Wafflish

My Way 8

Hiya, I hope you had a great weekend. 🥰 Here’s part 8, as promised…

 

My Way

10 Joe

 

 

 

“What’s tickled you, Mr McBadass?” Joe blinked, befuddled when Mac let rip a sudden snort of laughter. 

“Nothing…” he groaned, shaking his head. The more he tried to suppress it, the more his shoulders quaked.

Ooh, why do folk even bother saying that? It was most frustrating. If they were that particular about keeping their jollies to themselves, then why not just say ‘mind your own bloomin business, you pokey-nosed parker’? Nothing? Nothing ain’t never nothing; it’s impossible to think nothing. It’s a contradiction in terms…Mac had to be thinking something, to find it funny.. 

Nothing = No thinking = Doesnae incite a lot of titters.

Joe’s tongue was a smidge too busy squatting like a blubbery beached whale to wrap around so many syllables. All floppy ‘n’ flaccid. The same could not be said for Joe’s cock. That scamp had scarce had a sit down since the bad-ass came-a-calling.

“Fibber.” There. A tangle-free summation of the situation. Excellent.

“It was merely a fleeting thought…” Mac chuckled.

“So it was something, not ‘nothing’ at all…make your mind up. I’ve got a bee in my barnet now and the whale will be miffed.”

“Where’d you get the whale from?” Mac asked, looking at Joe as if he was a lunatic.

“Where d’think I got it from, you nutter…the Gobi Desert?” They’d sent Joe a madman. “Stop changing the subject. You still haven’t told me what was so snickersome.”

“Christ, you never let anything go, do you?” he groaned.

“Nope. So y’might as well cough up. Call it a time-saving tip,” Joe advised.

“F’fucksakes,” Mac sighed. “When Vince—”

“Vince…?”

“My Agent. When Vince offered me the gig, he rather portentously announced your name. To which I—in my infinite wisdom—retorted: ‘Who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald?’ An enquiry that suddenly struck me as the most ridiculous sentence I’d ever uttered.” Mac rolled his eyes with another fulsome sigh. “I sure as hell know now.” 

“Google could’ve saved you a drive…“ 

“It didn’t…as you can see,” Mac smirked.

“I would’ve never pegged you as a masochist. As well.” 

“I prefer to think of it as being partial to a challenge…” the scoundrel corrected him.

“Hm…” Joe narrowed his eyes to a suspicious squint. “I reckon you’d clean up in one of those Japanese endurance shows…” 

“Same difference,” Mac shrugged. If he believed that, Joe had a bridge going cheap.

Same difference. Thinking nothing. You’re full of contradictions that cancel one another out…” Joe noted.

Deflections that tripped from Mac’s lips whenever Joe came close to scratching that Teflon surface. Rather than respond, those glinty greens regarded him with a wolfish gleam beyond a sly as a fox squinch. If that double whammy was the summit of Mac’s zoomorphic talents, Joe might just get a wink o’sleep. He wouldn’t have to watch ol’ panther hips slink across the room to get into the bloomin bed for a start. The bed? Joe’s bed. 

In truth (still being the order of the day an’ all), if it could be classed as a predator, Mac prob’ly had it covered. Telling him that would no doubt inspire a sharky smirk of satisfaction, so Joe didn’t. A secret truth wasn’t a fib. On that particular subject…

“Half o’the stuff you read was so embellished I barely remember being there. If I’m so much as papped mid-blink, it’s ‘Junkie-Joe out on a bender again’”

“And the other half…?” Mac arched a lofty eyebrow. 

“Is perhaps…a tad true,” he confessed.

“In the ‘tad pregnant’ sort of sense? You do seem to…blink rather regularly,” Mac snickered.

“Shurrup. It’s a good job I have you to ensure I keep my blinks to myself then, isn’t it?” Joe sniffed.

“Ah, I can only do that if you allow me to insert the matchsticks…” Mr Snake-In-The-Grass asserted.

“Humph. That doesn’t sound very fun. It would be far more efficient to take my mind off blinking. That would work a treat.” 

“And how, pray tell, might I achieve this miracle?” The scoundrel’s sagacity had acquired McYoda gravitas by this point.

“One might achieve this miracle more easily than one suspects, Mr Mac, if one were so inclined.“

“You are the most manipulative monster I’ve ever met, Mr Fitzgerald.”

“And you are the most slippery scoundrel on Earth.” Joe parried. “Stalemate sucks rocks.”

“Speaking of which…you could do with a bath.” Mac informed him. 

“Damn cheek, I had one!” 

“Was there snow on the ground?” Snape-on-Steroids enquired.

“I can’t remember,” Joe admitted. “Do I have to?”

“No…let’s just say, it would be an act of generosity.” Mac smirked.

“Crikey, when you go visiting, do you run your finger across the mantelpiece and open the windows, too?”

“Only if it stinks,” the scoundrel snorted.

“Oooh. Fine.” Joe huffed. “This is like having my mum come to stay. You’ll be feeding me up next.” 

“It has crossed my mind. When did you last eat?”

“I had some crunchy-nutters earlier, I’m not hungry. Not for food, at least…” 

Quelle surprise.” If Mac-the-knife’s blade was as sharp as his snark, no wonder he’d been dubbed the meanest mo-fo on earth. Or thereabouts.

“D’you intend to park yourself on the loo seat while I’m taking a bath too?” Joe asked, a mite curious to know if he’d be allowed to do anything on his lonesome.

“I hadn’t thought beyond the reek…odd that. Surely you don’t need another fix, already?”

“Not particularly, but I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to one.” This truth-telling lark was getting out of hand. “It was just a question.”

“Do I need to sit there? Straight up, don’t forget.” Mac speared him with a hawkish stare. 

“Oh bugger. Probably. Happy?” Joe huffed.

“No. I’d be ‘happy’ if you’d said ‘no, I’m alright for a bit, thanks’, but aye, I’m glad you were honest. Can you stand up yet?”

“‘Course I can, I’m not a lightweight.”

“C’mon then,” Mac instructed, uncrossing his legs and clasping the arms of the chair to lever himself to his feet. The man was a melody of movement, as potent as ’twas predatory. 

“‘Kay, I just need to scribble something down first.” Joe had felt fit for nought but nodding-off, half an hour ago. Now he sprang from his seat, almost as swift as the words babbling through his brain. Blimey... He stood, blinking for a mo, a bit bewildered. His head had been bereft of words for so long, he’d almost forgotten how it felt. How exhilarating it was when they flowed, like a ripple of ribbon in the wind. The last few—fucknows—had been a wasteland. An arid desert; desolate, parched of poetry. 

Then ol’ panther hips came prowling in, as sinuous as y’please with his serpentine spine and lickety-spit wit….and there was a bloomin’ blizzard afoot. A snowstorm of simile, metaphor and rhyme. Joe could scarce see beyond it…or the surefire cause, boiling his blood.

Mr McBad-ass ‘n’ Dangerous to Joe. 

 

***

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