ArchivedLogs:Another Tuesday

Another Tuesday
Dramatis Personae Ash, Murphy, Razor
In Absentia	2013-05-29 Ash gets a banana split.
Location Queens
Murphy lives in a shitty little corner apartment that's three stories up in the midst of the tail-end of one of Queens' worst neighborhoods. It's the sort of joint where getting robbed is so normal it's part of the lease agreement; therefore, there's nothing of value in Murphy's place that isn't either bolted down or just about impossible to lift in the first place. Not that people don't try: Two weeks ago, a pair of junkies tried to wheel his refridgerator out. Didn't work out too well. Most of the furniture consists of cinder blocks and chunks of wood on top of them; the bed's probably the most expensive thing in the joint -- that, and maybe the couch. No TV. Murphy doesn't /watch/ TV (and it'd get stolen anyway). No stereo; Murphy doesn't listen to music (and it'd get stolen anyway). Not even books (Murphy just reads 'em once and knows everything he needs to know). There's a kitchen, though. Basic food. And, in the living room, there's some cleared out space, with a duffel bag (something Murphy keeps in his goddamn CAR, thank you very much) set down on the floor. When the knock comes, Murphy's quick to go through the old ritual -- check through the peep hole, then -- click, lock, snap, click -- that's the sound of about six different locks being released, one after the other. When he finally opens the door, there's still a bit of chain between him and Ash, barring entrance: "Last time we met," Murphy asks Ash, "what did the little girl claim she could do? With the birds." This is a Murphy test. Before you get in, he asks you a question. If you don't know the answer? PROBABLY A SHAPESHIFTER. "Claimed she could talk to them... and was sending them to do your work for you." Ash smiles sweetly at Murphy, brows raised. "Look, look, I got gloves! I kind of got the same brand you have, so I knew they'd be okay, but they're weird and new and smell like the factory. We should sweat in them and pound things until they smell normal, right? That's what you do with these things." And then the young man holds up a shiny new pair of boxing gloves. "They came with this long fabric wrap things, the guy at the store told me I totally needed them. He showed me how to wrap them, but I can't for the life of me remember." SOMEONE has been stuck not talking to anyone for a while, it may seem. "You invited me over, Murph. We going to box, right?" He fidgets, waiting for admittance. "Nnrgh." Apparently, this is a sufficient answer for Murphy. The door gets shut; the chain gets unlocked with a series of clicks. When he opens the door next, he's stepping back to give Ash room to enter -- and as soon as he does? WHUMP. Door closes, locks are re-engaged. One right after the other. "Yeah sure we can box, kid," Murphy adds, /glaring/ at Ash's gloves. Like they've somehow offended him merely by existing. "Just, wanted to ask you too, about Jim. How he's doin'. Workin' on getting him -- fixed," Murphy adds, walking toward the duffel bag, now. "I can show you how to wrap 'em," Murphy adds. "Also," Murphy suddenly adds as he reaches for the duffel bag, "just don't, touch any furniture. 'Cept the couch. I keep the place -- there's a lot of stuff hidden 'round here. Sharp stuff, dangerous stuff." "So... most of the furniture is for storing stuff instead of sitting, gotcha." Ash wanders in after Murphy, looking around quietly as he takes in his surroundings. "Have to say you have good taste. I'm a big fan." He does indeed have a bag with him that allows him to truck his gear around not in the open, a bag which is slung around one shoulder. He's wearing a green teeshirt with white edging around the hems and a few other places that gives a nod to athletic wear, but no longer serves an actual athletic purpose. He slumps his bag off near the door and stuffs the gloves under one arm. "Oh. Jim? Um. He's being a tree. Not talking. Not hardly moving, but you know, that's what trees do. Hang out and photosynthesize. I got him a shrub donation fund, if you want to chip in. He's a hungry dude, and seems to like boxwoods right now." Ash shrugs a bit and begins unwrapping the wraps, letting the long coils of fabric stretch out across the ground. It's a little oily the way these nice vehicles just sort of languidly curl through the hood. This isn't their territory, and the vehicles are too nice... But the odd assortment of gentlemen, and young women dressed in oddly... skeezy clothes... so many of them... More than should really be around for this kind of visit. The way they walk, the way they carry themselves, even their clothes all speak of danger, cruelty, and hair-trigger violence. In other words, a level of seriousness and violence that most common street gangs or hoods aren't ready or willing to deal with. They aren't here to do business, though. Or not the kind that interferes with the local thieves and drug dealers anyway. For a wonder, though, they park down the block. It's almost laughable the way their dimunutive boss steps out and the sort of respect... no, fear she commands from them. The older gentleman with her has shaking hands. The slightly younger man that opens the door for her? His hands are steady, but his gaze is distant, focused. "You guys go up to his apartment the usual way. Pipes. Wrenches. Chains. Bats. Nobody who doesn't have a supressor uses their piece. This is a CLEAN visit. Just here to pick up on a debt. I'm gonna try to make this quick." She walks down the block, people breaking off to the left and right to head for the apartment building. And Razor? Razor merely stops beneath the man's window and looks up, eyes scanning. A soft laugh follows, and like that, her voice sounds out loud almost at the same time the first of the men entering the building knock ont he front door,"HEYA. DICK. SOUNDS LIKE YOU GOT COMPANY!" She's hanging from her feet from the upstairs fire escape, holding a pair of pistols pointing into the window. Mere seconds later, there's a third copy of her standing INSIDE the apartment, gloves on, a straight razor languidly unfurled in her hand,"HEY BUDDY. ANSWER THE DOOR. INVITE THEM TO THE PARTY. MIGHT BE FUN. YOU DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT ME, DID YOU BUDDY?" That smile of hers, it's about as wide as it has ever been. She looks over her shoulder, then steps out of the way of the window, smiling, before turning back. Ballsy asshole. "Nnngh. Fuckin' tree," Murphy responds, as if this -- pretty much summed it up. He's wearing his usual dress-slacks, boots, and a loose, untucked white shirt -- no tie. Sleeveless tee-shirt underneath. His coat's off to the side, in the kitchen, on a coat-rack. "/Shrub/ fund," Murphy repeats, /peering/ at Ash. "You sure that ain't a /Hedge/ fund?" See, even Murphy can do a pun or two. And then. There's a knock on the door. And a woman's voice from across the window. Perhaps unusually -- perhaps not -- Murphy doesn't panic. He doesn't even look /surprised/. There is, however, a cold steely expression that settles over his face -- and a way his hand moves, quick-but-steady, to grasp Ash's wrists. And pull. Back, toward him. Away from the windows. Like he's reeling in a fishing lure. And then Razor's /inside/ the apartment. And Murphy's other hand -- the one that /isn't/ grasping Ash's wrist like some sort of iron manacle -- is calmly reaching into his coat pocket. Very slowly, very /casually/. Pulling out? A pack of cigarettes. Moving to pluck one out with his mouth. "Hey, Razor," Murphy announces, making no move toward the door. "Didn't forget about you. Was plannin' on giving you an update tomorrow, prolly. Smoke's still settlin'. Hey, buddy," Murphy says, looking at Ash. "Do me a favor? Go fetch me a bottle of beer. S'in the fridge." Murphy /squeezes/ Ash's wrist, tightly. As if to reassure him. "I /suppose,/" Ash responds, almost lacksadaisily, "but I can't actually fit a whole hedge in my apartment. Don't want to give out false campaign promises." His humor doesn't last long. Instead, he freezes up at the rapidly shifting situation. There's something glassy in Ash's expression when there are suddenly people in the vicinity, outside the door, outside the window, /IN/ the apartment, that speaks of a past, a history, if you will, with dangerous situations - one that immediately stiffens his body and sets his jaw. He's tugged toward Murphy and steps toward him quickly, but doesn't quite look at him yet. He's fixed on the woman outside the window with guns. Then, he looks toward the woman /inside./ Finally, when Murphy squeezes his wrist, he locks on to the man actually speaking to him. "Just for you, or should I offer one to our guests too?" "I swear to any god you piss your pants to that this apartment will be full of bullets if any part of him but his ass touches anything in this apartment but a chair or a couch." The razor is flipped over the back of her hand, tossed into the air, and caught in a lackadaisacal display of manual dexterity. Suddenly, there's a copy of her across the room next to the door, unlocking the locks one by one,"AVON CALLING. Oh my god, Buddy. I FINALLY beat that level of Angry Birds I was on. Didn't even have to use a tuna can to summon the eagle. PERFECT score." She, for once, actually walks the distance to Murphy at this point, gaze lazily sweeping the apartment. The third duplicate, or 'Razor-three' approaches the kitchen to go check the fridge for a beer of some sort. The fourth one, leans up as if to tap the side of the Razor to Murphy's forehead, actually giggling,"Smoke SETTLING. Now that doesn't mean much to me. What am I gonna do with the info if it's all over? 'Cause buddy, I gotta tell yeah, you're gonna need fukkin' white cane to get around if you ain't got me at least a fukkin' name. Someone gets cut, love." Her eyes cut over to Ash, and she asks conversationally,"You ever been to a hooker, friend? Be honest. I can tell when you lie. Secondary mutation." That's a trap right there, it is. She HATES pimps and the men who patronize prostitutes. At Razor's mention of violence in response to acquiring a beer, Murphy doesn't relinquish Ash's hand -- instead, just giving him kind of a tug-tug, as if he expects him to stay right here. "Fine," Murphy responds, before glancing -- briefly -- to the duplicate that's going to his refridgerator. There is, indeed, bottles of beer inside there. Really cheap fucking beer. There's also a radish. Wait? Yes. A radish, all by its fucking lonesome. "While you're at it, bring me my goddamn radish," Murphy tells Razor 3. Then, back to Razor 4. "We got plenty of names. S'problem is, they're all cops," he replies, somehow managing to sound effortlessly calm -- as if he were just explaining the way it is to some fucker on the street.. "Whole thing's run by the NYPD. You want to stab /those/ fuckers in the face? Your funeral." Now, Murphy's hand is reaching for his lighter -- the one with the Marine Corps insignia. /Still/ gripping Ash by the wrist. "We snatched the mutants outta there. Now we're working on a plan to shut them down. One that don't involve starting a mutant vs cop war. By the way, Razor? This is Ben. Friend of a friend. Ben? Razor. She's a psychopath." "A pleasure, Miss Razor, and no," Ash replies, focusing on breathing calmly and evenly. "I have not been to a hooker." His eyes follow Murphy's progress with the lighter, watching quietly. He does indeed stay right there, as close as he can be without appearing in any way, shape, or form /affectionate/ with Murphy, or like he's hiding. He's just standing close because Murphy has some MUSCLES in his hand. Razor makes a sort of sneer,"Give me the one in charge. You think we never had to off a cop? Poor little black kid, fires on an off-duty cop who was just asking him for directions. He manages to squeeze one off before he goes down. Died in a crossfire. Fun fact." She hops on one arm of the couch, and CROUCHES in a frog-like pose, pointing at her eyes, then at Murphy's,"I'm not stupid. 'Nother fun fact. I am literally, physically incapable of leaving behind evidence. It all just crumbles to ash when I want 'em gone. Well. Inert carbon. Now why do I tell you I'm not stupid? So you'll stop treating me like I am. I don't care who your friend is or what his name is. You're smarter than that. So tell your friend to sit the fuck down and behave so that I'm not tempted." Razor two suddenly crumbles into a pile of ash out on the fire escape. Razor three, meanwhile takes the radish from the fridge, examines it, and tosses it to Murphy. "Enjoy your depth perception while you got it." Then she leans down and uses her teeth to pry the beer bottles open. That would be bad on her teeth if she had any reason to care about that. Murphy's grip on Ash's hand tightens as Razor speaks. "Fine," he says, and the lighter -- rather than igniting his cigarette -- gets repocketed. Murphy releases Ash's hand -- and turns, moving toward a rickety metal chair in the corner. "Ben," Murphy says, as he -- calmly -- walks toward that chair. Back to the kitchen. "Turn your ass around and c'mere." Pausing, just a moment, to glance /back/ to the kitchen. As Razor 3 grabs the beer and throws the radish to Murphy. As Murphy catches it -- his eyes /narrow/. Watching as Razor 3's teeth descend toward the beer bottle. The radish slides into Murphy's pocket. His eyes drift to Ash's. "Eyes on me, Ben." *CLKRRT*. The top of that cheap, opaque beer bottle is cracked open. The components to a home-made flash grenade are actually pretty simple; magnesium shavings, aluminum dust, something for an oxidizer. It's possible to make one with a road flare, an etch-a-sketch, and a model rocket. And you can bet your bumpkis that someone like Murphy would be fucking /crazy/ enough to store that shit in a set of cheap fucking /beer-bottles/ he keeps in his fridge. You can also bet your bumpkis he'd include a cheap way to trigger them upon opening, just in case some fuckface decided to /steal his beer/. CRAAA-KOOOOWM! The thing about flash grenades: They're not necessarily lethal, but they are /loud/. And bright. And, well, anyone looking in the direction of the kitchen -- anyone not expecting a high-end EXPLOSION -- is probably going to be clenching their ears, blind, deaf, and utterly confused. Murphy? He clapped his hands over his own ears a moment before the money-shot. He's also /used/ to this shit. An instant after it goes off, he's dropping those giant mitts of his, seizing the back of the chair -- reeling it back -- and /slamming/ it into his own window. Just another explosion of noise amidst explosions of noise. *KRRAAAAASH!* -- then he's reaching for Ash, /seizing/ him by the collar, and -- getthefuckout. He just about /throws/ him out that window, onto the fire escape where one of the Razors just disintegrated. And the best bit? A homemade flash grenade ain't the worst thing that's gonna happen to Razor's goons, tonight. Not by a /long/ shot. "What the fuc..." Ash loses some ability to process events in the light of the current events. No, he's a good boy and looks at Murphy when he tells him, and even copies his movements of reaching for his ears, but since he doesn't know what's coming, he doesn't manage to clamp his hands down in an effective manner until it is too late. Before he even realizes what is going on, Ash is stumbling head first for the fire escape, trying to get out despite his confusion. Out is a good place to be! He manages to cut his hand on some of the glass still hanging out in the window frame, but manages to get himself out, onto the fire escape, and then stumbling down the stairs, disoriented as hell. The upper half of the duplicate holding the beers sort of disintegrates in a shower of burned flesh and gore... Right before it disintegrates. After shrieking her head off for a moment, the razor still inside the apartment puts a gun to her forehead and pulls the trigger, a loud bang exploding from the apartment. THAT duplicate also disintegrates mere moments later. Across the street, another duplicate is practically dancing and whooping with laughter, though her right eyelid twitches. She fires off several gunshots in the direction of Murphy's 'defenestrated' form from a serviceable nine millimeter, even as about five or so thugs pile into the now-vacated apartment, guns and bats waving around wildly in the air. Meanwhile, there's the sound of several boots thudding down the street loudly as more goons run for the direction of their capering boss. Yet another one is down on the street, and bellowing,"I'll start a war just to watch them die, Murphy! You should've given me the name and sent me on my way! You'll die slowly if I don't get you now! They'll all die slowly! But your friend? I'm just gonna put a fucking bullet in his brain!" What kind of psychopath stands in the street shouting these things? That kind of psychopath. "I got detectives too, Murph. You ain't the only one! And I'll find all the connections." A goon finally manages to make it to his ranting boss, trying to reach out and calm her down. He dies gurgling from an open wound in his throat for no other crime than not remembering to /NOT/ touch her. Maybe she'll do some of the work for them? In his capacity as a Marine and soldier, Murphy Law has worked for the Weapon X program. He's tangled with a lady made out of spiders, a guy who could set people on fire with his mind, and someone who, after getting their brains blown out, proceeded to immediately 'get better'. At some point, he decided to leave. They didn't like that. So, Mr. Law has always figured he's living on borrowed time. Mr. Law has always figured that at some point, shit would meet fan -- and a rag-tag team of horrifying mother-fuckers would arrive to make him disappear. In short, Murphy Law is a man who expects to one day face down the Grim Reaper. And made plans to, if not /kill/ that mother-fucker, at least give him one hell of a black eye. As soon as Ash is out of the apartment, Murphy Law is following. Pulling, from his pocket, a cell-phone. Flipping it open as he follows Ash down the railing. Ping, ping -- bullets from Razor's gun hitting the fire escape as he /moves/. Thumb punching in the numbers. He brings a massive hand down to CLAP against the back of Ash's neck, suddenly -- /shoving/ him down to the next metal platform, attempting to get him to crouch. Because it's about to get noisy and bright. /Again/. Flash grenades aren't the worst thing that's gonna happen to Razor's goons tonight. No, the /worst/ thing are going to be the nail-loaded pipe-bombs Murphy's lodged inside of his apartment walls -- each with a metal curved plate wedged behind them, to deflect the explosion -- and nails -- into the apartment itself. Each of them set to go off via a combination of cell-signal plus password. A cell-signal plus password Murphy just punched in. Ring ring, mother-fuckers. It's for you! "So much for zero body-count," he growls. Ash takes a hard dive when Murphy shoves him, very decidedly allowing this, even if he fears for his face as the grating comes flying up toward it. Luckily, he gets his hands up just in time, to fall into an ugly heap of fetal position, arms cushioning his frontward fall. He rides out the rumbling explosion that shakes the metal they crouch on, unsure which way to lean as everything shakes. When he finally looks up, he shoots a glance back to Murphy, eye wide with outrage, panic, and willingness to do whatever the man says. "You know what I do," he offers, teeth clenched. "You want me to shut her up?" Razor needs some guys! Except, not those guys in the apartment. 'Cause those guys are dead. She starts yelling something incoherent and pointing around wildly at the two, while the one on the opposite fire-escape keeps firing, and reloading at the guys. The on on the ground closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then charges in the direction of the two, a gun in each hand. A lot of lead down wind, now. This is pure, mouth-frothing rage. So it might come as a surprise that while four of the arriving goons open fire in the direction of Murph and his budy, the older man with scars on his face and shaking hands points at another of the arriving men and says,"YOU. THIS IS OUT OF CONTROL. WE'LL SEE YOU SAFE." Of all things, the goone the older man indicates runs up behind Razor... as she's hurling invective... and pistol whips her in the back of the head the moment the one on the escapes turns into a puff of carbon ash. Razor thuds to the ground unconscious. No apparent durability powers, at least. "Is that the last one Serano." The older man replies,"I do not know." The younger one puts a bullet in the back of the duplicate's head and begins to back away. His murder of his boss or at least one of her duplicates doesn't stop him from adding his fire to Murphy and Ash's direction. Murphy's nearly on top of Ash, covering him with his sheer /bulk/; when Ash fires that look at him -- that panicked, angered question -- Murphy shakes his head. "Ignore her. We need cover. /NOW/." There is a /lot/ of dust, smoke, powdered concrete, and dirt rushing out from the apartment above them; the whole alleyway's actually kind of choked up with dirt. Murphy's hoping Ash can add to the chaos, maybe make the gunners who are sure to come blind. And... yep, there they are. The gunshots prompt Murphy to /pull/ Ash -- whether he's getting that cover or not -- toward the second-story railing. One advantage of having perfect memory: Whether or not Murphy can see shit, he /knows/ where all the shit is. So, when Murphy slings Ash over that rail, he knows he's dropping him on the back of a dumpster. "Bend your knees when you hit," he tells him, and Murphy's soon following after -- just as one of the bullets, fired blind or not, manage to skim the meat of a shoulder. "Ungh." Fucking /shoulder/ hits. It took a few, but somehow, Razor's shrieking and shouting is no longer piercing the air and the sound of police sirens have begun to approach the position of the fire-fight. Fast response. This time. Or maybe someone called the cops the minute they rolled in? The final copy of Razor turns into carbon pile,"They've got a mutant with them! Fall back. It's time we left." That's the voice of Serano, the man with shaky hands. Men begin peeling back, retreating for their cars and some just outright running, firing pot-shots as they retreat. Serano's voice is then heard as the gunfire dies down, leaving his voice clear to be heard,"You did a stupid thing friend. She'll come for you now. And it won't be this brazen berseker behavior. She'll hunt you. And she'll hunt you like a wolf. Taking little pieces out of your flesh here and there, until you can't run anymore. And someone innocent is going to suffer for this affront. Be it on your head, friend." The man, from where he stands, lifts his pocket handkerchief to cough something into it, then turns to begin jogging away. One last sound of footsteps retreating. Then silence. Murphy descends. A-WHUMP. Not very gracefully atop of that dumpster; soon, he's rolling down besides Ash as he peels up the asphalt -- even /less/ gracefully. CRNCH. On the ground, beside him, crouched and groaning. "Nnngh. /Fuck/," he exclaims, before -- scoot, scoot, behind Ash, next to that asphalt shield. As Serano's voice cries out, Murphy slowly begins to shuffle up to his feet -- reaching a hand to clamp it down on Ash's shoulder. "S'fuckin' worse part," Murphy tells him, as Serano goes on. "The goddamn /monologuing/. /All/ of these fucks do it." Pause. "...you hurt? If not, we need to get the fuck out of here. Apartment ain't in my name, nothin' to trace me -- that bag you had with you -- anything in it with your name on it? Car's a block down," Murphy adds. "No. I trashed the receipt and paid cash anyway." Ash shakes his head, panting heavily behind the asphalt shield, arms shaking, fingers digging into the ground at their feet, splinters forming in the concrete, like it's ready to break free and become Ash's new pair of boxing gloves. There's a sharp cut in his arm, damage from the window glass, other small abrasions all over his body. His brow is puffy as he apparently hit something with his face on the way down, and there are scorch marks on the back of his neck and arms from the flashbombs. He looks back at Murphy. "You're bleeding." YEeeeahhh. He's working with a full deck. "I'm ready to run for the car when you are," he remarks, still cringing from the sound of the occasional pot shot. "Give it a second," Murphy tells him, /squeezing/ at his shoulder -- looking him over. Observing the scorch marks, cut on the arm. "People'll start--" There we go. People, coming out of the apartment. A few at a time, some running, some screaming. A woman with a crying baby, a large man who's wrapped up in a bath-towel. "Don't run," Murphy tells him. "Leave the asphalt. Nice trick, by the way. They're not gonna take a shot at us, not with this much going on. Well, the crazy fucker with the straight-razor might, but I think she's down for the count," Murphy adds, glaring up at the building edges above. Murphy gives Ash a nudge, trying to move him up to his feet. Up toward the mouth of the alleyway. "You didn't bug out," Murphy mentions, as he does this. SOMEHOW, through all the chaos, his cigarette has managed to remain perched between his lips; he's now reaching, pulling his lighter out, moving to light the slightly bent cigarette. FLNKT, FLNKT. Like, this was just. Tuesday. Well, actually, it /is/. "Most people woulda bugged right the fuck out." "Bugging out gets you killed." With the tension not screaming in his ears, Ash's tone settles into something lifeless and dull, eyes darting here and there for the next bad thing to happen. He does get to his feet when Murphy nudges him, but he's got a bit of a lump, stiffness to the way he moves. He compensates. "Instead, watch, wait, placate, look for the right move." He glances back at Murphy. "Then take it." He only starts to peel away from Murphy's side when they get to the car, reaching for the door behind the driver, not wishing to take the time to go around to any other side. "Yeah, but--" Murphy eyes Ash as he gives back that numbed response, his scowl /intensifying/ a little bit. He pops the lock on the car, sliding into the driver's seat. The 5th Avenue's engine kicks over with an angry, obtrusive /growl/. "People naturally bug the fuck out. They don't /stop/ bugging out unless they got -- experience with this shit." The locks snap down on all the doors. Murphy pulls her out of the parking lot; the engine grumbles like it's got a case of indigestion. "...either way, you did good. I'm sorry. I thought my apartment was safe. I wouldn't have told you to meet me there if--" Murphy stops, there. Maybe contemplating the insanity of claiming he thought his apartment is safe while simultaneously having secretly loaded it with fucking FLASH GRENADES and PIPE BOMBS. "...anyway, you want me to take you to Denny's? You like Denny's, right?" Yeah. Kids like Denny's, /don't/ they? If there's not too much shit in the back seat, Ash just lays himself down after he pulls the door closed behind him. Fuck seatbelts and windows. He's staying low and he's staying calm. His hands come up to rub at his face, careful not to touch the lump on his brow too hard after the initial probing. He scrubs at his eyes though, and pulls away his hands, staring at his bleeding hand. "That... wasn't so bad." The smile that starts to pull at his lips is way too serene, perhaps a little off kilter, but he keeps it reined in. "I mean, I don't think I'll be back in the neighborhood any time soon, but the experience of free fall? Maybe I should save up and go bungee jumping some time. Or skydiving. Or fuckin' hang gliding." There's a small crack in his tone on the last word, turning to actually focus on Murphy when he mentions Denny's. "Yeah, sure, Murph. Denny's. Maybe I'll get a banana split. Maybe ... we should get cleaned up first?" "I'll patch you up in the parking lot. Got a first aid kit in the trunk," Murphy announces. "Otherwise? For Denny's? We're overdressed." He kicks the car's engine up around the next curve. Kid wants a banana split, he'll get a fucking banana split.