bakerstreet

Fuck off—!

[Hold up. What?]

Wait. ...Did you just say you drew fanart?

[The fuck? Fucking absolute NERD. But also SHOW HIM.]

Bet it's just a bunch of shitty stick figures. Guess it's the closest you'll ever get to havin' a real horse.

Hey, hey, HEY! My art is not stick figures, asshole! There is depth and color and space! Respect the fucking process!

[Don't judge his hobby of horse drawing. Did Striker ever draw fanart of Bombproof? If not, clearly Blitzø deserved him more than Striker did.]

And fuck you; we had a shit ton of horses at the circus. [Well, his mom did. She rode them like the pro she was... But Striker wasn't allowed to know that. Satan's teat, even Stolas wasn't allowed to know that.] You think you're the only fucker good enough to have one?

I'll believe it when I see it.

[Better pony up with that pony art, Blitzo, if you wanna prove him wrong. Striker is vaguely aware of Blitzo's childhood circus history only because Blitz and Fizz are the loudest fuckers in Hell and he overheard most of what they were talking about in Crimson's Cage of Reconciliation (even when he was trying his best not to hear 'em).

Secretly, he finds it a little ironic and off-putting that he and Blitz share something in common, but like hell is he gonna tell him about his days as a kid in the rodeo circus. No one but Bombproof knows about that and he means to keep it that way.]

You ever ride any or were you just a clown?

[That wasn’t asking nicely, asshole.

But he mumbled two or six curses under his breath and pulled up his cellphone wallpaper, swiping to the side so he could the picture of him and Bombproof/”Bombroof” in all its glory. Then he started to place and order for Bee Eats, because why not?]

Told you, Picasso.

[He pronounced it a little wrong with the accent on the worst syllable, but close enough.

There was a pause at the question; it was personal and giving him any information felt dangerous, even if most of them were ghosts now.

He thought of when he was little, him and Barbie punching each other to get to be the first to ride. Mom telling them that if they kept fighting no one would ride. Him sticking out his tongue at Barbie as they were both pulled up on the back of a horse, their mom behind them, holding the reins on either side of their small kid bodies. ]

It was a family circus, so I rode sometimes with them. A guy can have more than one job.

[Horses. The great unifier.]

Why did you start riding?

[Hands on his hips, Striker bends forward to take a quick gander at the screen. It's not a stick figure but it's sort of on par with what he was imagining and the corners of his mouth curl in amusement.]

Yeah, a real Pick-Ass-O. [He mimics Blitz's mispronunciation.] If he drew like a teenage girl.

[He straightens then, eyeing Blitz and his new line of questioning with some skepticism, a bit standoffish. He answers though because who doesn't want to talk about horses?]

Family business. I've always rode for one reason or another, ever since I could walk and talk.

[And even before he could do those things, he'd cry until his daddy picked him up and gave him a ride on one. It must've worked pretty well because he still remembers it. One of his earliest memories for sure.

He turns his head and raises a dark eyebrow at Blitz, eyes narrowing.] What, are you tryin' to be my friend or somethin'? Better quit while you're ahead.

[HEY! It’s beautiful! He had it framed up on his wall at home, one of the only ones without his face crossed out.]

Oh, fuck off. I didn’t hear about you having your fine art up in a gallery somewhere, but I’m all eyes if you want to show me some.

[Art was all about heart, anyway! Ugh. It was stylized.

Instead, he’d much rather talk about horses. They had that in common at least, so hey...there was that. Weird. Wasn’t sure he liked having anything in common. Huh.

Oh well. He was still going to steal his horse when the time was right, but that was a future Blitzø plan.

There was a flat look.] Rather dip my own tail in hot sauce and eat it before being your friend, don’t worry. One question about horses doesn’t mean I want to fuck you, but I get why that would be confusing. Horses are a sexy subject.

Are you challengin' me to an art fight?

[Because challenge fucking ACCEPTED. His confident grin soon fades and his expression sours at Blitz's accusation. Seriously though, why is it always gotta be a sex thing?]

That's some mighty wishful thinking you got there. Sorry to disappoint but the only way I'd fuck you is in your wildest dreams. Just do me a favor and don't show me if you draw it.

You mean, are you losing to me in an art fight? Because fuck yeah.

[Get him a white board and some markers; he'll have an entire horse being born in a clam drawn in no time.

Also, hey.]

My fuck dreams have good enough taste to star anyone other than you. [Except for that one time but it was a whole orgy thing and everyone was sort of invited to that. Does. Not. Count.] You're not even the type I'd go for.

We'll see about that, Pick-Ass-o. You just say when.

[Pencils at dawn, bitch. It's on.]

Aw, that's too bad. [He smirks, smolders even.] And here I was all hot and ready to let you ride it hard and put it away wet. [A shrug.] Oh, well.

[Sex jokes are only acceptable when used for mocking Blitzo. Also horse talk sounds dirty anyway...]

You scared to do it right now? Because I’m not, bitch.

[Get this imp a pad of paper and a pen. Fuck dawn; let’s do this shit now.

Except for- okay, he’d had worst propositions. Too bad for the whole hating-each-other thing, otherwise they could make some beautifully violent music together.

Especially when talking about horses.

But fuck, if Blitzø wasn’t going to call his bluff.]

Well, shit, I mean I’ve got nothing better do right now, and if you’re willing to play nice with daddy, I guess I could go for a quickie.

[Yeah, let him call you out this round of chicken. ]

[Well, that backfired immediately! Amazing how fast Striker's face goes from smoldering grin to irked-beyond-comprehension-scowl. Also, 'Daddy'?? What the actual fuck, Blitz!? He narrows his eyes.]

You disgust me.

[Then he stands across from Blitz with shoulders squared, head low and feet apart like the two of them are about to engage in a wild west style gun duel.]

Fine, you wanna do this now? There's your canvas. [A nod toward the wall. It's white enough, it'll have to do.] You better have your own pen, asshole.

[Striker draws his Sharpie that he uses from signing contracts, holds it in front of him and uncaps it like he's drawing a samurai sword.]

That makes two of us.

[Whether he was talking about himself or Striker was anyone’s guess. Let’s not get into that deep shit right now. After all, there was more important shit to deal with.

Let’s get this art duel under way.

Blitzø pulled out his own pen – not a Sharpie, who the fuck signs contracts with a Sharpie ?– and clicked it open.]

Oh, I was born fucking ready. One. Two. Three. Fucking go!

[And the sketches were on.]

[That retort earns him a confused glance from Striker. No time to give it much thought, though. He's got a competition to win.]

You got 15 minutes. I ain't spending any more time than that with your dumbass.

[Moving over to his section of the wall, he eyes the empty 'canvas' before him as he envisions what he's going to sketch, then he gets to work with quick, confident pen strokes. He's actually pretty focused on what he's doing, only sparing Blitz a quick glance or two from the corner of his eye to make sure he's staying over on his side of the wall. They're both parallel to each other so neither one of them can see what the other is drawing until it's over.]

[The fact that he spent this much time alone was pushing it for both of their sakes. But this was an art war, so fifteen minutes would have to deal.]

Shit, I only need half that.

[Which was probably pushing it but he wasn't wavering. Fuck that. Time to make a scenic picture of a horse being ridden by himself while trampling over Striker. And sure, it wasn't a Pic-Ass-O, not with the scribbles and one color, but it was art.

Well, it was art to him.

And wasn't art in the eye of the beholder or some shit?]

[Striker takes nearly the whole 15, not that he's actually counting but it's probably close. When he's done, he steps back, caps his marker and wipes some sweat off his brow. He also drew Bombproof (but of course) except it's more of a classic portrait style. It looks like a sketchier, uncolored version of this.]

Alright, moment of truth. [He takes a gander at Blitz's drawing, grinning like he's got this in the bag.] Well, what do we have here?

[Wait a minute. He narrows his eyes at the details, specifically at who's on the horse and who's under it.]

...You must think you're real funny, huh?

Fmk

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