Post by Deleted on Nov 4, 2013 9:20:14 GMT
JULIUS DID A LOT OF THINGS IN HIS LIFE THAT WARRANTED THE LABEL OF DUMB, despite being a clever fellow who had done well academically in his school career, who had enough smarts to evade the crest of stupidity; he had a hardened fist in the gamble between right and wrong, and possessed what he thought to be a decent moral compass if his upbringing in a lawful family meant anything. The most essential asset he carried, though, was the driving force of ambition—which, too, was a double-edged sword. To say he would break a finger for an opportunity wouldn't be an exaggeration, if not true by the cast currently nurturing his fractured arm (from falling over a bike, he'd honestly explain, leaving out that it only took about, oh say, four or five tries at crashing against the pavement to finally hear a delectable crunch in his forearm). How far he was willing to go for the furthering of a strategy had always been a source of controversy among close company; you'd have to be a masochist if you're doing something just for that, they'd say, it's not worth the trouble. But if one asked him, a few bumps and bruises was worth the inconvenience if it meant scraping any more negative impact on the community from the streets and dumping them behind bars. Worth it, hummed the bespectacled cop, scribbling a mental reminder for his scheduled doctor's appointment (tomorrow, three in the afternoon on the dot) as he twisted his working hand around the lid of a pickle container, licking his upper lip, "Come on, baby," he groaned, "Open up for papa." Brows stitched together, and with his other arm compromised, he squeezed both his feet against the jar, locked on either side, even more tightly in place while he clumsily fumbled with the top without much success when every effort had his fingers slip, "... there we... ugh..." he sullenly stopped, digits reddened and sore upon examining them. Sucking onto his index finger to ease the burning sensation caused by the relentless friction, Julius looked over his shoulder while he buried his back into the couch cushion, pointing his eyes at the direction of the kitchen (where his companion probably was), "Viv! You busy back there? I think I may need to enlist the help of your macho arms, Tough and Tender, to help me open this fickle pickle jar!" He coiled back his attention, irises briefly passing a glance at the active television before deciding to reach for the remote stationary on the table across—and somehow, his feet accidentally kicked the pickle jar in the gesture. Reflexes a second too slow to capture the glass vessel, it was sent diving to the floor; the sound of shards shattered and scattered along with the dispersal of a sour odor emanating from the increasing puddle of pickle juice. Crud. "Uh, uh, nope—never mind, I'm- I'm good." he assured the only other person in the flat, and instead of grasping for the remote as he had originally intended, he stretched to the side for a box of tissues, violently pulling at its fabric sheets and dropping them onto the spilled scene, hoping to absorb the liquid quickly enough to prevent it from traveling further, "Just good." @viv here's the jules thread for youuu, bruhhh |
