Logs:Sriracha-lympics

Sriracha-lympics
Dramatis Personae Joshua, Roscoe
In Absentia	2024-07-10 "Don't you get sick of cleaning up our messes?"
Location <XAV> Back Patio - Xs Grounds
This patio is expertly laid out for relaxing singly or in groups. The section nearest the back door is a more or less conventional veranda, the mansion's eaves--supported by elegant white wooden columns joined with matching railings--extending out to shelter the long porch swings, rocking chairs, and a chess table from the elements. Down the stairs or the ramp from this is a fan-shaped expanse of slate flagstones populated by clusters of deck chairs and picnic tables, always changing in number and arrangement, and stone planter boxes bursting with seasonal flowers and ornamentals. The centerpiece is an elegant pavilion with a hot tub open for use year-round, even if the transition in and out may prove chilly in snowy weather. Today is warm and muggy even long after the sun has descended from its midday peak, and it's still bright even in the blurred edge between late afternoon and evening. Roscoe has dragged a deck chair into the shade for optimal lounging, in basketball shorts and a sleeveless red tee and a very low slouch, his legs stretched out in front of him. In one hand he is lazily flapping a promotional hand fan he got a week or so ago, which has a trans flag on one side and the JPMorgan Chase & Co logo on the other -- this is producing not much of a breeze, but it's the only breeze available. For some reason he is facing the mansion, and not the expansive views of the grounds, but then again for Roscoe this might not be a problem. He has a gallon-size Ziploc of homemade Chex mix, balanced on his stomach, which he is trying to eat by tossing it into the air to catch in his mouth. Joshua has been here a while, but mostly downstairs. A couple of sessions with a couple students, a training session of his own; he's showered and changed by the time he appears out here, duffel bag on one arm, kind of haphazardly pinning his black-flag-embroidered red kippah to his damp shaggy hair. He's dressed very blandly otherwise, jeans and well-worn sneakers and a plain grey tee. He slumps down into a nearby rocking chair, dropping his bag to the stones with a whumph. He's squinting over at Roscoe a moment before he leans down, digging in his bag until he pulls out a small weatherproof notebook and a sharpie, writing '5.5' in bold large text and holding it up like a scorecard. Roscoe is busy trying to catch a wasabi pea he just bounced off his cheek when Joshua appears -- his eyes widen and the wasabi pea goes straight through his grabby-hand fingers and bounces away down the chair, never to be seen again. This doesn't bother Roscoe; he grins at the scorecard and says, "Out of six, right?" Joshua's eyes track somewhat pointedly to the bouncing-away wasabi pea, head tilting exaggeratedly to the side to try and follow it until it disappears. "We can say six." He flips the notebook back closed and tucks it away again. The Sharpie stays in his hand, wiggling restlessly between forefinger and thumb. "Skosh more practice," he's holding his forefinger and thumb up a little bit apart, "before heading to. Chex mix-lympics." Slowly, Roscoe pulls his posture slightly less slouchy, pushes his hat up so it's no longer covering his eyes; the next handful of snack food he just funnels straight into his mouth, though then he extracts a little rice cracker and squints one eye, holding it like he's considering whether to throw it for Joshua to catch. "I find a good partner, I can compete in doubles Chex Mix," he says, then, "You all have a weird-ass workout regime. What are you training for." Joshua eyes the back of Chex Mix like he's considering whether to open his mouth. "What's in that?" He's tipping his chin towards the bag. "We use Kosher Chex Mix, I'll catch the shit out of some cereal." He's vaguely glancing back in the direction of the mansion, catching his Sharpie against a palm before he starts half-twirling it again. "Mmm. Haunted islands. Towns turning into dreamland. Cults that think mutants will turn them into gods." His shoulder hitches, languid. "The usual. Weird-ass list does keep expanding, though." "Uh," Roscoe frowns down at the Chex Mix, dropping his elbow onto the armrest and then letting his hand dangle down toward the ground. His eyebrows pinch apologetically down -- "Maybe better safe than sorry, we're a shrimp-loving people." He folds his arm back up to pop the cracker in his own mouth instead, nods through the crunch as though these are all perfectly unsurprising answers. "Alien hivemind," he adds, one side of his mouth pulling sideways in what could be either a grin or a grimace. His eyes flick away, back toward (past?) the mansion -- "Don't you get sick of cleaning up our messes?" "Alien hivemind," Joshua agrees, solemn. He considers the bag once more, and then holds up one finger. He vanishes -- -- but not for long, reappearing a half-minute later with a canister of sriracha peas in one hand. He pops the lid open, plucking one of the peas out and holding it up, brows raising. "Your -- shit, you invite the aliens?" He's squinting appraisingly at the distance between himself and Roscoe as he takes his seat again. Odds are probably not looking great but that isn't stopping him from hefting the pea and trying to line up his shot. "Do my job right, one day most of you will be able to clean up your own." Did Roscoe even notice Joshua disappearing? He is still staring straight ahead, and when his gaze ticks back to this framing he frowns, face pulling long even though nothing else in his posture shifts, not even the slow flutter of his Chase Bank fan. He's crunching his way through another handful of snack mix when Joshua reappears. First Roscoe shrugs, then he swallows his mouthful -- "I invited everybody else," he says. But his eyes press narrower with vague amusement as he sits up a little straighter, and opens his mouth. "Day was sunny. Mild. Zero aliens in the forecast when I woke up." Joshua squints just a little more, and plinks the pea in Roscoe's general direction. Not too far off but he's definitely Off, trajectory likely to bonk more on his cheek than actually get in his mouth. "Friends wanting to celebrate with you was -- not the stumbling block that day." Roscoe swerves his head a little too far, so the pea bounces off his other cheek instead, but he catches it much more deftly with his free hand, holds it up to the sun like a prospector who struck gold before he pops it in his mouth. As he crunches it, he sinks slowly back into his slouch, staring serenely into the distance for a moment before he says, solemnly, "Sriracha-lympics." Joshua is watching this attempt from beneath a heavy scrunch of brows. His exhale when the pea bounces off Roscoe's cheek is probably more woeful than it needs to be for this operation but it just makes his small heh once the pea is caught sound all the more pleased in contrast. "Shit --" He puts the lid back on the can of peas, which blinks out of his hand to reappear, falling a half-inch with a quiet clatter to wobble and land upright on the stone beside Roscoe's chair. He beckons for Roscoe's ziploc of ammunition. "I should be chucking the treyf ones."