holyshitwhocares | inbox / open post

( scene one. intergalactic space bar. dimension—who the fuck decided this was a good way to start a scene? fuck this. Skip to: in busts this tall ass emmett brown looking motherfucker with two really obnoxious looking space guns and some very blown out eyes suggesting he was very high on something. out bellows a crazed shout: ) Umana Duuri, you piece of shit, you're fucking dead.

( from here, we figure the details can be filled in using your ~ imagination ~ but let's just say its some quinten tarantino kind of bullshit that goes down. So let's smash cut to the aftermath. Cause some people are alive, and the thing that he likes about this place is that most people just went back to drinking like nothing happened. And so, the gangly-ass man hoists his ass up to bar and orders a drink but not before sliding both guns into his overused-hammerspace-mechanic-device also known as lab coat. He orders three, actually. Two shots to get him started.

No one steals from him. Umana, you knew this, you tested fate, and fate shot you in the fucking faces ala Rick Sanchez. Your days were numbered but its okay. All is right with the multiverse again. Also, who the fuck is this guy looking at him? )

[This place is very much your average hive of scum and villainy and even though a cinematic battle goes down (just lacking the rugged handsomeness in which such scenes are usually cast), there are enough people still just fucking drinking so that the bar doesn't actually close down.]

[The bartender just ducks down for the bulk of it, pulling down some shutters over the bottles until the shooting seems to be over. There's a chunk of men in maroon leather uniforms- Ravagers, the equivalent of space bikers, that either tried to join in or, like one blue guy, just lifted his drink to avoid a body slid down the bar.]

You better hope that bastard you killed has got somethin' valuable on him, 'cause that's one hell of a cleanin' tab you just worked up. [The bartender complains as he opens the wares again. And, as he isn't doing anything at the moment, he starts collecting bodies and dragging them off stage right.]

[Blue guy doesn't move. He watches another skinnier guy now with a limp (enjoyed the fight a little too much) wearing a similar uniform get led off by two drunkenly unsteady camrades. He takes a swig of his beer and pulls a face, and watches the wild-haired man. Out of sheer curiosity he asks-]

What'd he do?

( He and a handful of other assholes are a bit of a deviation from the usual cast, that's true, but at least they're still badass. At least he's a badass. No idea what that guy in the corner is doing but hey, you do you man. Bodies splatter, drinks clank, some people leave for a smoke, some people aren't phased at all. Didn't take long to turn a place like this into a madhouse.

So now that the attention was off of him, Rick hopped down from the table he had managed to get atop of for some unwritten dramatic purpose and landed on the now-corpse of his target to retrieve the thing that was taken from him. Something that seemed to get extracted right from those two now-dead heads of this piece of shit with some sort of device that was, like the guns, placed back into labcoatspace.

And now we're caught up. We're back at the bar with the drinks and the mostly back to normal patrons that also got bored with the fight or, you know, died. As for the bartender, because this was actually important enough, he's going to actually address the carnage he left behind. Big steps. Season six. Making strides.

First, though, let him finish this second shot. ) Yeah, yeah, what do you want? Money, drugs, a new bar? ( Turning, watching the guy start to clean up. ) I've got a couple of cleaning bots in storage that can do this shit for you. Say the word, hombre.

( As for the blue guy. Rick eyed him down, tipped back on his stool and eyed the people leaving. Did a bit of mental gymnastics and then returned to his drink. ) He stole from me. Unwritten multiversal law: don't steal from Rick Sanchez and expect to live. Either he was a dumbass or had a death wish. Either way, did the multiverse a favor. Now we're all even.

Money's fine. [The bartender says, not accepting the help of cleaners for whatever reason. Maybe he's too paranoid to let in a stranger's tech. Maybe the money is more useful for item replacement. Whichever, he makes a choice, grunting as he drags another corpse out.]

[Blue guy listens, just drinking, watching Rick with too red eyes as he tells how he'd hunt someone down who stole from him. Honestly Yondu doesn't know if he'd care all that much unless he had to be performatively vengeful. Make a point of looking ruthless so no one messed with him.]

You ever hire someone to bring 'em to ya? Steal shit back? Whatever?

[Those kinds of jobs he has taken, many times. Vengeful people usually wanted to do the killin' themselves. But he can do it, if they don't care that much.]

[Though he does look away, off towards the back room that the bartender dragged his corpses off to. There's the sharp scent of burnt flesh, like the bodies are being incinerated. Guess he doesn't want the cops snooping around for details over whatever went down. He doesn't think there's room for a furnace back there so maybe he's just got some kind of high powered laser weapon.]

I don't exactly got a card, but I got a few brokers I keep up with.

( yeah, see. he's been accused of caring too much before. by other versions of himself no less and while the thought of someone being right about him really annoyed him, even if it was himself, they weren't wrong. and that was the difference between him and them. and that was why he was the rickest rick and they were assholes who haven't pissed him off yet.

rick pulled out his phone or some device of similar shape and mucked around with it for only a few seconds before turning his attention back to the drink that was almost empty. eh, there might be some part reputation building and some part actually giving a shit about the thing that was taken. given he was now working outside of the curve, there were an alarming number of dimensions, timelines, realities, and worlds that had no idea who the fuck rick sanchez was. and that needed to be corrected.

in the meantime, since the bartender was too busy burning bodies with whatever the fuck he had back there (sounds cool, gonna have to check it out sometime), rick reached over to help himself. one more drink for the road or whatever. he's got a list, baybee. but to keep it fresh? doing it out of order.

good shit. down the hatch, and up he gets.) thought i made it pretty clear i can take care of this shit myself. ( he is squinting at you, yondu. the first thing rick gets acquainted with outside of general laws of physics when he's entering somewhere new was notable outlaw groups. for obvious reasons. after a moment, he eases back. ) you asking for you and your crew or just you?

Think restaurants don't serve people what can cook? [There's no real fight or pressure to his tone, though. He just finishes off his glass and shouts out a-] Another Czarnian whiskey! [-and thumps the bar for the keep's attention.]

Yeah, yeah.... [The scruffy guy says on his return, grabbing a bottle and with a flourishing spin, pours another two fingers worth into a glass and slides it over to Yondu.]

Just puttin' out feelers. For the crew or whatever. [Small jobs still make money. Small jobs count for a lot, to be honest. He was no stranger to organizing smaller set ups.]

So about that fella you knocked off. You shoutin' he stole from ya? Somethin' valuable? Or were ya tryin' to prove a point and that mess of petty thugs lookin' to jump ya when ya leave fixin' to throw their lives away over a particularly memorable sportsball ticket?

[Yondu doesn't say anything to that. Just snorts softly and shakes his head. Dumb kids these days. Lacking a survival instinct even after all this mess.]

insulted you think what i ( there's a disturbance in the force and that disturbance is gastrointestinal distress ) i do is anything like cooking, broh. when—when's the last time you've needed— actually scratch that, math is involved in literally everything i just doubt a line cook is thinking about propulsion theory while flipping a fucking burger ( he'll pay the tender his credits owed and spin to look over the bar, most of them back to their drinking but he'll spare a friendly wave to the guys in the corner staring his way as the bartender so kindly pointed out. some people have a death wish but you know what? because rick is rick, he's not going to give it to them. )

anyway. i'll take you, because you seem to have a better head on your shoulders and because the second i start dealing with more than one person at a time my suicidal tendencies skyrocket from 50% to 150%. ( one more drink for the road, barkeep. as for the valuable? he shrugs. ) eh, it was valuable enough. don't worry about these morons. ( let him just pull out another gun-looking thing from his labcoat. ) gonna teach 'em some physics. ( get ready to have zero central gravity for a whole ass hour, kiddos. have fun with that. )

[He could have argue that, well, math isn't really needed for killing either. He wasn't asking to get paid for math he was asking if he needed some quick murder done well. Also, he could have gotten mad that Rick assumed that he couldn't do math but... he's met some of the people in his business. Most of them can't, and Yondu usually banks on being underestimated.]

[So generally all he says is-] What do ya pay in? [Honestly he can even work in barter. Yondu might have made an offer, but he's not cheap nor is he desperate (at least not in any way that Rick can satisfy). He's interested in the work, and he can probably do it, and that's a whole different kind of thing.]

[The barkeep, meanwhile, gets that last drink and watches as the gravity gets shifted out from under the fellas that were planning something. Thank god he doesn't need to clean up more bodies- maybe their drinks but he already charged them so whatever.] Here ya go, brother. You want me to pass a note on to the inevitable authoritative types that come by? Or just tell 'em you'll get back to 'em.

( His attention slides back to Yondu for a moment. You know, he can appreciate someone who lives their life underestimated, he sort of thinks his grandkids are the same. Sure didn't think they were worth any salt at all when he first tumbled into their lives like a drunken jackass. Now he's getting all soft and shit, but moving on. ) What do you want?

( Rude. He can satisfy most ways if you just do like abba and take a chance on him. unbelievable. getting roasted in the meta already. anyway, interested that the guy asked what he pays in and didn't just quote a rate. as for the bartender. gonna take that last shot, thank you. ) eh, i mean my calling card tends to be either interrupting their dipshittery with fart sounds or a trail of blood. sometimes both. but if you go for the former you gotta report back to me on how it went. the real serious types get so mad, its fucking hilarious broh.

I want money, or somethin' I can sell. Enough for a month of rations and a repair to a large plasma injector. The idiots that work under me are still my idiots. They deserve payment for the work they put in, and the right kinda firepower in my ship.

[Yondu motions to a bottle, just a beer, and mutters a-] One for Road. [-to the bartender.] And tell Kraglin to check in once a day. He'll know what I mean.

Yeah, yeah. I'll remember. [The bartender is apparently used to being an intermediary and a broker, no matter how dangerous such an occupation might be. It allows him a valuable neutral role for this kind of thing.]

[Yondu, in the meantime, is already rearin' to get out of here.] I'm gonna trust that if you're the person you look like, you can direct me to that kinda goods.

( There was some witty commentary and a few meta comments about a crossover series that lead them to portaling into this point, his garage, which looks like nothing much at the moment but with just a flick of a switch. Blamo. Science, and this was just the "this is basic shit that probably won't be too catastrophic if Jerry or the kids get into it" portion. )

Alright you shitknob lets fuckin' mech you up, broh. at least this will be way cooler than the whole bug transformation Jerry wanted. ( vrooming over to desk on wheelie stool in 3...2...1. First, gotta clear some shit. Listen, he's a chaotic sort. has no idea where half the shit he needs is but he'll find it. this is probably why he doesn't know. now a bunch of shit is on the floor. but they got some fucking concept designs to make. ) here's the deal. ( press of a button, out pops some tube lookin' thing. ) you get into that so i can see what i'm workin' with, we start building the schematics and other bullshit, i show you the rest of the shit you don't see right now. ( cause he sorta has to. )

[ This isn't the first time he's accompanied a pushy old man to his garage. It isn't even his first time hopping through a portal and being jettisoned through space and time into an entirely different dimension. Following a masterfully overbearing septuagenarian through a portal to his garage, however. That experience is entirely novel. ]

So, that's a remote control? [ Turning to watch it de-materialize, he marvels openly as the amorphous plasma halo buckles into itself and collapses toward a central point. A central point that kind of, no, most definitely looks like a radiant green butthole. Heheheheh. ] Your portal gun. CRT? Even kinda sounds like turning off an old tube TV. [ Casually strolling the perimeter, light on his feet and beaming all the more with each new seamlessly automated mechanization. Ear to ear, like a kid in a candy store, except he's well into his twenties now and he knows better than to touch too much more than the edge of the workbench. But boy, oh boy, does he ogle all the science. ] How fucking cool. [ Pupils blown so wide his blue eyes look black, you best believe. ] Y'ever get stuck— [ Speaking of tubes. The roughly human-sized one shooting up through the floor him gives him pause. He pulls half a step back and eyes it uncertainly. ] —between channels?

Huh. [ It's intentional. The mumbling. His willfully awkward hesitancy. What he can't help is the effusive giggling that supplants it. ] Offer a gal a drink first! Shoot. [ He hucks his host a sunny, gap-toothed grin. ] It's right beneath us, isn't it? I can smell the ozone. C'mon, can't I at least have a peek under your skirt before you start dissecting me?

inbox / open post

Generic Space Bar Prompt

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

The Rick & Kenny Show >>> mysterionic

no subject