07-05-2018, 05:51 PM
The smuggler's question was answered in short order, when with great suddenness, a very drunk Fremen girl sat down next to him and squinted at him intently with her solid blue eyes. Drake glanced over the edge of his datavice at her, his scraggly eyebrows piqued in modest curiosity.
"Wassup." he slurred.
She smiled widely, the breath tube of her stillsuit jiggling slightly as her ample dimples brushed against it.
"We want a song." she said assertively. Drake peered drunkenly past her at a small table of inebriated floozies, all dressed in the form-fitting leotards endemic to Fremen tribal lifestyle. Oh shit. And here he was without his dick.
...
...We'll get to that later. It was true, being that this was Drake's preferred watering hole, his reputation at the karaoke stand was something of a delightful facet of the local culture. He had mixed feelings about this. The smuggler really preferred to keep a low profile in all things, but no amount of pragmatism could suppress his love of attention. There was no other option.
He would have to publicly humiliate himself. With all the drunken grace of a functioning alcoholic, Oneir staggered his way onto he stage and grabbed the microphone with great authority. A few of the other regulars noticed him at this point, and a modest wave of applause echoed off of the walls. Kagumoo leaned against the wall with a wry smirk. Drake winked at her knowingly: she had that sort of intuition for mischief that all Gerudo shared. The smuggler cleared this throat and chose a song that did not deserve to be massacred, and began swaying back and forth as the opening strains of electronic keyboard filled the hall. An anticpatory silence oppressed the air as Drake took a breath. He proceeded to sing something completely off the top of his fucking head, and do it badly.
"Señor Douglas was born in 1974 in Mexico. Or was it Spain. They're both the same...and that's not very...very..." Drake trailed off, the alcohol bringing him clarity of emotional suicide for a brief moment. For the love of god.
"...very...funny." he slurred, allowing the refrain to take him for a few moments. The entire bar was silent. Drake began to sing(?) again.
"He was a piñata of sorts! A rainbow piñata of sorts. We all know that a piñata's blood is of candy." he said, pausing for gravitas.
"Many a day he would be cracked upside the head with a baseball bat, and children's birthday parties would eat him...Sí."
Another refrain. The air was still. He had to pee.
"But Señor Douglas was not ready to meet this fate." Drake shouted, holding up a finger for emphasis. "In fact, he had something up his...rainbow sleeve. And of course we know...what he's capable of. Sí." the inebriated jester cried, suddenly growing so animated that he fell over into a nearby chair. He kicked the damn thing off the small stage, his cybernetic legs reducing the furniture to its component timbers.
"Because that day, Señor Douglas was hung from a tree...as we know...his affirmation. His freedom!" Drake cried into the audient void. The garish pink lights glaring down on him highlighted a sweaty face as he began to gyrate his gaunt fame loathsomely. He let the escalating strains of Nancy Wilson's build-a-bear guitar licks do the talking for him. He softly asked the bar a question.
"When was it?"
There was a pause before Kagumoo shouted from the back of the bar.
"1974!"
Drake nodded vehemently.
"When was it?"
This time some more of the bar's patrons mumbled in response.
"1974."
"SEÑÑOOORRRRRR?!" Drake howled, pitching over backwards and entering a spasming sort of trance. More shitty guitar solos. More aimless thrashing.
"WHEN WAS IT?!" he pleaded from the floor, with all the urgency of a man asking after the condition of his mortally wounded wife.
"1974!" the crowd responded, growing more bold.
"WHEN. WAS. IT?!"
"1974!" the said, now shouting in reply. The music reached a fever pitch, and Drake remained silent as it passed, breathing very loudly into the microphone.
"When was it?" he asked, in a manner more akin to someone figuring out when a friend had been out to lunch. Before the crowd could respond, Drake slowly crawled off the stage, not entirely resembling a primordial fish dragging itself across a Devonian mudpit. He continued this until he crawled into the bathroom. Behind him, the bar erupted into furious applause.
God fucking dammit.
"Wassup." he slurred.
She smiled widely, the breath tube of her stillsuit jiggling slightly as her ample dimples brushed against it.
"We want a song." she said assertively. Drake peered drunkenly past her at a small table of inebriated floozies, all dressed in the form-fitting leotards endemic to Fremen tribal lifestyle. Oh shit. And here he was without his dick.
...
...We'll get to that later. It was true, being that this was Drake's preferred watering hole, his reputation at the karaoke stand was something of a delightful facet of the local culture. He had mixed feelings about this. The smuggler really preferred to keep a low profile in all things, but no amount of pragmatism could suppress his love of attention. There was no other option.
He would have to publicly humiliate himself. With all the drunken grace of a functioning alcoholic, Oneir staggered his way onto he stage and grabbed the microphone with great authority. A few of the other regulars noticed him at this point, and a modest wave of applause echoed off of the walls. Kagumoo leaned against the wall with a wry smirk. Drake winked at her knowingly: she had that sort of intuition for mischief that all Gerudo shared. The smuggler cleared this throat and chose a song that did not deserve to be massacred, and began swaying back and forth as the opening strains of electronic keyboard filled the hall. An anticpatory silence oppressed the air as Drake took a breath. He proceeded to sing something completely off the top of his fucking head, and do it badly.
"Señor Douglas was born in 1974 in Mexico. Or was it Spain. They're both the same...and that's not very...very..." Drake trailed off, the alcohol bringing him clarity of emotional suicide for a brief moment. For the love of god.
"...very...funny." he slurred, allowing the refrain to take him for a few moments. The entire bar was silent. Drake began to sing(?) again.
"He was a piñata of sorts! A rainbow piñata of sorts. We all know that a piñata's blood is of candy." he said, pausing for gravitas.
"Many a day he would be cracked upside the head with a baseball bat, and children's birthday parties would eat him...Sí."
Another refrain. The air was still. He had to pee.
"But Señor Douglas was not ready to meet this fate." Drake shouted, holding up a finger for emphasis. "In fact, he had something up his...rainbow sleeve. And of course we know...what he's capable of. Sí." the inebriated jester cried, suddenly growing so animated that he fell over into a nearby chair. He kicked the damn thing off the small stage, his cybernetic legs reducing the furniture to its component timbers.
"Because that day, Señor Douglas was hung from a tree...as we know...his affirmation. His freedom!" Drake cried into the audient void. The garish pink lights glaring down on him highlighted a sweaty face as he began to gyrate his gaunt fame loathsomely. He let the escalating strains of Nancy Wilson's build-a-bear guitar licks do the talking for him. He softly asked the bar a question.
"When was it?"
There was a pause before Kagumoo shouted from the back of the bar.
"1974!"
Drake nodded vehemently.
"When was it?"
This time some more of the bar's patrons mumbled in response.
"1974."
"SEÑÑOOORRRRRR?!" Drake howled, pitching over backwards and entering a spasming sort of trance. More shitty guitar solos. More aimless thrashing.
"WHEN WAS IT?!" he pleaded from the floor, with all the urgency of a man asking after the condition of his mortally wounded wife.
"1974!" the crowd responded, growing more bold.
"WHEN. WAS. IT?!"
"1974!" the said, now shouting in reply. The music reached a fever pitch, and Drake remained silent as it passed, breathing very loudly into the microphone.
"When was it?" he asked, in a manner more akin to someone figuring out when a friend had been out to lunch. Before the crowd could respond, Drake slowly crawled off the stage, not entirely resembling a primordial fish dragging itself across a Devonian mudpit. He continued this until he crawled into the bathroom. Behind him, the bar erupted into furious applause.
God fucking dammit.
![[Image: screen_shot_2018_02_16_at_4_33_57_pm_by_...c3dkog.png]](https://orig00.deviantart.net/883e/f/2018/047/1/d/screen_shot_2018_02_16_at_4_33_57_pm_by_tearen_and_zearen-dc3dkog.png)