Talkin' That Smack {Frankie}

[MATAHARI PETROVA]

Tralalala. Work, work. Well--was it work if it was fun? It was something to do at least, rather than sit around on the old couch in the den of the Lost Boy's housing. She never really liked that couch; she was pretty sure there were millions of unsuccessful babies trapped in the confines of those old cushions. She tended to opt for sitting on the floor, or laying a clean sheet over the couch. She wasn't TOO picky with cleanliness, but Matahari tended to get a little uncomfortable when she heard the cries of millions of poor little spermazoas, choking out their last breath.

Not like she could actually hear it--wouldn't that be something? Either way, this time, it was a drop off. Two, tiny little secure packets tucked on the inside of her jacket. Her hands shoved into her pockets, trying to huddle up despite the cold. Her body ran at a warmer temperature than most--that that didn't mean she liked the frost that settled on her shoulders or crunched under her boots. Matahari moved with an ease; some people tended to walk suspiciously when they had illegal contraband on their person. A little paranoid, a little shifty. For the msot part, Matahari could smell and hear anything getting too close. And at the absolute worst, she could shift and get away. Though--her employers didn't exactly know that bit.

It made her good at what she needed to do--no. It made her excellent. A smile crossed over her lips as her high-set pigtails bumped along her shoulder. Wiggling her fingers into her pocket, she pulled out a small sheet of paper and opened it, glancing over the address. That address was hella familiar--oh for the love of. Lowering the paper, she looked up at the large complex. Lost Boys. Right back where she ended up.

Awesome. Though, her apartment was at the other end of the complex--the numbers were different. Shit--that meant someone in this building was shooting up. Awesome--well. As long as they didn't come storming into her building, everything would be peachy keen. Raising her fist, she knocked on the door on the paper, before shoving it back into her pocket.

With her other hand, she smoothed out her bands, checked her red-streaked pigtails and leaned in towards the peep hole. "Yo, I got some suga fo' yaz. Open the door, man. It's colder than a donkey's nut out here." Leaning back away from the peep hole she stared at it, as though she were staring into the soul of anyone on the other side.

She was told to look for a scruffy guy, by the name of Frankie. If it was anyone else, walk away. Walk. Away. Matahari sucked on her teeth for a moment in wait, before crinkling her nose. She could still taste last night's dinner beneath the taste of her mouth wash. Mm. Rabbit. Granted most of those irritating little rodents were hibernating for the winter. Same witht he squirrels. And most of the birds. Mata had to do most of her eating as a human--but it still made those nights she couldn't resist the moon become a bit of a bore.

Turning her back to the door for a moment, she unzipped her jacket slightly, and shook the water off her shoulders. The frost had melted, and she could feel it leaking through the thin jacket. Not cool, man. Not cool. It was already cold enough in the building with its busted heating. And screw walking outside again--not with the way the sky was glooming over. It was going to pour down gallons of snow, and even that short walk to the back of the building was not going to be fun at all. No--Matahari would sit in the hall, venture down to the den--or hey. Once this dork decided to open up the door, maybe she could chill out for a few. On a couch that hopefully didn't have millions of failed infants trapped within its cushion of lies.

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[FRANKIE VULPINI]

OUTFIT

According to sister dear, there were about fifteen hundred “better” things he could have been doing with his time, but the fact of the matter was simple; Frankie didn’t give two flying fucks what Princess Hannah thought he should be doing with his life. And just to prove that to her, he’d sit here on her couch and smoke each and every one of her cigarettes (stolen from her nightstand) until all that was left of her little vices were the ashes and ends he’d leave scattered about the apartment. And after that, he’d get high.

He was itching for it, too—real bad. He’d run out yesterday, couldn’t get word to Johnny in time, what with Hannah making so damn sure to watch his every move like the overbearing shrew she was growing up to be. He’d show her, though. There was always someone else, and Princess couldn’t stay in her castle all day, after all, not even with her little Rat of a watchdog trailing around. There was always time for a delivery. Whoever it was, though, they were late. No later than Frankie made a habitual point to be for anything important, but still enough to be fucking annoying when any hour now, someone far less welcome could walk through that door and see instantly just how bad he was jonesing. Nicotine only did so much, after all. Creeping was what he needed. Up from his toes, over his foot and along his leg until he could feel it in his fingertips. Or maybe straight from the forearm and down, back up again like some sort of divine icy hot Jesus shit he needed it bad.

Frankie scratched at his neck and took another breath of tobacco smoke, filling his lungs with the impending cancer. Hannah’d cry then, he bet. Drink herself silly with grief, maybe enough to forget all about him. A small part of him though maybe he’d like that. And anyway, the smokes were good. He had…three left to go before the pack was finished. Easy.

Hearing a knock at the door, Frankie jumped. His eyes widened and for a moment he tensed, listening for keys in the lock. Nothing. Just an obnoxious accent. So then, it was for him. Grinning, he put the cancer stick back in the ashtray and stood, running a hand through his hair before he went to the door. “Yeah, yeah, ‘m comin’…”

Brows raising upon sight of the girl behind the peephole, Frankie undid the deadbolt and opened the door slowly, looking every bit as scruffy as he’d promised the person answering the door would. “Aren't you a little…little for this?” he asked, Chicago accent shining through his skepticism.

[MATAHARI PETROVA]

Finally a voice, oh sweet serendipity a voice in this freezing cold hallway. The sound of the lock sliding out of place was a heavenly chorus to Matahari's sensitive ears--until the smell hit her like a bag of bricks. Smoke--lots of it. But not that papery dusty smell of fire-smoke; this was heavier and choking. Cigarettes--jesus. Did this guy smoke out the entire 7-Eleven during his weight? "Actually, I'll have you know I'm the ripe young age of nineteen, and big things come in small packages." Matahari ducked beneath the man's arm and slipped smoothly into the apartment where no one would see as she slid the zipper down on her jacket. "Especially this stuff--I mean. Holy crap it doesn't look like a lot." Sliding her jacket off her shoulders, she fished into the pocket and brought out two small plastic baggies--holding them between her fingers.

Shaking the bag at him, "Yo, I'm gonna kill the chill for a while. Because eff walking outside. It's gonna snow so hard it'll look like a Yeti just--" She paused and looked at the scruffy man, before tossing him the packages, "I ain't even gonna finish that. Because that would be lewd in polite company." Tossing her jacket onto the arm of the couch, she easily flopped onto it, resting one leg over the arm, and on top of her jacket, the other resting on the edge of the coffee table. "Wait--you are Frankie right? Cause if you aren't, I'mma have to ask for that back. But you look like a Frankie, so. I mean, whatever the deal, man." A dark brow lowered as the other raised, canting her head in almost a dog-like manner at him.

"Got anything to drink like..tequila. Or vodka. Rum would be good to kill a chill too." She sat up a little, glancing around the little apartment. She tried to sniff out the alcohol--but her senses were once more assaulted by the smoke. On any other day, she would have suggested that he opened a window. But opening a window would defeat the purpose of her actually seeking shelter in this stinky place. She cleared her throat, dried by the noxious fumes, and crinkles her nose. The back of her hand brushed at it before giving the apartment another once-over; comparing it to hers. Granted hers looked like one big room, with a dinky mattress in the corner, and an stove and oven to the side with a sink that groaned when you ran the water. This was more spacious, a little more private.

Matahari had been warned that there were two others known to this residence. So that explained a little more--but still. Lucky dogs. Stretching her skinny arms above her head, she then moved her leg from over the arm of the couch, and crossed it with her other. "Oh, yo. My name's Matahari, but that's a mouthfull of what-the-duck. You can call me Mata." Resting her elbow on the couch, she held her small hand out towards him. "I'm the new delivery chick. So, if you plan on doing that instead of gettin' it yourself, you'll prolly be seein my pretty little money-maker often." She flashed a toothy grin at Frankie that almost looked a little sarcastic in nature. She wasn't entirely thrilled about being called little--but she was. There was no denying that. No amount of heavy platforms and layers of clothes could change the fact that she was tiny. A right sized hand could probably wrap around her forearm, and two hands could probably encase her tiny waist.

"Hope you don't mind me chillin' out...well. Warmin' out. Cause it's warm in here, right? Geddit? God I'm a comedian." She mumbles under her breath; pale eyes still fixing Frankie with a permanent mischief.

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