair next to the old wood desk he and Ponyboy shared. Picking up a pencil, he made a small attempt to draw a person. A person with light, longish hair, and dreamy eyes. A small, but well built person. A person with a slight smile on
his lips and a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. Soda stared at his drawing, his pencil pressing firmly on the spot where the person's straight nose would have gone. Despite his lack of artistic talent, he'd managed to recreate the one person whom he was trying not to worry about. The pencil broke under the tension, slicing a heavy dark grey line over Ponyboy's non-existent nose. Soda swore. He crumpled the paper and threw the pencil viciously across the room. He hated drawing. His gaze landed on a pile of laundry on the far corner. He could fold laundry.
"I hate laundry," Soda said loudly. He scowled at the pile of jeans and T-shirts, then vindictively flipped it off. "I hate you, you stupid grey T-shirt," Soda hissed, raising himself off the chair. He stomped over to the motionless pile of cloth. "And you, you damn, dumb sock. All you socks! I hate you all." He picked up the offensive garment, considering ripping it apart with his teeth. Some distant, functioning part of his brain pondered the amusing fact that `sock' was only one letter away from `Soc'. His eyes fell on a pair of jeans, too small to be his own. `Hate you jeans,' he thought as he picked them up, wanting to hurl them across the room for no reason whatsoever. The material was heavy in his hands; they were good quality pants. The label caught Soda's eye. The bright blue stitching of the company name was interrupted by sloppy, dark, curling thread. Soda leaned his head to the side, straining his eyes to see the message: a large, wobbly-looking `PC'. Ponyboy
Curtis. Soda sat down slowly on the bed, the jeans still in his grasp. These were no ordinary pants. They were Ponyboy's favourite jeans. Soda could remember buying them with him in some second hand department store, just a couple months ago. They had no rips, no stains. They seemed almost brand new. And Ponyboy had been so happy to find a pair of jeans that actually fit him well. He didn't even have to use a belt. Soda wondered whether his brother would ever get to wear them again. He clutched the pair of jeans to him, his throat feeling scratchy, the way it always did before he cried.
"Stop it," he told himself sternly. "It's only a pair of jeans."
`But they're Pony's jeans,' a little voice in him said. And then suddenly the tears had welled up in his eyes, and they were spilling over, down his cheeks, tracing patterns across the pale skin. And he was making strange noises, little pants and whimpers that threatened to turn into full-blown sobs. Soda buried his face in his brother's jeans, trying to muffle the noise of him crying. His throat hurt and his head pounded as he tried to hold it in. Then he felt a hand gently rubbing his back. Soda didn't bother to look up. He leaned to the side where he knew Darry would be.
Darry stroked his younger brother's hair, saying nothing. He'd been awake all night, wondering, worrying. He'd almost managed to drift off when he heard Sodapop saying that he hated laundry. He'd watched, silent from the doorway as his brother stormed through the room, hatefully insulting his clothes. Now he held the younger boy, letting him cry and trying not to himself.
They stayed that way, motionless for what seemed to be hours, Soda crying, Darry saying nothing. He said nothing while Soda sobbed hard into his shirt, drenching it with tears and misery. He said nothing when the boy's crying had dwindled to small hiccups, the tears dripping slowly and silently off the end of his nose. He said nothing when his brother began to speak, the words stumbling out of his mouth, explanations and fears and hopes. He said nothing, even, when Soda told him in his quiet, sad voice about Sandy, and how he'd wanted to marry her so bad, even now, when she'd left him. And how it felt like she'd torn a hole in his heart and how sometimes he thought he'd just die if he didn't see either Sandy or Ponyboy in the next three seconds. He said nothing and didn't cry one single tear (though he clung to his brother with the same desperation as Soda did to him). And when Soda finally fell asleep, he silently got dressed and made himself breakfast and headed off to
work. Never once on his way to work did he stop and just cry and allow himself to wonder if Ponyboy was really all right where he was (and was he eating alright? Was he warm enough? The nights got cold this time of year). He kept that promise that he'd made to himself all those years ago. And Darry stayed strong.
~
Soda woke, hearing birds, and feeling the sun shining on his face. For all accounts it should have been a happy day, with such good warm weather. But all he felt was a sort of emptiness. He felt lighter, and he didn't want to cry anymore. But he didn't feel himself. He wandered around to the kitchen, picking things up and putting them back down again. Soda sat down wearily on a kitchen chair resting his head in his arms. He didn't even flinch when the screen door slammed.
"Hey man." Steve sounded bored. "See you got your chair fixed."
Soda turned his head to look at his friend. "Yeah, Darry threatened to tell Two-Bit that his position as wise-cracker was being threatened if Dallas didn't glue this chair back together."
Steve raised his eyebrows. "And that worked?"
Soda tried to grin but failed miserably. "Well, then, Darry flexed his muscles some, too." Steve laughed.
Soda closed his eyes, wishing he were still asleep. His stomach rumbled but he didn't feel like making himself breakfast.
"You alright?" Steve asked worriedly. "You don't look so good. Your eyes got circles under `em, and your skin is all yellowy-"
"Leave off," Soda grumbled into his arm.
"And you're breaking out too, you never break out. Soda, is something wrong-"
"Yeah, something's wrong, you're pissing me off!" Soda yelled, jerking his head off the table. "I said `leave off' and I meant it!"
Steve was quiet. "Jesus," he said finally. "You're getting to sound more like Dallas every day." Soda said nothing. Steve looked away.
The two stayed silent. Steve began to twitch impatiently, his fingers drumming on the kitchen table. Soda stared at his fingers watching them move so fast they blurred together. It looked a little like Steve had twenty fingers.
Steve sighed. "I didn't mean nothin' by it Soda-"
"I know," Soda said softly.
"I just wondered if you were okay."
Soda smiled slightly. "I know. I'm sorry Steve, I just-" He held his hands up helplessly.
"You're worried about Ponyboy," Steve guessed. Soda nodded.
"Yeah," Soda sighed gustily.
"There's something else," Steve said suddenly. "Isn't there?"
"Yeah," Soda got up from his seat feeling like he weighed a million pounds. He stumbled to the fridge, reached in and grabbed the chocolate milk, which he drank straight from the carton.
"Sandy's what's bothering you," Steve said knowingly.
"Yeah."
"Listen Soda, you know where she is."
"Yeah."
"You love her."
"YEAH."
"You should write to her."
Soda stopped. He turned quickly to face Steve.
"It's easier than driving down there, and I know you wanted to," Steve added. Soda shook his head; Steve knew him too well.
"Maybe I will," he mused quietly.
"It's a good idea. I'm all for it!" Steve said enthusiastically.
"I kinda got that bit," Soda replied dryly. He reached for an apple. "Smells like Two-Bit," he said absently and Steve laughed. Soda grinned back. He felt better already. `Why didn't I just talk to him in the first place?' he wondered, mentally kicking himself.
"I'm still wondering about Pony though." For some reason it was easier to think about his brother with Steve than it was when he was alone. Less emotional.
"Well, seeing as Dally's the only one who knows anything about them-"
"Dally's not saying nothing."
"Well, if you keep bugging him, he might just get fed up and tell you." Soda bit into the apple. Steve had a point.
"Can't hurt to try," Steve coaxed.
"True," Soda said reluctantly.
"Good. Glad you agree. I'm guessing you aren't going to work, since you're about," he checked his watch, "three hours late. So let's go then?"
"Where're we going?" Two-Bit's asked cheerfully, poking his head in through the screen door. Soda jumped.
"How long you been there?" he demanded.
"Ah, who cares. Let's go man," Steve was bouncing from one foot to the other, anxious to get out and do something.
Soda rolled his eyes. "A little impatient are we?"
"Very," Steve agreed.
~
"So this is where he sleeps."
Two-Bit's voice cut through his fogged mind. "Ughh," Dally groaned, protesting the intrusion. He'd been having a nice dream. Something about Cherry, and that little red car of hers...
"Glory! He looks about thirteen when he's asleep," Dally rolled off the park bench, fully awake now.
"I do NOT look thirteen Two-Bit Matthews. I never looked thirteen," Dally growled. Two-Bit smiled complacently.
"I think you do. Don't you think so Steve?" Steve gave him a quick smile but didn't respond; in his opinion, Two-Bit was flirting with death, and Steve wasn't about to join in that.
"Dallas. We need to talk." Soda sat down on the bench. "I need to know where Ponyboy is," he said seriously.
"So you've said," Dally replied tiredly. "And every time you ask if I'll tell you, what's my answer?"
"`No.'"
"Yeah, an' Soda, that has not changed."
"Dallas, I need to know if he's okay. Come on, be a pal." Dally groaned inwardly. Soda was pleading with him. God, it made him feel sick. He was on the verge of giving in, just to stop Soda from whining.
"Look," he said finally. "I'm planning on visiting them. I'll find out for ya how they are. I'll tell `em anything you want to tell `em. But I'm not telling you where they are." Dallas folded his arms across his chest, his words ringing with finality.
"You really are a stupid, stubborn prick aren't you," Steve said flatly. Dally's eyes narrowed and Steve instantly regretted saying anything.
"I have my reasons Steve Randle," he hissed. He stood. "And I'm hungry. I ain't staying around here no more." Dallas pushed passed Two-Bit and headed down the street digging in his pocket for money he didn't have. He swore quietly, realizing that he needed cash, and soon.
"Where do you think you're going?" Two-Bit clattered down the street behind him.
"Get food, like I said," Dally replied rounding the corner. Broke as he was, Dally had two choices: steal a meal, or search through some dumpster for anything edible.
"I don't think you should eat today," Two-Bit replied as they rounded a corner. "The diner's garbage can's ain't lookin' too appealing-"
The two greasers stopped short. Not ten feet in front of them, a small group of Socs stood, laughing and talking. Dally's eyes narrowed, recognizing the sandy haired Soc who'd flipped him off at the council. The Soc turned, tossing aside his cigarette. Then he froze, his eye catching Dally's. The boy straightened slowly, smirking.
"Well, well, well. It's the smart mouthed greaser," the Soc said loudly. His friends turned, catching sight of Two-Bit and Dallas.
"What's going on?" Two-Bit murmured. Dally shook his head.
"What - cat got your tongue?" The Soc was slowly advancing. Dally moved forward, tensing his muscles.
"What the fuck do you want?" he demanded. The Soc's mouth curled into a sneer. He spat contemptuously in the greaser's direction.
"A town without trash like you, that's what," the Soc snapped. Without missing a beat Dallas launched himself at the taller boy, kicking him down, his hands grabbing at the boy's jacket. Then someone was wrenching him away, and the Soc was backing up.
"You alright Tommy?" Another Soc was glaring hatefully at Dallas. Dally bared his teeth back at him.
Two-Bit smacked him in the head. "Whatsamatter with you? No fightin' afore a rumble remember?" Dally said nothing. He gazed through slit eyes at the Socs as they passed, mumbling angry words. Once they were gone he turned back to Two-Bit, grinning.
"Guess what I got!" Dallas waved the Soc' wallet proudly at the other greaser. Two-Bit let out a shout of laughter.
"Goddamn! I got me a protégé." He gave Dally's head a hard rub. Dallas snorted.
"I ain't your protégé."
"Naw, but you're spouting jokes, and stealing shit all over the place. That sounds like me."
"Whatever," Dally mumbled. He crouched at the edge of the sidewalk, examining his prize. There was the usual: driver's license, library card...and money.
"Holy hell Dallas!" Two-Bit was peering over his shoulder. "That's one fucking rich Soc you just robbed." Dally smirked, tucking the wad of cash carefully into his pocket.
"Well he WAS rich." He tossed the now significantly lighter wallet down on the sidewalk; he had no use for the rest of the crap in there.
"Tell you what Two-Bit." Dallas stood, stretching like a cat. "I'll buy ya breakfast if you leave me alone after it." Shrugging, Two-Bit clapped a hand down on Dally's shoulder.
"Anything for food," he replied happily.
A/N: A little sappy and strange. This chapter tried something else, since I need to wrap it up soon. Did more than one person's story. Anyway, the little ~ sign means that it's a different place and possibly, time than what was previously written. But y'all probably knew that already and I'm just being annoying and blithering on and on about - okay I'm stopping.
P.S. It's really long.
P.P.S. It's a little boring in places. Sorry.
~
Soda flipped himself over yet again, catching himself on the edge of the bed just in time. Frustrated, he punched the pillow beneath him. His bed had never been so uncomfortable. He sat up, squinting in the darkened room at his clock. Four-thirty a.m. And he hadn't slept a wink. Giving up of the idea of sleeping, Soda untangled himself from the sweaty pile of sheets on his bed. He tugged the cord dangling in the middle of the room, once, twice, three times. Swearing through gritted teeth, Soda gave the cord a good yank. It pulled off with a snap, and golden light flooded the room. Tossing the piece of string into a corner, Soda picked up a book. He read four sentences before throwing it down in defeat. He hated reading. He dropped down in the chair next to the old wood desk he and Ponyboy shared. Picking up a pencil, he made a small attempt to draw a person. A person with light, longish hair, and dreamy eyes. A small, but well built person. A person with a slight smile on
his lips and a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. Soda stared at his drawing, his pencil pressing firmly on the spot where the person's straight nose would have gone. Despite his lack of artistic talent, he'd managed to recreate the one person whom he was trying not to worry about. The pencil broke under the tension, slicing a heavy dark grey line over Ponyboy's non-existent nose. Soda swore. He crumpled the paper and threw the pencil viciously across the room. He hated drawing. His gaze landed on a pile of laundry on the far corner. He could fold laundry.
"I hate laundry," Soda said loudly. He scowled at the pile of jeans and T-shirts, then vindictively flipped it off. "I hate you, you stupid grey T-shirt," Soda hissed, raising himself off the chair. He stomped over to the motionless pile of cloth. "And you, you damn, dumb sock. All you socks! I hate you all." He picked up the offensive garment, considering ripping it apart with his teeth. Some distant, functioning part of his brain pondered the amusing fact that `sock' was only one letter away from `Soc'. His eyes fell on a pair of jeans, too small to be his own. `Hate you jeans,' he thought as he picked them up, wanting to hurl them across the room for no reason whatsoever. The material was heavy in his hands; they were good quality pants. The label caught Soda's eye. The bright blue stitching of the company name was interrupted by sloppy, dark, curling thread. Soda leaned his head to the side, straining his eyes to see the message: a large, wobbly-looking `PC'. Ponyboy
Curtis. Soda sat down slowly on the bed, the jeans still in his grasp. These were no ordinary pants. They were Ponyboy's favourite jeans. Soda could remember buying them with him in some second hand department store, just a couple months ago. They had no rips, no stains. They seemed almost brand new. And Ponyboy had been so happy to find a pair of jeans that actually fit him well. He didn't even have to use a belt. Soda wondered whether his brother would ever get to wear them again. He clutched the pair of jeans to him, his throat feeling scratchy, the way it always did before he cried.
"Stop it," he told himself sternly. "It's only a pair of jeans."
`But they're Pony's jeans,' a little voice in him said. And then suddenly the tears had welled up in his eyes, and they were spilling over, down his cheeks, tracing patterns across the pale skin. And he was making strange noises, little pants and whimpers that threatened to turn into full-blown sobs. Soda buried his face in his brother's jeans, trying to muffle the noise of him crying. His throat hurt and his head pounded as he tried to hold it in. Then he felt a hand gently rubbing his back. Soda didn't bother to look up. He leaned to the side where he knew Darry would be.
Darry stroked his younger brother's hair, saying nothing. He'd been awake all night, wondering, worrying. He'd almost managed to drift off when he heard Sodapop saying that he hated laundry. He'd watched, silent from the doorway as his brother stormed through the room, hatefully insulting his clothes. Now he held the younger boy, letting him cry and trying not to himself.
They stayed that way, motionless for what seemed to be hours, Soda crying, Darry saying nothing. He said nothing while Soda sobbed hard into his shirt, drenching it with tears and misery. He said nothing when the boy's crying had dwindled to small hiccups, the tears dripping slowly and silently off the end of his nose. He said nothing when his brother began to speak, the words stumbling out of his mouth, explanations and fears and hopes. He said nothing, even, when Soda told him in his quiet, sad voice about Sandy, and how he'd wanted to marry her so bad, even now, when she'd left him. And how it felt like she'd torn a hole in his heart and how sometimes he thought he'd just die if he didn't see either Sandy or Ponyboy in the next three seconds. He said nothing and didn't cry one single tear (though he clung to his brother with the same desperation as Soda did to him). And when Soda finally fell asleep, he silently got dressed and made himself breakfast and headed off to
work. Never once on his way to work did he stop and just cry and allow himself to wonder if Ponyboy was really all right where he was (and was he eating alright? Was he warm enough? The nights got cold this time of year). He kept that promise that he'd made to himself all those years ago. And Darry stayed strong.
~
Soda woke, hearing birds, and feeling the sun shining on his face. For all accounts it should have been a happy day, with such good warm weather. But all he felt was a sort of emptiness. He felt lighter, and he didn't want to cry anymore. But he didn't feel himself. He wandered around to the kitchen, picking things up and putting them back down again. Soda sat down wearily on a kitchen chair resting his head in his arms. He didn't even flinch when the screen door slammed.
"Hey man." Steve sounded bored. "See you got your chair fixed."
Soda turned his head to look at his friend. "Yeah, Darry threatened to tell Two-Bit that his position as wise-cracker was being threatened if Dallas didn't glue this chair back together."
Steve raised his eyebrows. "And that worked?"
Soda tried to grin but failed miserably. "Well, then, Darry flexed his muscles some, too." Steve laughed.
Soda closed his eyes, wishing he were still asleep. His stomach rumbled but he didn't feel like making himself breakfast.
"You alright?" Steve asked worriedly. "You don't look so good. Your eyes got circles under `em, and your skin is all yellowy-"
"Leave off," Soda grumbled into his arm.
"And you're breaking out too, you never break out. Soda, is something wrong-"
"Yeah, something's wrong, you're pissing me off!" Soda yelled, jerking his head off the table. "I said `leave off' and I meant it!"
Steve was quiet. "Jesus," he said finally. "You're getting to sound more like Dallas every day." Soda said nothing. Steve looked away.
The two stayed silent. Steve began to twitch impatiently, his fingers drumming on the kitchen table. Soda stared at his fingers watching them move so fast they blurred together. It looked a little like Steve had twenty fingers.
Steve sighed. "I didn't mean nothin' by it Soda-"
"I know," Soda said softly.
"I just wondered if you were okay."
Soda smiled slightly. "I know. I'm sorry Steve, I just-" He held his hands up helplessly.
"You're worried about Ponyboy," Steve guessed. Soda nodded.
"Yeah," Soda sighed gustily.
"There's something else," Steve said suddenly. "Isn't there?"
"Yeah," Soda got up from his seat feeling like he weighed a million pounds. He stumbled to the fridge, reached in and grabbed the chocolate milk, which he drank straight from the carton.
"Sandy's what's bothering you," Steve said knowingly.
"Yeah."
"Listen Soda, you know where she is."
"Yeah."
"You love her."
"YEAH."
"You should write to her."
Soda stopped. He turned quickly to face Steve.
"It's easier than driving down there, and I know you wanted to," Steve added. Soda shook his head; Steve knew him too well.
"Maybe I will," he mused quietly.
"It's a good idea. I'm all for it!" Steve said enthusiastically.
"I kinda got that bit," Soda replied dryly. He reached for an apple. "Smells like Two-Bit," he said absently and Steve laughed. Soda grinned back. He felt better already. `Why didn't I just talk to him in the first place?' he wondered, mentally kicking himself.
"I'm still wondering about Pony though." For some reason it was easier to think about his brother with Steve than it was when he was alone. Less emotional.
"Well, seeing as Dally's the only one who knows anything about them-"
"Dally's not saying nothing."
"Well, if you keep bugging him, he might just get fed up and tell you." Soda bit into the apple. Steve had a point.
"Can't hurt to try," Steve coaxed.
"True," Soda said reluctantly.
"Good. Glad you agree. I'm guessing you aren't going to work, since you're about," he checked his watch, "three hours late. So let's go then?"
"Where're we going?" Two-Bit's asked cheerfully, poking his head in through the screen door. Soda jumped.
"How long you been there?" he demanded.
"Ah, who cares. Let's go man," Steve was bouncing from one foot to the other, anxious to get out and do something.
Soda rolled his eyes. "A little impatient are we?"
"Very," Steve agreed.
~
"So this is where he sleeps."
Two-Bit's voice cut through his fogged mind. "Ughh," Dally groaned, protesting the intrusion. He'd been having a nice dream. Something about Cherry, and that little red car of hers...
"Glory! He looks about thirteen when he's asleep," Dally rolled off the park bench, fully awake now.
"I do NOT look thirteen Two-Bit Matthews. I never looked thirteen," Dally growled. Two-Bit smiled complacently.
"I think you do. Don't you think so Steve?" Steve gave him a quick smile but didn't respond; in his opinion, Two-Bit was flirting with death, and Steve wasn't about to join in that.
"Dallas. We need to talk." Soda sat down on the bench. "I need to know where Ponyboy is," he said seriously.
"So you've said," Dally replied tiredly. "And every time you ask if I'll tell you, what's my answer?"
"`No.'"
"Yeah, an' Soda, that has not changed."
"Dallas, I need to know if he's okay. Come on, be a pal." Dally groaned inwardly. Soda was pleading with him. God, it made him feel sick. He was on the verge of giving in, just to stop Soda from whining.
"Look," he said finally. "I'm planning on visiting them. I'll find out for ya how they are. I'll tell `em anything you want to tell `em. But I'm not telling you where they are." Dallas folded his arms across his chest, his words ringing with finality.
"You really are a stupid, stubborn prick aren't you," Steve said flatly. Dally's eyes narrowed and Steve instantly regretted saying anything.
"I have my reasons Steve Randle," he hissed. He stood. "And I'm hungry. I ain't staying around here no more." Dallas pushed passed Two-Bit and headed down the street digging in his pocket for money he didn't have. He swore quietly, realizing that he needed cash, and soon.
"Where do you think you're going?" Two-Bit clattered down the street behind him.
"Get food, like I said," Dally replied rounding the corner. Broke as he was, Dally had two choices: steal a meal, or search through some dumpster for anything edible.
"I don't think you should eat today," Two-Bit replied as they rounded a corner. "The diner's garbage can's ain't lookin' too appealing-"
The two greasers stopped short. Not ten feet in front of them, a small group of Socs stood, laughing and talking. Dally's eyes narrowed, recognizing the sandy haired Soc who'd flipped him off at the council. The Soc turned, tossing aside his cigarette. Then he froze, his eye catching Dally's. The boy straightened slowly, smirking.
"Well, well, well. It's the smart mouthed greaser," the Soc said loudly. His friends turned, catching sight of Two-Bit and Dallas.
"What's going on?" Two-Bit murmured. Dally shook his head.
"What - cat got your tongue?" The Soc was slowly advancing. Dally moved forward, tensing his muscles.
"What the fuck do you want?" he demanded. The Soc's mouth curled into a sneer. He spat contemptuously in the greaser's direction.
"A town without trash like you, that's what," the Soc snapped. Without missing a beat Dallas launched himself at the taller boy, kicking him down, his hands grabbing at the boy's jacket. Then someone was wrenching him away, and the Soc was backing up.
"You alright Tommy?" Another Soc was glaring hatefully at Dallas. Dally bared his teeth back at him.
Two-Bit smacked him in the head. "Whatsamatter with you? No fightin' afore a rumble remember?" Dally said nothing. He gazed through slit eyes at the Socs as they passed, mumbling angry words. Once they were gone he turned back to Two-Bit, grinning.
"Guess what I got!" Dallas waved the Soc' wallet proudly at the other greaser. Two-Bit let out a shout of laughter.
"Goddamn! I got me a protégé." He gave Dally's head a hard rub. Dallas snorted.
"I ain't your protégé."
"Naw, but you're spouting jokes, and stealing shit all over the place. That sounds like me."
"Whatever," Dally mumbled. He crouched at the edge of the sidewalk, examining his prize. There was the usual: driver's license, library card...and money.
"Holy hell Dallas!" Two-Bit was peering over his shoulder. "That's one fucking rich Soc you just robbed." Dally smirked, tucking the wad of cash carefully into his pocket.
"Well he WAS rich." He tossed the now significantly lighter wallet down on the sidewalk; he had no use for the rest of the crap in there.
"Tell you what Two-Bit." Dallas stood, stretching like a cat. "I'll buy ya breakfast if you leave me alone after it." Shrugging, Two-Bit clapped a hand down on Dally's shoulder.
"Anything for food," he replied happily.