DEACON: it's kickin' in, yeah!

[physiognomy]

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It's kickin' in, yeah! It's kickin' in, yeah!
It's kickin' in, yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

Shocked awake in the middle of the day
In a fight over shadows of the night
And you wonder why the talk is so bold
When it's boring and the story's so old

Panic call to her best friend on the phone
Won't sit down but she just can't sit alone
Hard to justify a party band
To somebody with no party plans

Stop to appreciate it
Let's hear the boyfriends say it

It's kickin' in, yeah! It's kickin' in, yeah!
It's kickin' in, yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

Going good up until we shut 'em down
Bum a ride to the other side of town
In a restaurant with so much class
If we'd stop laughing we could almost pass

It's kickin' in, yeah! It's kickin' in, yeah!
It's kickin' in, yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

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<font color="#FFCC00" size="1">[ March 18, 2005 12:03 PM: Message edited by: que sera sera ]</font>

[physiognomy]

The was a sharp difference between Roulette and Deacon: She feared and hated her disease; Deacon encouraged it. As a teenager, Deacon felt like a super hero-- because all those people, all those voices, they weren't dying alone. Someone was there with them. It was the only justification Deacon could give himself and he clung onto it like a leech.


Besides. He had someone else to protect.


He kicked the door open, smoke pouring from his nostrils with the last breath of his cigarette. "Roule--" Deacon paused and his mouth slowly settled into a thin line; blood. He could smell blood. "Fuck," he muttered hotly, fumbling as his cellphone began to rang. He snapped it open and pressed it to his ear, already knowing what the phone call was. "Yeah?"


"Mr.-- ah--"

"It's Deacon."

"Yes, yes-- Miss Rome has been hospitalized after suffering severe bloodlo--"

"What hospital?"

The voice on the other line, a young intern, fumbled. "E-- excuse me?"

His tone flattened; in his mind's eye, he saw a young doctor dying in a car accident-- a year, maybe two years later. "I said, what fucking hospital?"

"Oh-- s-sorry.. Saint Mary's on Fifth A--"

"Figures," he muttered, snapping the phone shut and prowling outside; the door slammed behind him and their apartment was quiet once more.

[physiognomy]

Instead of one pathetic, exhausted Deacon hovering outside of Roulette's hopsital room, there was another man too; a man with a charming smile and a white suit that could have been armani. A "Get Well Soon!" balloon was leashed to his finger and he bounced it across the ceiling as he watched Deacon pace. "Hey, you know, it's not like she can die, really. Which is pretty lucky if you ask me, Deacon."


The trash-talk king sliced an impatient look to Luck and half of a tired snarl. "She got hit by a fucking car and damn near broke in half-- this is not lucky. Lucky is not getting hit by a car at all. Lucky is Fate spontaneously fucking exploding. Lucky is being normal and fucking human without this god-damned curse."

Luck winced. "Ouch. Someone's a being a Bitter Bobby." Grinning pleasantly, Luck tossed one arm over Deacon's tightly knotted shoulders. "Listen to your ol' uncle L, my dear-- I'll start hanging around with you crazy kids. Next time Fate's prowling, she'll get flustered by the hotness that is me." Luck paused at Deacon's skeptical gaze. "Trust me. I'm good with ladies-- I fucked Queen Cleopatra!"

Deacon gaped as Luck untied the balloon and retied it to a lock of Deacon's hair; the guitarist was dumb-founded. Luck smiled brilliantly. "See you! I'll send you both a fruit basket."