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Put here to try and keep Joysweeper's Incoherent Idea Bank from overflowing.
Donny grinned, freckled face distorting above his immaculate white coat.
"Wings? Sparklies? Magic wands? Thas ''nothin'''. Getta loada ''this.''"
Snapping on one of the latex gloves that seemed to be produced without end
from his pockets, the boy uncovered the plastic bucket he was carrying, from
which came a variety of soft rustling sounds.
Donny plunged his hand in, the fluorescent light glinting off of his lenses
and the stethoscope around his neck. A series of sharp cries and a great
deal of frantic scrabbling erupted from the bucket, and when he pulled his
hand up he held some shredded paper and a pair of what looked like the same
kind of plastic army men that sold to boys by the millions. One was khaki,
the other green.
But they moved.
Donny only held them up for inspection for a few seconds before closing his
hand, but in those few seconds they kicked their legs and tried to back out
of his grasp. He dropped them carelessly back into the bucket and grinned
at his fellows as another series of sharp, muffled cries rang out.
"I foun' 'em over there-" and one latex-gloved hand waved vaguely in the
direction of the Con- "inside, 'fore things went wacky. There was
bjillions!"
One of his fellows, attired in blindingly red Nascar nomex that conformed
perfectly to his skinny frame, asked lispingly whether Donny'd been caught.
"Naah," he boasted. "I'm the bes' there is. 'F I don' wanna be caught, I
don' get caught." Puffing out his chest, Donny was about to continue the
boast when a harried-looking white-coated man came into the room, clipboard
in hand.
Immediately Donny straightened and went to the bewildered man, spouting
technical jargon about "moderate contusions" and suggesting a painkiller as
he lead the doctor and his peers away.
The bucket lay forgotten.
Ladies's restroom. Right. It had apparently had a door at one point, but
this had been removed. The gaping doorway, one hinge still attatched
forlornly near the ceiling, reminded me yet again just how lucky I had been
in choosing my costume. Hands and a bipedal stance... yes, very lucky.
I sidled in, passing a...seahorse thing... that was apparently having
trouble deciding if this was the right place to go. Despite a
not-completely-clean floor and a couple of cracked mirrors, and the
poisonously clean aroma of far too much cleanser in the air, this bathroom
was in relatively good condition. I refrained from looking at the stalls,
however. Not something I needed to see.
Oh, and I liked these impressions of Iron Man.
I have a crush on Captain America. I'm not sure when this started.
Donny grinned, freckled face distorting above his immaculate white coat.
"Wings? Sparklies? Magic wands? Thas ''nothin'''. Getta loada ''this.''"
Snapping on one of the latex gloves that seemed to be produced without end
from his pockets, the boy uncovered the plastic bucket he was carrying, from
which came a variety of soft rustling sounds.
Donny plunged his hand in, the fluorescent light glinting off of his lenses
and the stethoscope around his neck. A series of sharp cries and a great
deal of frantic scrabbling erupted from the bucket, and when he pulled his
hand up he held some shredded paper and a pair of what looked like the same
kind of plastic army men that sold to boys by the millions. One was khaki,
the other green.
But they moved.
Donny only held them up for inspection for a few seconds before closing his
hand, but in those few seconds they kicked their legs and tried to back out
of his grasp. He dropped them carelessly back into the bucket and grinned
at his fellows as another series of sharp, muffled cries rang out.
"I foun' 'em over there-" and one latex-gloved hand waved vaguely in the
direction of the Con- "inside, 'fore things went wacky. There was
bjillions!"
One of his fellows, attired in blindingly red Nascar nomex that conformed
perfectly to his skinny frame, asked lispingly whether Donny'd been caught.
"Naah," he boasted. "I'm the bes' there is. 'F I don' wanna be caught, I
don' get caught." Puffing out his chest, Donny was about to continue the
boast when a harried-looking white-coated man came into the room, clipboard
in hand.
Immediately Donny straightened and went to the bewildered man, spouting
technical jargon about "moderate contusions" and suggesting a painkiller as
he lead the doctor and his peers away.
The bucket lay forgotten.
Ladies's restroom. Right. It had apparently had a door at one point, but
this had been removed. The gaping doorway, one hinge still attatched
forlornly near the ceiling, reminded me yet again just how lucky I had been
in choosing my costume. Hands and a bipedal stance... yes, very lucky.
I sidled in, passing a...seahorse thing... that was apparently having
trouble deciding if this was the right place to go. Despite a
not-completely-clean floor and a couple of cracked mirrors, and the
poisonously clean aroma of far too much cleanser in the air, this bathroom
was in relatively good condition. I refrained from looking at the stalls,
however. Not something I needed to see.
Oh, and I liked these impressions of Iron Man.
I have a crush on Captain America. I'm not sure when this started.
