Note to self: the dining car is crowded as hell at this hour. Get up earlier if you plan to eat.
Deacon thinks this to himself as he pushes through the narrow aisles looking for a single seat, preferably secluded so that he doesn't have to entertain a guest. To his surprise, there is a single table open, just recently vacated by a couple of drifters. To his alarm, there are several other drifters with their eyes on it, and he makes eye contact with one on the other side of the car like two men in a Spaghetti Western Quick-Draw.
Deacon stares, unmoving for a full three seconds, and then takes off like a bullet in the direction of the table to claim it first.
As it turns out, like the dining rooms on the Strip, the "normal" times of day are, in fact, the busiest. This is what he gets for not sliding in here at the ass-crack of dawn to nab some food early; a couple of other drifters are loitering at the edges of the car, one of whom he recognizes. Hard not to, with the distinctive glasses - a fella from the same world, someone Len had helpfully bandaged before they parted ways.
Len is just contemplating taking something to go when a pair of Revan's Recently Kidnapped stand up, leaving a piece of prime real estate up for grabs.
They bolt for the table at the same time and manage to reach it at the same time too, hands on the backs of chairs, staking territory like prospectors. There's another long moment as Len looks at his own reflection in those dark sunglasses.
If they'd touched hands while reaching for the same dropped object, this would be the beginning of a meet cute surely, but the competitiveness hasn't drained out of Deacon's system yet. At least not until he takes a deep breath in through his nose.
"Yeah, screw it," he replies, letting go of the chair to move around to the other side and pull one out for himself. "I thought I could make it. Turns out these old hinges never fully recovered from that radroach rodeo incident. Long story."
A radroach rodeo sounds like the kind of party a bunch of fiends would host before either a.) getting bitten by the roaches or b.) crushing them under their own weight; which is to say, it sounds fake. Then again, he's seen people do crazier things when they're balls-deep in a psycho bender.
Len slides his chair out and settles leisurely-like - times like these, he's reminded why he tends to break his morning fast outside. It's less sociable of him to do so, however, and he knows better than to treat the convoy the way he treats the rest of the wasteland. They're all stuck together, for better or worse, and he doesn't have the luxury of skipping town.
"You say that like we ain't got an abundance of time."
Deacon was imagining a whole ranch, a ten gallon hat, and a lasso that he hypothetically uses to wrangle roaches. Not ride them. Never ride them. Ugh.
"I don't, actually. I have an appointment to keep with the only working set of clippers in the convoy. If I don't get to them in time, I have to wait a whole month before I can shave again."
Deacon pats his head, which is covered by a wig, making this particular concept a little nonsensical. Underneath it is a layer of peach fuzz he'd rather have shaved flat, but he hasn't actually sourced a shaving kit for it, yet. That said, any excuse to keep his time spent with a stranger to a minimum is a good one.
"But raincheck on that, for sure. It's actually really difficult to keep a business like that operational. The radroaches love eating rope."
No wonder the rodeo didn't work out, it's hard to lasso a roach when it doesn't have much of a neck to speak of.
"You should try geckos, only thing they wanna eat is your eyeballs."
He advises with the confidence of a man who has seen it firsthand. Soft tissues first. They tend to leave the abject scavenging to the coyotes. Len's gaze flickers up to the pompadour that would give the King a run for his money, a little too perfect and a little too manicured for their circumstances - but then, Arcade somehow manages to style his hair every day neat as a pin.
"Didn't get your name when you got here. How's your arm doin'?"
"The only way I'm trying geckos is on a stick, thanks," he huffs, "My eyes are sensitive enough as is."
That's right, he never introduced himself. He'd prefer it stay that way, too, but people keep asking for his name and Deacon has to pull from a long list of aliases that haven't been printed on wanted posters yet.
"Good as new, but this place has given me no less than forty other injuries since," he scoffs, then offers his hand for a brief shake, "My friends back home call me Mudflap," he replies, "I know, I know... but all the cool nicknames were taken."
The handshake is quick, perfunctory, and firm. Precisely the way Len prefers it. There are weirder names out there than Mudflap - the local 'chef' down at the fiends' compound certainly comes to mind - but he doesn't have any particular reason to doubt this man's delivery, so Mudflap it is.
"Probably hard to compete with a bunch of guys named Trailer Hitch and Rearview Mirror," he nods understandingly, as always a staunch committer to the bit.
"Oh, you know Hitch? He never mentioned you," Deacon says with a sigh and a shake of his head, his tone more obliviously joking as he stabs into the dry egglike-matter on his plate.
"You were from out west, if I recall?" he asks, just to keep conversation light. Deacon shoves the eggs into his mouth and makes a confused face as he chews them. He has no idea what he's eating. or whether its good or bad. If anything, it's just kind of flavorless.
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Action; The First/Inaugural Liars Club Breakfast
Date: 2025-08-01 02:43 am (UTC)Deacon thinks this to himself as he pushes through the narrow aisles looking for a single seat, preferably secluded so that he doesn't have to entertain a guest. To his surprise, there is a single table open, just recently vacated by a couple of drifters. To his alarm, there are several other drifters with their eyes on it, and he makes eye contact with one on the other side of the car like two men in a Spaghetti Western Quick-Draw.
Deacon stares, unmoving for a full three seconds, and then takes off like a bullet in the direction of the table to claim it first.
no subject
Date: 2025-08-01 03:39 pm (UTC)Len is just contemplating taking something to go when a pair of Revan's Recently Kidnapped stand up, leaving a piece of prime real estate up for grabs.
They bolt for the table at the same time and manage to reach it at the same time too, hands on the backs of chairs, staking territory like prospectors. There's another long moment as Len looks at his own reflection in those dark sunglasses.
"...Draw?"
no subject
Date: 2025-08-01 06:05 pm (UTC)"Yeah, screw it," he replies, letting go of the chair to move around to the other side and pull one out for himself. "I thought I could make it. Turns out these old hinges never fully recovered from that radroach rodeo incident. Long story."
no subject
Date: 2025-08-04 02:42 pm (UTC)Len slides his chair out and settles leisurely-like - times like these, he's reminded why he tends to break his morning fast outside. It's less sociable of him to do so, however, and he knows better than to treat the convoy the way he treats the rest of the wasteland. They're all stuck together, for better or worse, and he doesn't have the luxury of skipping town.
"You say that like we ain't got an abundance of time."
no subject
Date: 2025-08-04 10:41 pm (UTC)"I don't, actually. I have an appointment to keep with the only working set of clippers in the convoy. If I don't get to them in time, I have to wait a whole month before I can shave again."
Deacon pats his head, which is covered by a wig, making this particular concept a little nonsensical. Underneath it is a layer of peach fuzz he'd rather have shaved flat, but he hasn't actually sourced a shaving kit for it, yet. That said, any excuse to keep his time spent with a stranger to a minimum is a good one.
"But raincheck on that, for sure. It's actually really difficult to keep a business like that operational. The radroaches love eating rope."
no subject
Date: 2025-08-05 05:04 pm (UTC)"You should try geckos, only thing they wanna eat is your eyeballs."
He advises with the confidence of a man who has seen it firsthand. Soft tissues first. They tend to leave the abject scavenging to the coyotes. Len's gaze flickers up to the pompadour that would give the King a run for his money, a little too perfect and a little too manicured for their circumstances - but then, Arcade somehow manages to style his hair every day neat as a pin.
"Didn't get your name when you got here. How's your arm doin'?"
no subject
Date: 2025-08-07 09:38 pm (UTC)That's right, he never introduced himself. He'd prefer it stay that way, too, but people keep asking for his name and Deacon has to pull from a long list of aliases that haven't been printed on wanted posters yet.
"Good as new, but this place has given me no less than forty other injuries since," he scoffs, then offers his hand for a brief shake, "My friends back home call me Mudflap," he replies, "I know, I know... but all the cool nicknames were taken."
no subject
Date: 2025-09-03 07:57 pm (UTC)"Probably hard to compete with a bunch of guys named Trailer Hitch and Rearview Mirror," he nods understandingly, as always a staunch committer to the bit.
no subject
Date: 2025-09-09 04:32 am (UTC)"You were from out west, if I recall?" he asks, just to keep conversation light. Deacon shoves the eggs into his mouth and makes a confused face as he chews them. He has no idea what he's eating. or whether its good or bad. If anything, it's just kind of flavorless.