fandomtownies | Entries tagged with michael guerin

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Malicious Deceased II

For some reason, it was 80s horror day at the MST3K. Ulysses was not about to question it. He'd been in kind of a weird funk since the year had rolled on into a new one, and it was unlikely that was going to change today, so it didn't really matter to him much what was playing in the theater today.

He would just sit listlessly at the box office and wait for his shift to end.

canondisasterbi

Michael had had a nice, quiet new years by his standards. He'd gone to the mainland, gotten into a little bit of a scrap at a dive bar, come home to his trailer, texted his siblings ("Happy new year from the year 2023!" - Michael. "Weirdo. ♥" - Isobel. "when r u comign home?" - Max.), missed Alex, got drunk of cheap beer, and passed out sometime around dawn. Then spent the next couple of days sleeping off his hangover.

All told, a fairly standard overturning of the year in the life of a genius dirtbag cowboy.

He spent some time today puttering around the junkyard, organizing heaps of scrap with with powers, tossing loose bits of aluminum to the chompy things, and otherwise lounging around his little oil barrel fire and pondering his role in life and the purpose of the cosmos and whether that dull patch on the toe of his boot was normal wear and tear or a sign that the old things were finally giving up the ghost.

What did it mean? What did it all mean?

And where the hell was he going to get decent cowboy boots in Baltimore?

[LET'S TRY ACTUALLY DOING A THING TODAY, SURE. open!]

weirderthanthou

"Shouldn't they be back by now?" Jesse said warily, staring at the time machine... thing... sitting in front of them. On the curb. As one does.

The redhead beside her in the furs and the metal blew a strand of hair away from her face. "The tricky thing about time travel is that it's relative," she said. "I think. But I can give it a tweak, just in case something's going wrong on our end."

"Sure," Jesse said. "It can't h--"

Aloy slammed the blunt end of her spear into the machine with a loud thunk that would make engineers everywhere either nod in understanding or scream in horror. Possibly both.

"... That should do it."

There was a big flash of light.

[[ strike team! feel free to ping your return to this post. people who might still be hanging around town hall, feel free to boggle. as of now, you are all back to normal. ]]

heroic_jawline

There were two men - if you wanted to call them that - sitting in this empty room. One wore a funny hat and a matching costume; the other, a Christmas sweater with the Mont St. Michel skyline on it, beleaguered by red-nosed reindeer, and a dark green tweet jacket. It made him look like a faintly out-of-touch schoolteacher, trying to be cool at a school rager.

Of course, none of Fandom's finest would be able to tell just yet. After all, they were out in the hallway.

( Yay the big finish )

[OOC: Time is a weird soup, especially in a time travel plot and also around the holidays. Please continue playing in the afternoon before the finale. I just have Holiday Shit To Do in RL!]

imafuturist

Well, everything was incredibly weird, but they had an idea on how to fix it! Kind of. It just involved building a time machine to send people back to the nexus point for all these changes and guests.

If they put their heads together and didn't end up in a fist fight or something, it'd be fine!

Right? Right.

At the very least, there was the best equipment that Tony could get to the island on short notice in addition to his usual lab supplies. Just. You know. No one travel back to the 50's to live there, completely breaking the pre-established rules of time travel.

canondisasterbi

Michael was working on fixing up an old rickshaw to tool around town with. Or possibly working on upgrading the rickshaw? Investigating how the hell it managed to roll so smoothly around all those stairs.

Anyway, he was tinkering with an old rickshaw. It was nice. Sort of reminded him of home.

Admittedly at home the engine tended to have less hair stuck in all the gears. Apparently this thing had had a run in with an alot of hair. Requiring an alot of repairs.

Not that Michael knew anything about the alots yet.

[open, but slow. My head is being big mean at me this morning.]

hasaknightjob

After a somewhat... spirited conversation with Marc last night ("You did what?") Steven, amazingly, managed to get some rest.

Thus he was on time for work that day and, other than possible plans to nip out during his lunch break, he could focus on research.

The research was on current portal fares for next week, but it was research all the same.

[open!]

canondisasterbi

Right. So it wasn't raining anything weird, or full of whispering voices, or doing anything else extra weird. And the chompy things seemed to have learned that if they tried to lunge at him they got a telekinetic whack for it, and mostly chewed disconsolately on some old tires.

Things were looking . . . yeah, okay, Michael had no idea what they were looking like other than "not Roswell", but hey. They weren't bad!

He was weirdly kind of missing a truck to work on, though. He wondered if that Summer chick would let him poke around her spaceship's engine.

[open!]

hasaknightjob

In spite of all protests, Marc did still have something of a life. Which was to say things that required him being out whether he wanted to or not.

Case in point, somebody had to be responsible for paying the bills and keeping on top of all the details that did things like make sure nothing happened to Steven's place back in London or to any of the bank accounts that allowed them to do things like afford a giant apartment in London on a museum gift shop clerk's paycheck.

Which was why Wednesday afternoon found Marc in the Perk doing what many did in coffee shops, which was drink coffee while on his phone doing work.

Or, after reading his most recent email, sighing and muttering to himself about what was the point of technology if not to let you avoid dealing with people in person?

Marc might need a stronger cup of coffee for this.

[open!]

defenderofdesmoines

Annie was getting married in a little over a week, and every day, something new happened that just cemented how real this was all becoming. Her bachelorette party had come and gone, and Diego's bachelor party was tomorrow. She'd had her private photoshoot earlier this week, her dress was hanging up in her closet at home, and her mom was going to be in Baltimore in a matter of days.

And, critically, Annie was going to be on her honeymoon for her shifts leading up to Halloween.

So Annie, naturally, was stress-eating candy. It was a good stress! But when it was October and you were feeling it, candy bar miniatures were the name of the game, and thus she had a bowl of them out on the bar with her tonight.

(Though Annie, true to form, was leaving all those unappealing...like, Snickers and Reeses Cups and Milky Ways for the rest of you, and concentrating mostly on Almond Joys, the Bit-o-Honeys, and the Charleston Chews.)

~*Specials*~
Almond Joy Martini
Butterfinger Shot
Snickers Cocktail

two_idiots_one_body

Arthur had finally been released yesterday! He'd made his way slowly to the hotel, nearly had a heart attack at the cost of it, which was several months' wages for a single night, paid it anyway, and promptly collapsed into bed and gone to sleep.

Look, it had been several blocks and a lot of steps with a cast on!

Today he was out again, though. There had been a brochure at the hotel for the local bank, which promised access to accounts no matter where you were from, and he would apparently need that in order to stay here.

At least he and John had the crutches down pat by now. The stairs were still a bitch, though.

He paused at the top of another short flight to catch his breath.

"The doctor wasn't exaggerating, was he?"

"Unfortunately. Shift off the crutch." Arthur put his weight on his good leg, and felt John rearranging to look at the map. "Another block forward, if this is right."

Arthur sighed. "Might as well get on with it, though."

John took up the crutch, and they continued on.

[Open post if anybody wants to waylay the guy with a full-leg cast and crutches who may be talking to himself!]

canondisasterbi

So. Michael was rather liking it here so far. Yeah, alright, so he had to worry about Max and Isobel back home, but what else was new? And now he didn't have to have them hovering around worrying about him anymore. And he wasn't constantly looking around thinking about how that was the spot he used to park the truck when it got cold at night. Or that was where he and Alex hooked up when they skipped class so no one would see them.

And that wasn't even starting on all the interesting people and things around here for him to learn about.

He had an idea, inspired by some of Connor's work on his "anomalies". He just needed to find some supplies, a bit of wire, an old catalytic converter. . . . Good thing he was living in a junkyard, huh? He was pulling aside an old bumper when it seemed to get caught on something. He gave it a few experimental tugs -- and he could swear it was like something tugged back --

"Jesus fu -- the hell is that?!"

The chomper he'd unearthed snapped irritatedly at him and he scrambled backward.

. . . Okay. So he'd just . . . get back to that pile.

[open!]

canondisasterbi

So. A little more than a week in, and Michael had told more people about his actual origin story than he had literally ever before in his entire life.

Sure, that previous number was zero, but still.

It was . . . weird. Knowing some people knew and knowing it had somehow not been a big deal and he probably didn't need to be looking over his shoulder for government agents. It also meant he could just drag the bits of alien glass he'd had in his trailer instead of in his bunker out into the junkyard proper so he could spread them out.

These weren't pieces that joined themselves up, unfortunately. Which was why they'd been in his trailer in the first place. They weren't part of the console, so what the hell were they? Maybe he could find some sort of weird metal in this place that would react to them and give him some clues.

[open!]

defenderofdesmoines

"Daaaah dah dah, something in September," Annie sang under her breath as she set out garnishes tonight and wrote up her specials. She was at least on-key, even if she clearly knew, like, exactly one actual word of this song.

Tiny grumbled something from across the bar, because of course, there was another flaw, besides her obvious lack of lyrical knowledge.

"I know it was yesterday," Annie finally acquiesced, looking up from another set of nah nah nah, nah nah nah nahs. "I know. But the song is stuck in my head now."

And now it would be stuck in Tiny's, and maybe yours too.

~*Specials*~
Undead Gentleman
Grapefruit Collins
Autumn Spiced Tonic

[ooooopen]

canondisasterbi

Well, it had been a few days now, and Michael and his trailer had not mysteriously ended up back in Roswell, so it looked like the portal that had brought them here might not recur any time soon. And he was not yet having any luck convincing the -- the freaking literal gnomes at the portal travel office in town to let him go back that way, either.

He'd gotten one return message from Isobel so far asking how drunk he was. Which . . . was fair. He sent her one back saying he wasn't nearly drunk enough yet, but if being here meant he could learn about portals and maybe figure out how to get them back to their home planet, then what the hell, might as well make the best of it, right?

"We're literally aliens, Iz," he hissed. "Portals and time travel aren't that much of a stretch!"

Well. If he was going to be stuck in this junkyard, he might as well make the best of it. He hung a sign on the gate and started setting about sorting some of this scrap out.

Cheap copper!
Assuming you can dig any out of this heap

Just wait until he found the chomp-y things.

[open!]

anomaly_research_nerd

Connor made his way into the Museum that morning and got to work fairly quickly. He had been inspired by his talk with Michael the other day and an idea had been planted in his head and it wasn't about to go anywhere, so Connor was running with it.

Once the museum was open, he settled down behind the front desk and got to work tinkering at his current project. Rex soon settled down on his favorite ledge high above the Lobby and watched, giving an encouraging call or trilling chirp as he did.

Museum is open!

fates_jaye

Tino had come in prepared for another day of letting the masses try his homemade Malort. He'd even come with a Malort punch. Don't ask what was in the punch. Malort was bad enough, don't torture yourself with ingredients.

Jaye put up with it just long enough till he went to take a phone call, and then she ran the vat of punch into the alley out back and rushed back to the bar before he got back.

She saved you all. You're welcome.

Ignore the trail of sloshed Malort on the floor.

[Idk, my head hurts. Open!]

canondisasterbi

It was Friday, and Michael had declared himself a long weekend last night, so he didn't manage to stumble his way out of his trailer until early afternoon.

Look. He liked to sleep in, okay?

He stretched, rubbed his eyes, adjusted his hat, and frowned.

Rubbed his eyes again.

Turned in a circle.

"Iz?" he said. "You trying to pull a mindscape thing on me?"

His sister didn't answer. And even if she had, she'd probably have him wandering around Sanders's junkyard, not some random, weirdly humid and salty-smelling one.

He found his way to the entrance gates and looked out at the town.

"I am definitely not in New Mexico anymore, ~~meta for~~ Toto."

[SO ENTIRELY OPEN! Come say howdy to the new cowboy in town!]

intraspective

So. As it turned out she hadn’t found anything in her medical scrolls about curing a cold. Nothing, that is, other than sleep, soup, and make sure to get enough liquids.

That? Was not useful.

Ino opened the shop, sure. Though she was pretty low on the whole, you know, usual cleaning routine and her plants got a lot less fussing over them than normal. Then she curled up in Cable-san’s chair, with a blanket (because she was freezing, seriously), and moped about being sick. Her head hurt, her body was a low-level ache, and she’d discovered this morning that medication tasted really bad no matter what world you were in. Ugh.

Wellspring Arms is Open.

perfectmissyork.livejournal.com

The past few weeks of work were finally coming to a head, and Charlotte was both nervous and excited and getting herself worked up into a frenzy with making sure everything was perfect. She couldn't help feeling an overwhelming sense of satisfaction with the exhibit, though. The turnout wasn't huge, but nicely manageable and thankfully not small by any measure. Some of the work was a bit amateurish, but she had to admit to being pretty blown away by a few of the others.

By the time eight o'clock rolled around and the doors were open, the gallery was set up in a display of the pieces by artist, and the usual spread of treats and drinks were available in another area of the room. Charlotte, dressed in a vibrant red, milled around the gallery to make sure everything was in order and all the guests were enjoying the exhibit. She was also keeping an eye out for the artists of certain pieces, since she was very eager to potentially meet them.

The Community Showcase Exhibit was open!

[[ ~~or will be, once I get the very extensive OCD up!~~ It's up! Enjoy! ]]

suit-of-sables.livejournal.com

Last performance and he had a feeling his actors were about done with the roles. You didn't want to do too many performances with an amateur group in the first place, but you also didn't want to deny them the chance to improve with each performance. Four next time, he figured. Four performances. And by then, hopefully, he'd have a stage manager to take care of the bills and paperwork for it.

For now, though...

[ocd coming up][omg last performance THANK EVERYONE WHO'S COME TO SEE IT and who's PERFORMED you're all awesome]

suit-of-sables.livejournal.com

Geoffrey doesn't know if he should open the box office.

After all, the news had said that they'd had their 'final performance'. Which was utter nonsense and he was tempted to find the announcers and strangle them but he'd been doing so well lately it was probably just stress. Yes. Right. No swans. Right.

But he opens it anyway.

The night can only get better.

[ocd ~~coming~~ up]

suit-of-sables.livejournal.com

Geoffrey was not a religious man.

That said, Geoffrey was a play director who'd had quite a few things go wrong last performance. As such, he didn't so much pray that things would go better tonight as stare up beyond the ceiling every few minutes during his preparations to silently ask 'what're you going to be throwing my way today, oh Lord?' He probably should have been a bit more of a supplicant as opposed to the equivalent of an irritated librarian, but Geoffrey's never been one for patience during a run.

Well... no matter what, the show would go on.

[ocd ~~coming~~ up!]

Current Mood: annoyed

suit-of-sables.livejournal.com

...he'd seen the kids around.

...he'd seen this before. And he knew how this place was.

Geoffrey opened the box office, praying that none of his actors had become children for the weekend. Everything had been going so well.

[ocd ~~coming~~ up!]

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