savetheearth | MOVE, BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY

There is no hope for the likes of you-- those who carelessly listen to music while navigating dangerous streets (all streets are dangerous). There is no hope and only metal-wheeled justice piloted by a teenager who is texting while driving. He is the righteous retribution you deserve. He is the woman at the call center who pretends she can't hear you when you call to demand a refund for a diet product that was supposed to be free but resulted in a $70 charge to your credit card. He is the vengeance, he is the fury, and he is currently backing into Avery with his car.

Whoops.

His first thought: where is Crab? Crab is in the backseat, safe from car wheels.

His second thought: his dad is going to murder him.

His third thought: what the fuck was that?

His fourth thought: his dad is going to murder him.

He puts the car in break and gets out to see that, wow, he just hit some chick.

"Oh my fucking god, are you dead?!" Probably not the wisest thing to ask.

For a moment she just lays on her back, staring at the sky, mulling over the fact that this actually just happened. Avery slaps a hand over her face and, upon finding no blood, slides her hand down to rest on her chest. Mostly nothing hurts, and she revels in the moment until she pats at her chest again and pauses before the absence hits her.

"Shit! Oh, fuck!" Jumping up, she squints her pathetically weak eyes at the road in desperate search of the designer yellow RayBans that her sister bought her for her eighteenth birthday. The glasses are nowhere to be found and there is a short scruffy kid screaming at her. In her great despair she rounds on the sorry motherfucker. "Dude. Ever fucking heard of looking where you're going?

"Wait!" she screeches, flapping her hands to stop him moving. "My shades are somewhere, you might step on them. Swear to god, if you hit them with your shitty car--" She staggers a little, and only then realizes that her left arm's been skinned by the blacktop and there's a fat drop of blood running down her elbow.

He only obeys the "wait!" command long enough to take a breath and assess the situation. By "assess the situation," I mean Karson sees the blood and instantly feels sick to his stomach (red red red red unnatural red but it's not his own)-- it's that revulsion that propels him to move, to approach the girl to make she she's not internally dying or anything.

Unfortunately, even with his somewhat decent intentions, his reward is a CRACK as he crushes the shit out of those fancypantsy sunglasses. With all the dread of a man getting an accurate reading as to how he'll die, he picks up those poor, forlorn shades and just as poor and forlornly, delivers them to Avery.

"Uh. Sorry? A-Are you going to be okay? I think I might have band-aids and shit in my car?" The upward inflection in his voice is only surpassed by men reaching puberty while trying to sing in a boy choir.

"Oh my fuck. Oh my fuck, you fucking asshole-- You just-- Those were a fucking birthday present, you fucking cow!" She snatches the ruined glasses out of his hands furiously and inspects them, despair written all over her face. One of the lenses is scratched up and embedded with grit, and the other is straight up shattered, punctuated by a twisted arm and a split in the frame where his careless horrible foot came down upon it. She has no idea if her warranty will cover this. Fuck.

Her rage unleashes, turning on the kid in front of her, ignorant to his obvious emotional struggle. "Do you fucking know the meaning of don't move? Did you think I was joking? Did you think it was a fucking suggestion?" Avery gives a firm shake of her arms, hoping to somehow visually convey her frustration, and some of the blood rapidly welling up in her wound flicks off her skin in Karson's direction.

Karson can only feel guilty for running over someone for so long. There are limits to his good emotions and a never-ending cesspool filled with his bad. He has tapped out the good limits, reached his quota, has appeased Stalin and his five year plan of mass producing Soviet euphoria through introducing vodka to the tap, and he is really to dive straight into every wisp of fury he has ever produced.

gotta dodge like a little girl out of the way of blood splatters first. dodge dodge dodge yo

It's almost astounding how quickly his face shapes itself into a mask of ire.

"I thought it was the stuttered gasps of your failing sanity, since you're obviously in no condition to be issuing coherent demands! You're fucking BLEEDING?! Did you notice this?! Or were you too busy fretting over those shittyass hipster glasses? Or maybe you were too busy IGNORING A GIANT FUCKING CAR MOVING AT 5 MILES PER HOUR SLOWLY INCHING IN YOUR DIRECTION?! Because I'm betting it's the goddamn latter. Now, do you want some band-aids or not? I'm not the motherfucking RED CROSS here-- I'm not going to force my aid on you and ruin your joke of an internalized market!"

Without waiting for a response, he charges back to the trunk of his car, pops it open, fishes out some tiny, cartoon band-aids, and throws them at her. Since they're made of paper, they don't actually make it very far.

It's good Karson moves out of range, because otherwise she might have actually lunged forward and strangled him. Not that it wouldn't have been particularly effective - she's got less muscle strength than a newborn on narcotics. "Dude, it's a fucking scrape--these glasses were over a hundred dollars! You gonna pay for this shit if my warranty doesn't cover them?"

The bandaids flutter halfway between them and Avery doesn't even notice. "Five miles an hour in what reality? You had to be pushing twenty-five, I-- God, where even is my fucking board? If you broke that too, I'm suing you.

"Shit, what am I saying? I should sue you." She jabs a finger in his direction menacingly.

"If you sue me, I swear to God, I will get back in my car and run you the fuck over. For real, this time." He picks up the band-aids again and throws them from a bit closer after balling them up. This time, they reach their target. It's only then he realizes he just issued a straight up death threat.

"...Wait, that was a death threat. Shit, okay, hold on." Give him a second, just gotta think, okay we're good.

"If you sue me, my whole family will be out on the streets, and I'll probably starve to death or get killed in gang violence, which'll cause me to haunt your scrawny ass until the end of your days." There we go-- more accurate.

Edited 2013-07-17 17:50 (UTC)

"Fuck your stupid afterlife delusions--God doesn't exist, and neither do ghosts. There. I have nothing to worry about other than your fucking death threats, and I can totally use that in a lawsuit, bee-tee-dubs. Yeah, didn't fucking think about that, did you, asshole?"

Casting the bandaids aside again, Avery stomps down the road to collect her skateboard, which she inspects cautiously all the way back. The blood has crusted over her wrist and elbow, and the blood is coming more sluggishly now. She's so angry that she hasn't considered cleaning out any of the grit still embedded in the injury, which will probably suck a lot later when she gets around to it. "You better pray to your nonexistent ruler of the afterlife that my board isn't damaged. I will legit sue you for repairs. You don't understand how expensive this was."

advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond advance or abscond

ABSCOND: She'll have enough time to see his license plate number. His car doesn't start up right half the time. He'll have to legitimately run over her to get out of this parking lot.

ADVANCE: Every word he says is another grave he's dug himself.

Advance of abscond?

> ADVANCE

"Maybe you shouldn't waltz around with expensiveass shit all the time, hmmm? I feel like that would solve the vast majority of your problems! It'd also solve the whole suing thing, because, plot twist, you can't sue people for damages that amount to less than 200$."

Edited 2013-07-18 07:52 (UTC)

She is not going to punch him in the face.

She is not going to punch him in the face.

She is not going to punch him in the fucking stupid ass horrible awful slimy fucking face, and when she does (not hit him) she is not going to celebrate the sight of his stupid face covered in blood like the fucker deserves.

Avery genuinely does resist hitting him, because she's never hit anyone hard enough to make them bleed in her entire life, and starting now is probably a bad idea. Especially considering she'd probably fail miserably and be really fucking embarrassed. Instead, she turns her lips down and folds her arms, careful around her destroyed glasses and the board under one of her arms. "That isn't a problem, actually, because you might not know this, but these fucking glasses were one hundred and sixty dollars, and the board was one-thirty with at least one hundred dollars of modifications and customization going into it.

"Considering my RayBans will probably have to be replaced, I can sue you for hitting me with your fucking car and the additional costs of whatever damage has been done to my glasses and my board. Plus therapy costs for the obvious emotional trauma of having my shit wrecked by some irresponsible little douchebag." Avery has no actual clue about the legal specifics involved with the situation but this sure as hell doesn't stop her from spewing it.

> ABSCOND
> ABSCOND
> ABSCOND

He physically cowers when she starts mentioning the costs. Like, we're talking taking a step or two back, and cringing. He then actively takes three more steps back to his car without taking his horror-stricken eyes off Avery.

> FUCKING ABSCOND ALREADY

Avery re-arranges the items in her arms, carefully tucking her glasses into the pocket of her button-up before looking back to her unlikely assailant.

He looks like someone is holding a gun to his face.

Well, damn.

(He also looks like he's about to try to escape and fuck no, her sympathy does not extend that far.) Avery jerks forward to grab his wrist with her free hand, preventing him from running away. "Don't even fucking think about it. Your license plate number is right there. You will never get away without me memorizing it." He doesn't need to know that her vision is shit and it'll be hard for her to actually see the letters in the dark--and rapidly growing darker. "And then you'll get arrested for a hit and run."

He stares at her hand like a salmon stares at the bear about to rip its face off. Asshole mode; disengaged. Now entering full-on panic mode.

“I’ll—I’ll move to Mexico! You can’t sue people in Mexico! You’ll never fucking find me, and I’ll join a drug cartel, and I’ll be above the law.”

"Just try! I bet you can't even afford enough gas to get across the country, and I bet your parents would have some amber alert shit all up in your business before you could even get out of Locke City."

She doesn't let go of his arm, continuing to frown at him as she adds, "Also, the chances of you joining a drug cartel and not getting killed and bleeding out while someone fucks you through the nose hole are practically nonexistent."

All of those things are incredibly accurate, and considering Karson's obsession with the fact that he will die in gang violence, he has thought of this end for himself.

"I'll go north. Join Hell's Angels. I'll go by foot too, to increase my badass factor." Tug tug let go wow tug.

Avery doesn't smile, but she does loosen her grip. "They'd never take you.

"Now go get your insurance information or I'm calling the cops." She finally pulls her hand away and just. Scowls at him. Her jaw is set and she's ready to beat him half to death with her board if he tries to escape. Damage to her board or not, she figures that would be more successful than actually punching him.

Tug tug tug tug wow look he's getting desperate now.

"Wh-What if, I mean, okay, I could just give you money? Oh god, I can't afford my insurance going up-- I-- I-- I have $20 in tips from tonight-- fucking take it. I'll give you more later; I'm not giving you my insurance, no fucking way, jesus Christ, no, no." He takes his other hand, shoves it in his pocket, and quickly fishes out 20$ entirely in ones. He then thrusts it at her.

"Fucking take it, you crazy bitch!"

Scoffing, Avery steps away from the handful of bills. A couple of them fall from his hand and land on the ground, probably joining the bandaids somewhere. She pays them about equivalent levels of concern. "Dude, I'm not taking your fucking tip money. If you wanted me to feel sorry for you, being a raging cocksore wasn't a good fucking way to do it, but now we're going to do this by the book.

"Put your cash away and get me your insurance. I swear to god, I'm not joking about calling the cops."

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone, unlocking it quickly. "You've got like, two minutes." And then she makes a show of bending to squint at his license plate.

He scoots, putting himself between her and his license plate.

"No, fucking no! You're not getting my goddamn insurance! Plot twist-- you might get your money from harms, but I'll be paying it off for the next seven goddamn years! I'll have more money in a week, so how about you cool your shit, DON'T CALL THE GODDAMN POLICE, and take my shittyass tip money!"

It is literally painful to see money hit the ground, but he'll make a dive for it later. He's too busy getting angry again. Emotions are hard.

"Wrong answer."

Dull, multi-tonal beeps ring out from her android's shitty speaker as Avery starts dialing the local police department. She doesn't really want to sound the bugle on the kid, but she's hoping to psych him out enough to get him to cooperate. With her glasses broken, her board needing close inspection, and her fucking pride more injured than a fat biker after a particularly steep hill, she has a taste for some good old motherfucking vengeance. She doesn't even care if his fucking payments go up.

It's his goddamn fault for not looking where he's driving and then trying to blame her for it.

Right?

HE MAKES A DIVE FOR THAT FUCKING PHONE GONNA WRASTLE YOU FOR IT BITCH

What the fucking fuck.

Avery leans back, scrabbling away from him as he lunges at her. "You're fucking crazy!" Legitimately freaked out, she swings her hand at him, not realizing it's the one still holding her phone, as her other hand still has her board tucked protectively under her arm. The hard plastic cover of the phone slams into his face, and she feels the pressure of his nose buckling under the swing.

Horrified, she continues to jerk away, this time clutching her phone to her chest and hoping there's no blood on it. She comforts herself by noting she didn't hear a crack of anything breaking, but oh fuck, she just hit a guy, this wasn't in the fucking plan-- she fumbles to turn her screen back on and finish dialing the number to the police station, but her hands are shaking.

"OW--" He tumbles backwards, landing on his ass with all the elegance of a shotgun. His face contorts in absolute fury for a millisecond before crumbling as Karson quickly covers his nose and checks if it's bleeding.

Spoiler: it is. Not much, but just seeing the bright red spots on his fingers is enough.

He doesn't even realize that she's trying to dial the police or that she's shaking or any sort of terror she might be experiencing because HE JUST FUCKING JUMPED HER. Oh no. Nope, no, nope. He's too busy letting out an embarrassing and incredibly wet SOB. And then another. And another. And then his whole body is wracking in panic, and he can't catch his breath because words are spilling out of his mouth, and all of them are incoherent.

"No, no, fuck, oh god, no, I'm sorry, I-I-I-'m sorry, I'm so sorry, please, no, no, no, oh god, oh man, oh man, oh man, oh god, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I can't, I'm so stupid, I'm the stupidest thing that ever--" Shallow gasp for breath, "nothing I've ever done is good, and I'll never amount to anything, and I'll die in GANG VIOLENCE, and, and, oh, god god why, oh why god, it's, no, no, I--no, no, please no, no don't" etc.

Her thumb stops over the dial button.

It's bad enough that he's bleeding, and that he fell on the ground and started crying, but the litany of self deprecation gets to her in a bad way. Okay, so maybe she should have been nicer, and since she didn't get injured she really doesn't need his insurance-- shit, he's just a kid, probably younger than her, maybe he only just learned to drive. And here she's supposed to be an adult while intentionally terrifying some little asshole because she's mad he accidentally stepped on her glasses.

Fuck, oh fuck. If she calls the police now she's going to feel bad, and what if he gets in a huge amount of trouble? Shit. A pair of sunglasses isn't worth messing someone's life up...

Guilt seeps in through all of her corners and Avery kind of squints at the kid uncomfortably. He's surrounded by fallen dollar bills like the saddest stripper ever, crying on the pavement with a bloody nose. Avery slowly puts her phone away and pulls out a crumpled tissue instead.

"Shit, I-- fuck, um." She squirms, immediately and violently uncomfortable. "Don't do that, crying, please stop, um." Stooping, she kind of forces the tissue against one of his hands and then distances herself and begins collecting the scattered bills, straightening them into a stack and hoping none of them blew away. She uses this as a distraction to avoid talking for a second, and it's only when all of the money is gathered up that she looks back at the hysterical kid and winces. "Hey, hey look, okay-- Maybe, we don't need insurance, okay? Here, just take your, fucking--" Figuring his hands are busy, she jams the pile of dollar bills under one of his shoes, pinning them down to the pavement.

Fumbling her phone back out of her pocket, Avery crouches and fiddles with it, staring intensely at the screen. "Why don't you just give me your phone number and I'll get a receipt for the cost of damage to my stuff and we'll call it even, okay? Is that okay?" Please fucking stop crying omg.

He's trapped in a terrible positive feedback loop that is only second to teen pregnancy and death by cyanide. In fact, he'd prefer teen pregnancy to this shit right now, even if it would ruin his job as the most depressing stripper in the world. Cyanide... Well, he could probably go with cyanide. A lot of famous people and coolass spies have died that way; it's a noble way to go.

Karson's blood phobia is in full swing, which is causing him to cry-- the fact that his tears are colored by his blood only makes him cry harder. By this point, his chest is constricting, which isn't helped by Karson curling in on himself, trying to hide his entire face from view. He only takes the tissue once her attention's moved elsewhere, and he does his best to wipe at his face in the cramped space behind his knees. He might stand a chance if he wasn't spending all his spare breaths of air on desperately trying to explain, in the most incoherent manner imaginable, how his entire life is characterized by failure. There's a lot of detail about how he's never done anything meaningful and that he sucks at the French Horn and how no one likes him at school or at home and nothing he will ever do will make his dad proud and Ron Paul never answers his letters and how he's tired of debt and how he doesn't want to go to college and he doesn't want to take the SAT/ACT and how real life is going to tear him apart and

and

and

and he just sneaks a hand out from his little safe zone, grabs his phone from his back pocket, and slides it to her before retreating back into his metaphorical crab shell. There's no number lock on it-- it won't be hard to find his phone number in it. His phone number and a ridiculous sum of pcitures of his dog doing cute things.

Lighting up the screen reveals a, surprise surprise, picture of his dog. Avery scrunches her nose and unlocks the phone, revealing -- half of a text screen, from when he was presumably texting while he was driving and rammed into her.

Fucker.

She clicks to the main screen and finds his contacts and puts her number in under D. Avery, then sends herself a text reading 'It is me. I am the douchebag who hit you with my car.' Except with a few typos because she's not a fucking saint and touchscreen keyboards fucking suck. Her phone bursts out with a tinny rendition of Crazy In Love and she shuffles the ridiculously expensive pieces of technology casually in her hands because she's not fucking ambidextrous, as cool as that would be. "What's your name?" she asks shortly, clicking on the unknown number to add it to her contacts.

STILL. SOBBING. More incoherently than before, if that was even possible. Despite this, he manages to break out a-- "K-K-K-K-Karson." Which is followed by a "my dad is going to stab the shit out of me oh god."

Which is then followed by a "I don't want to dieeeeee"

Which is then followed by even more bawling.

Ooookay. Dads stabbing and professions of potential demise... should she be calling child protective services or something? Maybe he's just... joking. Right.

Uneasily, Avery types in his name, and mumbles, "Last name?" Like hell he's getting out of here without giving her his full name.

He really. Really. Really. Doesn't want to tell her. He really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really doesn't want to tell her. She'll probably report him to the police, and the police will murder him, and if they don't, his dad will, and if his dad doesn't, Karson will probably murder himself.

But he can't get out of this situation without doing it, so he just takes a deep breath, shouts:

"VALENTI" into his arms, and then proceeds to hyperventilate.

"Holy fuck."

Okay.

Avery types it in as quickly as possible and then shoves his phone back at him, unease written all over her face. She picks her board and her ruined glasses back up and balances them on her knees.

"Hey, so...

"We're good here, I guess."

Please please please stop crying holy shit.

No.

"C-Can I," hiccup. Welp, guess who just started hiccuping from crying? This guy. Right here. His life literally cannot get worse. But he tries to fight through the hiccups; he tries to be the champ.

"Can I go now." Is about all he can get out before more hiccups and sobs.

Wince. Oh my God, this kid needs help. "Yeah, sure, I'm not your mom, but like-- should you really be driving, when you're, uh, crying that hard?" Wince wince.

Man she wishes her glasses weren't shattered at her side.

"Do you want me to call someone? Like, for help? Do you need an inhaler or something."

"N-No, oh god, no, no, no one, don't call anyone, oh god, oh--" HICCUP. SOB. HICCUP. He curls more into himself, if that was even possible. Honestly, at this point, he's just going to climb in his car and cry shitty pink tears everywhere.

Avery holds her hands out defensively, wobbling a little to keep her board from slipping off her knees and causing any more damage. "Hey, whoa, shit, shit, stop--

"I didn't mean like the cops or your dad or anything, but like, a friend, or the ambulance, your therapist--shit, kid..."

Maybe she should go. She's pretty sure he'll be fine, sitting in the middle of an empty driveway sobbing in a ball. Yeah, totally.

"Just go." Wailed. Hiccup hiccup.

... "Okay."

And so she stands up and despite feeling kind of like a jerk, she shoves her board back under her arm and cradles her ruined glasses in her hand and starts off down the street at a very dismal walk, now that she is wheel-less.

And he continues sobbing all over everything for the next hour and a half.

The end.

MOVE, BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY

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