Chapter six – Patronize me, captain
Shooter kicked open the door to the bedroom, Rainey standing behind him, carrying a plate and a glass. Mort had devastated the room; there was barely anything that hadn't been destroyed. Said writer was still unconscious and jerked awake, when the two men entered the room. His face was the essence of confusion and he accepted the plate Rainey handed him, setting it down on the night table, which threatened to topple. Shooter snatched the dish up, just as the wooden stand fell over, sending the remnants of the lamp crashing to the floor. Mort stared blankly at the ruined desk for a few moments, before a look of resigned realization crawled upon his face.
"Liana and …Smithy?" He said, pushing a few annoying strands of hair away from his mouth. Rainey leaned against the wall, looking at the fire poker which was embedded next to his head.
"You're a pain in the ass." Rainey commented, watching his double pick at the food Shooter handed him. Shooter was stoic, investigating the washroom carefully, his boots crunching on the glass littered linoleum.
"I'm really sorry…" Mort trailed, taking a tentative bite of the peanut butter sandwich. Rainey nodded, and glanced around the room, making a mental list of the repairs they needed to make. Mort had suggested hiring a maid once, after one of his particularly nasty destruction binges. Rainey had denied the suggestion immediately; one name was his reason.
"Shooter did kill Mrs. Garvey, right?" Mort asked, looking up from the plate he had on his lap. He felt like a small child, but figured a bit of patronization was expected, in his situation.
"Oh yes. Almost used the vacuum cleaner, but the shovel is much more practical." answered Rainey, pulling the fire prong out of the wall and using it as a cane. His tone was casual, the way one would discuss the weather, or the local sports team. Mort nodded and finished the sandwich, awkwardly balancing the half emptied dish on the mattress. It was the only thing in the room that was still intact, a small favor. Mort looked around the room and stood up, cursing as the milk spilled onto the mattress.
"It just gets worse doesn't it?" Mort mumbled, stepping over the toppled side table.
"When it comes to you, yes. Now, let's clean up, and then kill that bottle of Jack Daniel's."
"It's not even half empty yet." Mort replied, tossing the empty plastic bag out of the small garbage can. He would use it as a bucket for broken glass and there was a lot of it.
"It'll be negative half empty after I get my hands on it..." Rainey grumbled, grabbing the broom out from behind the armoire. Shooter was still in the washroom, making a pile from the glass, his boot a makeshift broom.
"This is going to take a while."
A/N: Negative half empty. Doesn't really make much sense. But that's why I like it. It's just like insult thing, "That's horrible." "Your face is horrible." Makes no sense, but it's fun anyways.
