Post-It: ETD 00:01am

[maced_eggs]

[Spam for the Dining Room, Morning]

[Last night, Mason, Grim Reaper, age 27 and dead for the last forty years, shucked off his muddy, blood-stained clothes and fell asleep on a couch in his Union Jack underwear.

This morning, Mason, still dead, wakes up on the Barge.

Mason's never been much of what anyone might call "consciously aware", or "observant." For example; he fails to observe he is not in his home when he wakes up. He fails to observe that all of his clothes have gone missing.

What he does observe is that he is bloody starving, and needs a very, very large breakfast to erase the nightmare of the day before. So after failing to observe that he is completely pantsless, Mason shuffles out of his room and off to find food.

Which is why, still half asleep and very nearly naked, is a man barging through the breakfast bar gathering up as many miniature cereal boxes in his arms as he possibly can. He doesn't merely stop when they're all gone: systematically, he goes around to every table he nears and plucks them from unsuspecting eaters when he guesses they're not looking.

Arms loaded with cereal, the mysterious, nearly naked man attempts to make a retreat.

He doesn't yet have the capacity to guess where he is at the moment, aside from the completely unhelpful "Not at home." But at least there will always be Fruit Loops.]

Comments

[maced_eggs]

The fuck do I know about the-I am dead. I have been dead for a very, very long time and in all that time the one good thing about being dead is that I didn't have to deal with fucking ever-lasting pain!

[patheticvillain]

It's not everlasting. Jesus. You're the whiniest guy, I swear . . .

It'll go away in a couple minutes. Like when you were alive. Shit hurts and then it goes away and you're fine. You just learn your lesson not to lift people up, because that's rude as hell.

[maced_eggs]

Shit hurts? You're telling me that shit fucking hurts!

God....damn it. Whassis mean, then? I'm not immortal any more? I can die?

[patheticvillain]

Dude, I don't know, probably. But you'll come back. That's what the death toll's about.

. . . You scared? [Because he looks kind of scared. And annoyed. Scared/annoyed/stupid.]

[maced_eggs]

The what? Whassa death toll?

No.

[nervous, side laughter]

N-no. What do I have to be scared of, then? Nothing! Thasswhot.

[patheticvillain]

It's what happens after you die. You come back and feel like shit for a while, that's all.

[Yeah, that's all. The look he gives Mason isn't quite sympathetic, but it's a lot closer than anything else so far.]

Right. Nothing. This place is a party.

C'mon. I'll explain it when we get some pants on you. Move it.

[maced_eggs]

I'm thinking I feel like shit right now.

[Mason, giving a sheepish grin, lets himself be corralled into getting pants]

You strike a very hard bargain, Cassel. Casselle. Cassel or Casselle?

[patheticvillain]

[When they get to Cassel's room, he digs through his messy dressers until he pulls out a pair of pants that look like they'll more or less fit Mason, then tosses them over his shoulder blindly.]

You seem like the kind of guy who says he feels like shit all the time just to get sympathy. No offense. [Okay, maybe some offense.]

I don't give a shit. Call me whatever.

[maced_eggs]

Okay, 'Whatever'.

[Sniggering at his own joke, Mason takes the pants from where he'd clumsily caught them]

Hey. Hey, thassnot fair. That's a cruel insinuation. I do take offense.

[patheticvillain]

[Wow. Wow, Mason. Wow. That's the worst joke ever. Cassel gives a dead stare of disdain.]

Well, stop taking offense. I'm just keeping it real.

[maced_eggs]

[He's dragging on the pants now, looking up in confusion]

Sorry? Keeping what real? Were you still talking?

[patheticvillain]

Depends. Were you still being an idiot? Oh wait, you definitely were.

Do you want to know about the death toll or not?

[maced_eggs]

Why are you always going on about me being an idiot? You don't know me. You don't bloody know who I am. I could be a fuckin' genius for all you know.

Pssh. No. There's nothing you can tell me about death that I don't already fuckin' know, all right?

[patheticvillain]

You hide it really, really well if you are.

Um.

[maced_eggs]

I know death, yes? I am a fuckin' genius when it comes to death, Cassel.

[patheticvillain]

Are you sure, because I don't think anybody who walks around without pants gets to be called a genius at anything.

[maced_eggs]

Don't judge a man by his cover, mate.

Or his trousers.

[patheticvillain]

I'm judging you. I'm judging you a lot. You're very judge-able.

How many times a week do you forget your pants? Be honest.

[maced_eggs]

I dunno. I know I don't tend to leave the house without pants. Public indecency charges an' all that.

[patheticvillain]

But you just walk around in the house without pants, don't you. You slob.

[maced_eggs]

Here, it's my house, isn't it? I don't, I don't come into your house an' tell you which clothes to where and what not to wear, do I?

Fuck off with the fuckin' pants.

[patheticvillain]

Well, you've never been in my house. You'd probably be distracted by the piles of trash rather than my pants.

[maced_eggs]

You've got piles of trash in your house and you're calling me the slob?

[patheticvillain]

They're not my piles of trash.

[maced_eggs]

So you're living in a crack den.

...Yeah, all right.