Circumstantial flummery from a would-be spoonbean hustler.

Untitled Fuller Interlude

She should have known better. Hell, if she were honest, she did know better, but George had gotten bored of the calm, comfortable routine that seemed to settle over the group after Desmond’s departure. And the fact of the matter was that nothing bred self-destruction like boredom. So, if she was being honest, George knew better than to walk into Der Waffle Haus in disheveled, blood-stained business wear fresh from the day’s reap. Knowing better hardly did much to squelch the impulse though and because it had been, in George’s opinion, her reaping personal best. And she was gonna fucking enjoy it, goddammit.

“Jesus fucking christ.” Roxy said as she slide into the booth.

“Heh, George, you’ve uh, got some red on you.”

“Funny, Mason. You rip off some poor geek’s DVDs?”

“Shit, just sit on down for the whole damn world to see.”

“Pretend I’m a perp.”

Mason snatches a cold fry off of Roxy’s plate and sneers, “She doesn’t work homicide, George. Conflict of interest.”

“Shut the fuck up. Can we get our post-its now, or you gonna fucking make a speech?”

George jerked her head slightly to the left, as if almost to listen to the empty seat in the booth. Rube’s old seat. This little habit had annoyed Roxy when she first started doing it, until Roxy realized George didn’t even realize she was doing it. Besides, George seemed to have the credentials behind her now, and she hadn’t fucked up a single moment since.

George tugged the notebook from her bag. Worn brown leather secured with a rubber band. Rube’s notebook. Hell, he wasn’t using it anymore, so big fucking deal, she held on to it. It had everything to do with utility and absolutely nothing to do with sentiment. There were just some things you didn’t want to program into a blackberry, you know? Shit.