all jobs is bad

[mossbuds]

Who: Lars and whoever! OPENNN
What: Rampant mundanity.
Where: Around the carnival; rides and food court specifically; then his own trailer!
When: Mid day, dusk, and early evening
Warnings: Lars's potty mouth.

---

on shift; mid day
Lars leans back against the box that operates the ride he's stationed at—carefully, so as to not accidentally bump any knobs or whatever, but enough to take some pressure off his feet. He stares dully into the distance, feeling like his brain is going numb. And despite that, he still manages to look surly, his brows knit together.

This is only his second day on this job, as he'd racked up a handsome debt—one be was tempted to just bail on, because this carnival was clearly weird, sketchy supernatural bullshit. But it was clearly more fucked than he'd originally anticipated, so Lars was not eager to find out what would happen to him if he he didn't repay the debt (plus, the thought of home was too humiliating right now). He'd probably be cursed, he decided. People were freaky around this place—especially the other carnival workers, which he hadn't put a lot of thought into. Until today, really, during this long lull.

Groaning, Lars rolls his head wayyy back, his chin facing the sky as his posture melts backwards against the console, one of his feet slipping forward as he sinks—oblivious to any recent approachers, absorbed as he is in his own angst. Why did all this lame spooky crap always happen to him?

after work; dusk
Somehow, this job was even more boring than what he did at home. Even if he and his coworker in Beach City weren't always super talkative, even just having some company made it a little more bearable... Of course, sometimes they would flirt and goof off, which was also super helpful. Here, he couldn't even get any reception on his phone to pass the time—he would probably have to resort to reading a book like some kinda friggin' uncivilized caveman. Anyway, the drole of it all had Lars totally beat. He sits, hunched over one of the tables in the food court or the carnival, barely able to tuck his knees under it. He apathetically eats whatever garbage he'd purchased.

Once finished, he balls up the foil and greasy paper and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. This, of course, unfortunately bops your character on the head. Wrong place, wrong time.

at "home"; evening - closed to Kadin
With needlessly dramatic flourish, Lars throws open the door to their trailer. "Ugh!!"

Somewhat clumsily, Lars attempts to heel off his right hi-top sneaker. He stumbles, growls, and gains balance by flattening his palm against the wall near the door. "This place sucks!! Watchin' paint dry would be funner than takin' tickets, watchin' all those weirdos waddlin' around..."

Lars honestly doesn't even know if Kadin is home, when he enters; the yelling just kind of happens immediately. A natural reflex.

Comments

swaddles you

[faking]

Through the scowl and all of it, Alois smiles. His smile is small and practiced, but it looks sweet on his face. He isn't smirking, at least. But, because he's such a liar, he lowers his eyes in a way that seems demure, when Lars looks at him head on.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says on the edge of a laugh— "Or, well, maybe I did. But come on, like any coveys you've ever met are really..." Now he is smirking, just a little, and his voice goes sing-song. "O-kay. You don't seem such a cake, so you ought to know that, I'm sure."

Teen angst plus the pessimism of one too worldly for his age, basically.

[mossbuds]

Lars slumps forward further, his posture worsening as he melts down the bench petulantly.

"Yeah, well, I ain't no liarmouth."

Total lie. Or, okay, partial lie. He is an avid denier of his own feelings, especially when put on the spot—but he does less direct shitty lying to people to manipulate them and...garbage like that. But, it's still bullshit regardless.

"I at least have the decency t'not pretend to be—" Lars lifts his hands to do airquotes. "—cake."

[faking]

"Oh, you think it's decent, do you." If Alois still feels any sympathy—well, he does—regardless, he's doing his own liarmouth thing, shuffling it aside in favor of acid-tinged playtime. He makes a V-sign with one of his hands, loose and casual, and waves it lazily at his own side. "Do, do, please do teach us some of that decency, I think most of us are a little bit lacking."

[mossbuds]

Lars scoffs, rolling his eyes. His closest friend—and... lover? sometimes??—was also guilty of forcing herself to be nicer than she really was. Plenty of people did it. Things were simpler without the pretense, he thinks.

"Yeah, right, and you can be my teaching assistant—cuz there clearly ain't nothin' for me to teach you."

[faking]

Alois, by now, is more comfortable with this topic: how shitty people are, in whatever way, and how shitty he is as well. Things come easier to him in a conversation like this. If he can insist that everyone else is lying about whatever they want, he is perfectly justified in all his own lies as well.

So, like this, he seems more pleasant, more pleased in his own skin (which is a lie on its own; his own skin is terrible, so far as he sees it). There's nothing strained in his face, no surface tension, while he crooks his knee and taps the toe of his boot against the ground, hands folded behind his back in mock dainty manner.

"Of course, I am quite decent, and lovely, and wonderful. Anyone would tell you so." He laughs. "Well, it might depend on who you ask." Meaning: he hasn't found it easy to make friends.