ArchivedLogs:Waffle Cones

Waffle Cones
Dramatis Personae Trib, Violet
In Absentia	2014-08-07 A cat and a boxer meet at an ice cream parlor.
Location <NYC> Custard's Last Stand
Custard's Last Stand, the ice cream shop with the horrible pun of a name is busy as usual once weather starts to get warmer in the heat island of the city. It's door swings in and out with a jingle of an above the door bell, the sugary smells of sweets carry into the breeze. The happy noises of people consuming ice cream come from people at various tables and the counter, the place looking much like the old school soda shops, and in fact they have a variety of flavored sodas one can drop ice cream into, and their various flavors include ice cream of the cream variety, as well as sorbets, soy based, and coconut based frozen treat varieties. Not /all/ cats are lactose intolerant. Violet happily falls into the tolerant category and with cash to burn, that means no ice cream joint is safe! Provided, of course, it isn't the sort to throw those of the feline persuasion out the moment they walk in the door. Let's see what happens: the bell above the door gives out its cheery tinkling, admitting a rush of humid city air and one (1) mutant of the aforementioned feline persuasion. From the look of her, she's already had quite the evening--there are smudges of dust and dirt on her pink t-short and denim short shorts, she is shoeless (as she doesn't require them) and the fur that's visible every which where sticks up in wild whorls and spikes, also bearing its fair share of grime. She isn't /smelly/, at least, but she /is/ out of breath as she advances on the counter with a ten dollar bill in hand. Expecting stares--which she gets in full measure--and possibly a refusal of service--which remains to be seen--she orders in a veritable rush of down country twang: "Hey can I get two scoops in a waffle cone, one strawberry and one vanilla, /thanks/!" Maybe people are staring at the catgirl, or perhaps they are staring just past her at the massive man coming through the door just behind her. Trib looks to have had quite an evening himself, dressed in a pair of sweaty-looking...er, sweat-shorts, and a blue t-shirt soaked around the neck and under his massive arms. He seems a bit winded as he falls into line behind Violet, reaching up to push damp hair from his face as he studies the felinoid. His golden gaze flicks over the furry parts, lingering on each whorl as the girl orders before they slide up to watch what the soda jerk says in response. The kid behind the counter looks a bit pale as Violet approaches, and attempts an order. His mouth twitches, and he looks like he might says something, but thinks better of it, moving to collect a cone to fill Violet's order. He doesn't get far before a rotund little man in a cheery bow-tie calls him towards the back, where he begins speaking to him in hushed, hurried tones. Trib snorts softly at this, and exhales heavily in a sound that says this scenario seems entirely too familiar. But. But...ice cream? The money that Violet had so eagerly held before her lowers just a touch, timed to the more tangible droop of tail and ears. "Swear t'God, hand t'Heaven, I'm house-trained?" she ventures a joke, though it's not likely to carry to the ears of counter jocket and manager. Then there is a /wind/ ruffling her head-fur and she turns to crane a look over her shoulder, then up and up at the gentleman who's appeared behind her. It takes a special sort of person to decipher snorts and exhalations--but she happens to be that sort of person, quick with reading Trib's body language and assessing as Not Hostile. At least towards herself. So he's treated to a look pulled straight from Shrek, and Puss in Boots. The huge limpid eyes. The downturned ears. Maybe a /little/ smile. Just a teeny one. And a behind the back flick flick wave offer of the bill she's still clutching. "...two scoops, waffle cone, strawberry and vanilla?" The employees are doing their level best to ignore the pitiful looks from the catgirl, talking heatedly amongst themselves. They do /not/, it should be noted, seem to be doing anything about the lack of ice cream she's experiencing. Behind her, Trib snorts again. "Shoes," he grunts, flicking his gaze to the floor. "Betcha." It takes a moment for that monosyllabic cue to be understood. Violet looks down at her feet...and then clues in. OH! /Right/! "Yeah, I forget those a bunch. Oh Lord...thanks, fella. I'll be out front, yeah?" Did he take the money? No? Then quick as a bug she shoves the bill into his hand. The casual saunter that follows, complete with tail swishing, likely fools no one--sure she's trying to say she doesn't care that she is being denied service, via benign neglect, but it /has/ to sting. That may be why she saunters herself /right out the door/. The bell is cheerful. The cat who then begins a heartfelt lurk out on the sidewalk is /not/. Trib's eyes narrow as the money is shoved into his hands, but the sound he makes is agreeable, in a weary and wary sort of way. As soon as the catgirl heads for the door, the boxer inhales deeply, and GLARES at the relieved-looking duo. "Yo, Ben an' fuckin' Jerry. You heard the lady..." His voice fades as the door closes behind Violet, but the image through the glass is probably amusing. Both employees seem to be scrambling under the boxer's annoyed expression, eventually handing him two huge cones and a lot of obvious sucking up. It doesn't seem to improve Trib's mood, whatever it is. A minute later, he's coming out the door with both cones, thrusting the pink and white one towards Violet while dragging his tongue along his, which appears to be chocolate, but carries a strong scent of jalapeno to those with sensitive noses. "Here." It's true, Violet was totally watching through the window. What? She can be a good Christian and still enjoy others' discomfort. Okay, so maybe that's not very Christian of her but it does mean that Trib is greeted with a broad, bright grin when he reappears. "You're th'/best/," she informs him, in case he might have had any doubt. The girlier cone is accepted happily, and likewise immediately lick-attacked. Mmm, tastes like victory over no-shoe bigotry. "What's that y'got there? Smells like peppers, they really put peppers in ice cream?" Trib smirks at the compliment, and rolls his eyes as he exhales sharply through his nose. It can't really qualify as a /snort/; it's too soft for that. But it's definitely disbelieving. But there's a tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes that might be pleasure at being /someone's/ hero for the day. Maybe. Or maybe it's just the ice cream is super cold. The question gets a roll of his massive shoulders, and he watches Violet as he pushes at his ice cream again. "Put peppers in all kinds of shit," he rumbles. "'Specially chocolate." He flips his left hand at the girl and tips his head. "No chocolate for cats, I guess." "Nah, I can do chocolate. Just not lots've it, yeah? And I maybe pay for it th'next day but c'mon, it's worth it. Can you imagine livin' /without/ chocolate? Or caffeine? /I/ can't." And Violet is just going to assume he agrees with her--he picked a chocolate variation of ice cream, didn't he? So she goes on without opportunity for Trib to yay or nay. "Doesn't bother you, does it?" Her non-cone bearing hand lifts, fingers flicking in a gesture meant to indicate ears, face...maybe fur? Cheerful though the question is, she does keep a close weather eye on the man's body language when it's asked. Safety first, right? There's not much response from the boxer as the girl explains. Trib is either used to chatty people, or he has no answers to offer her rapid-fire patter. His golden gaze follows her free hand, landing briefly on her ears, her face, her fur...whatever she's offering. Then he rolls a shoulder. "I've seen worse." /That/ earns him another grin, this one bright with the sugar crystal glimmer of ice cream on her lips. "Well, /yeah/. Not like I got stuck with slime or scales or anythin' like /that/," Violet reasons. "But c'mon, y'know what I mean. Most folks...they don't give two figs for folks like me. Y'didn't have t'get th'ice cream. Just sayin'. An' /thanks/ for that. S'just th'thing, night like this. I been climbin', workin' up a proper sweat. I mean, if I could sweat. Can't. Didn't get those glands." And like that it's on to a new topic, one that involves her first rolling her own gaze over the figure he cuts. "...MMA?" Trib /does/ snort, this time, blowing a bit of ice cream from his lips to drip down his shirt. "People suck," he declares, and reaches for the hem of his shirt, lifting it to blot at his mouth. "You should have fuckin' ice cream if you want it." He says this in a dark-sounding rumble that's a bit firmer than the occasion probably calls for. The mention of her lack of sweat gets a tip of the boxer's head, and a slow narrowing of one eye. "Heard that happens," he grunts, and takes a big bite from the top of his cone, apparently unbothered by the shock of frozen custard. The question gets a shake of shaggy head. "Boxin'." "I know, right? People had more ice cream, th'world might be a nicer place." But that is just this cat's opinion. And speaking of, Violet's chatter is put on hold for a moment as she goes chasing drips before they threaten fuzzy fingers. Whole sections of the first (melting) scoop are consumed, enough that she puts herself at risk for brainfreeze. Aaaand right on cue, the feasting ends with a grimace, and fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Nnnngph. That's the noise the catgirl makes. Some lip-licking follows, some nose scrunching. When the ache fades, finally, she zeroes back in on the conversation. Because of course she does. "/Boxin'/. That's pretty fierce, fella. Like, professional level, s'what makes you your money?" "Amateur right now," Trib confirms, transferring his cone to his other hand so he can lick the ice cream drips from the webbing between his fingers. "I ain't no professional yet. Do all right, though." There's a small twitch of his lips that might be the beginning of a smile, but it never gains enough strength to qualify. Then he lifts his chin in a sharp jerk. "What you do?" It doesn't seem possible, but Violet's able to give him an even /broader/ grin than those showcased previously. "I'm just a stray. But I do all right too. Once y'get th'basics down, any ol' fool could do it. Just most folks don't bother. Somethin' about...what was it...bein' a productive member of society an' all that jazz." Punctuating the statement is a one-sided flutter of palm and fingers--jazz hands. Hand. Singular. The other is carrying the cone back to her mouth, now that brainfreeze has eased. Trib blinks once, slowly, before furrowing his brow. It takes him a minute to work through it, though, and he fills the span of time by taking a couple more bites of his ice cream. Finally: "I don't know what that fuckin' means," he admits. "Just don't fuck anyone up, that's my fuckin'...whatayacallit...like a motto. Creed." He shrugs. "Society can go fuck itself." The timing of the statement is near-perfect, as a well-heeled couple are passing just as the declaration leaves the boxer's lips. The woman, a tall redhead in Hilton-esque club attire, even looks annoyed at man and mutant. Or maybe it's his coarse language. Her companion, a slender young man equally well-appointed, looks like he might want to say something -- if Trib weren't huge and Violet so fuzzy, that is. They get a full minute to do this before Trib inhales deeply and offers them a glare. "You heard me." For some reason, the couple decide not to say anything, instead hurrying into the shop. Funny, that. Did that just happen? Violet has frozen, with only her eyes moving to track between Trib and the swells as they swan by. The little bell above the door is still working but when it goes off, its pleasant chime is drowned out by sudden, unrestrained laughter. She laughs from the /belly/, hard enough to stagger a step back and use the services of the window to prop a shoulder up. "Oh, God," she's wheezing by the time the fit of amusement passes. It isn't a statement but a plea--Oh God, please let the giggles pass before she pulls a belly muscle. Thank you, amen. "Oh God...y'just don't care, do ya? Probably helps, you lookin' like y'could take on Godzilla by yourself." She sniffs, lip-licks and pulls in a full breath. Lungs working? Excellent. "I meant I'm homeless, yeah? One've /those/ people. I don't much care either though." Trib lets Violet laugh it out -- truth be told, there's another crinkle around his eyes as the couple moves on, and his lips are definitely curled at one corner, a fact he attempts to cover by taking a couple more huge bites from his cone. By the time Violet has finished her hilarity, the boxer is down to a nub of ice-cream packed cone. "I care," he grunts, his brow falling into a furrow with an almost-audible snap. "It just don't fuckin' do nothin' for me, so I don't worry too fuckin' much about it." He snorts at the explanation, and he pops the cone nub into his mouth, chewing it slowly as he looks at the catgirl. "That's gonna suck, come winter." Too late--Violet saw that almost smile, mister, and she points it out by finger-gunning at him and dropping one orange eye in a wink. Gotcha. "Come winter, I'll worry about it. Place I found now, s'got water 'n a pretty cozy li'l spot t'nest in. An' th'rats, they learned quick t'stay away, yeah?" She still has miiiiles to go on her own cone but that's fine--she's happy to slow lick, the level equal now with the top of the waffle cone, precluding drippage. But she's also pushed away from the window, gathering herself in classic about to stroll off fashion. "Your carin' got me some ice cream, so I'm fine with that. Y'ever need a cat, just yell Violet real loud, maybe I'll come runnin'." Trib's exhalation is almost laugh-like when he's caught out, although his almost-smile disappears immediately. There's still crinkling around his eyes, though, as he listens to Violet defend her squatting situatiton. "Streets are shit, for livin'," he grunts, and it's clear that he means for obvious mutants. "Should change that." He licks a few remaining drops of ice cream from his hand as Violet pushes away from the wall, and jerks his chin to his chest at the offer. "Trib," he grunts, and helpfully jerks a thumb at his chest. "I ain't hard to find." "Maybe it would be for /you/, fella, but I make this look /good/." That'll be three snaps served up in a Z-formation. Work. "You be good, Trib. Don't punch anyone I wouldn't," Violet says in lieu of a more traditional good-bye. Likewise, she flicks her tail at him rather than offering a wave, as she turns off to amble on down the sidewalk. Princess Diva, coming through.