//------------------------------// // Chapter Sixteen: “EY, DOOSHBAG!” // Story: Stuff My Sister Says // by Daemon McRae //------------------------------// Chapter 16: “EY, DOOSHBAG!” “Really, Dusty, it’s ok,” Runway says soothingly. The brilliant shade of crimson I’m sporting says otherwise. “No it’s not! There were kids in the theater!” “Don’t remind me...” Spitfire grumbles. Despite it being a Sunday evening, the three of us have gathered at a local bar. We all felt it was necessary after the movie. Not that the movie wasn’t amazing, which it was. Hell, we even cried at some parts. Some of us more than others. My sister pats my shoulder gently. “It’s fine. It happens. There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she continues, consoling me. Spitfire just stares into her whiskey sour like she’s thinking about diving in and never coming out. “Thank god nopony else we knew was there,” she mumbled. “We can just *glug* forget it and move on with our lives. I mean, it was totally a great movie, anyways.” “Oh, totally!” Runway exclaims, shifting gears in that way only she can. “That part where Event Horizon was all, ‘There’s nopony here to save you now, Sparklegoth!’, and she was all, ‘I know’ and totally ripped him a new one? SUPER sweet!” She throws back the rest of her drink with a happy gasp. “It was surprisingly violent for a kid’s movie,” Spitfire mused. “There was a lot of exploding going on.” I turn my attention to Runway, hoping to change the subject. The more I think about the movie, the more embarrassed I get. “Speaking of exploding, have you told your agent yet that you’re not resigning your contract?” She chokes on her lemon drop. Her… new lemon drop. “Blrgrrhl. No. No I ain’t, thank you. That’s like, the last convo I wanna have right now.” Spitfire raises her head and looks curiously back and forth between us. “What contract?” Runway just sighs heavily and takes a more-than-a-sip of her drink. So I explain, “Runway’s quitting the modeling business. She’s actually going to be moving in with me for the foreseeable future. Of course, she actually has to tell her bosses that.” “Ahh, shyaddap,” she growls, her South Manehatten accent slipping out. Which makes my boss raise an eyebrow. “Did… did she just-” “Yes,” I say, with a slight smile. “It’s worse with her than it is with me, though I’m not sure why. We’re both Southies, but she’s got the thicker accent. I guess I didn’t want to both look and sound alike growing up.” Runway downs the rest of her drink, and sets it next to a series of empty glasses I hadn’t noticed before. Hoh, boy. “Yeah,” she grumbles. “S’like, who gives a shit where yer from, right? But naw… these model types gotta be like, ‘Oh no, you can’t go around sounding like thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’, so’s I gotta be all proper’n’bullshit. Wassah point, anywhose? Y’think I’m gonna be any more sexy if’n I sound like some high-falutin’ call gal?” Spitfire raises the highest of eyebrows. “Did you understand any of that?” I clear my throat. “Allow me to translate: ‘Who cares where your from, right? But no, the modeling agency says ‘You can’t go around with that accent’, so now I have to sound all prim and proper. What’s the point, anyway? I’m not gonna be any more sexy if you make me talk like a painted whore.’” “See?” Runway jumps in, throwing an arm around me. “This broad gets it! S’all like, yous don’t lets me talk when I’m walkin’ anywhose, so why’s I gotta sound all stuffy an’ shit, right?” Again, Spitfire looks to me for a translation. “’My sister understands,’” I explain. “’They dont’ let me talk while I’m on the runway, so who cares what I sound like?” My boss just shakes her head and drains her whiskey sour. “So why doesn’t your accent slip when you drink?” I shrug. “Mine only comes out when I’m like, really really angry. Or talking to my parents. Which aren’t mutually exclusive, mind you.” “Yeah, our folks’s all kindsa dumb. I’ll tell you sumthin, sister, they tries that… that… that not-gay shit again Imma drop ‘em off at th’ lake with a new setta concrete horseshoos,” she grumbles. I feel the warmth of pride in my chest radiate a little. Or maybe it’s the bourbon. I just take a sip as Spitfire looks at me again. “I’m not translating that one.” Boss shrugs, and takes a sip out of her new drink. “You know, with all this booze we should really have something to eat. And water. A lot of water. Waiter!” she calls, only to be ignored. There’s a mare a few tables away who brought us our drinks earlies, who looks like she’s got nothing better to do than not her job. I’m about to waive her down when I hear Runway yell over my shoulder. “EY, DOOSHBAG!” I open my mouth to translate again, mostly out of sarcasm, and Spitfire raises a hoof to silence me. “No, no, I got that one.” The waitress rolls her eyes, and comes over to our table, taking our order finally. After she trots off to the kitchen, Runway slurs, with more than a hint of amusement in her voice. “I can’t believe you twos shmucks popped a wingboner at a kids movie." My boss and I have a short race to see who’s head can hit the table first.