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voodooqueerThere's shit that can kill you in Darrow.
Maybe it ain't quite the same as it was back in Bon Temps, but Lafayette no longer feels like Darrow is a calm reprieve from all the bullshit. The bullshit ain't so personal anymore -- no Eric, no fucking Pam, none of that other crap. No Debbie Pelt, no vampire Tara, no dead lovers. But it still ain't safe.
The creeping realization just pisses Lafayette off, sends him to the gun shops to pick up a handgun, a shotgun, to hardware stores for extra locks for his door, for an axe with a good strong handle. Shit he might need.
He isn't afraid to hold a gun, or to shoot somebody with it, but he's not nearly as good a shot as Jason Stackhouse, and he knows he can do better with practice. He looks up where the local range is, drives out in his shitty hooptie to plunk down his license and cash and head out. The air is pretty bitterly cold, but Lafayette feels it less as he concentrates, hands gripping around the pistol as he aims and fires. Not good enough.
He licks nervously at his lips, drying out in the cold until the start to crack. It's his patience that starts to go, next It isn't like him, to lose his patience, and not keep his cool. The frustration only sends his aim even more down the toilet, and he curses under his breath, ripping the soft mufflers off of his head.
Maybe it ain't quite the same as it was back in Bon Temps, but Lafayette no longer feels like Darrow is a calm reprieve from all the bullshit. The bullshit ain't so personal anymore -- no Eric, no fucking Pam, none of that other crap. No Debbie Pelt, no vampire Tara, no dead lovers. But it still ain't safe.
The creeping realization just pisses Lafayette off, sends him to the gun shops to pick up a handgun, a shotgun, to hardware stores for extra locks for his door, for an axe with a good strong handle. Shit he might need.
He isn't afraid to hold a gun, or to shoot somebody with it, but he's not nearly as good a shot as Jason Stackhouse, and he knows he can do better with practice. He looks up where the local range is, drives out in his shitty hooptie to plunk down his license and cash and head out. The air is pretty bitterly cold, but Lafayette feels it less as he concentrates, hands gripping around the pistol as he aims and fires. Not good enough.
He licks nervously at his lips, drying out in the cold until the start to crack. It's his patience that starts to go, next It isn't like him, to lose his patience, and not keep his cool. The frustration only sends his aim even more down the toilet, and he curses under his breath, ripping the soft mufflers off of his head.
