Greed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
material_guy) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dramadramaduck2012-05-20 07:05 pm
material_guy) wrote in dramadramaduck2012-05-20 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
[Video]
[His left hand (whose tattoo is looking unusually 3 dimensional and detached today, with the wings of the Oroborous having manifested) grabs a bottle of beer with a forced steadiness. In the low, yellow lighting of the bar, Greed's eyes narrow at the plate before him, currently empty beyond a single slice of white bread.
Popping the lid off of the beer with his teeth, spitting it away to the side and taking a desperate, hard swig, he gets to business, breath held with a tension reminiscent of a battlefield surgeon.]
Catfish!
[From off screen, somebody passes him an already prepared, pre-cooked, pre-sliced set of fish fillets. He throws a few down onto the bread. So far, so good. So far.]
Mustard!
[Somebody off screen passes him an iconic yellow bottle. He holds it high above the catfish and bread. With a squeeze producing a flatulent noise, oozing yellow gobs spurt down onto the sandwich to be. He throws the bottle away over his shoulder, empty hand held out, demanding, quickly:] Chocolate! [Handed a brown, the process repeats, his brows furrowing further, his teeth gritting, well aware that Operation: Sandwich has reached a critical point.
He knows the monster he is creating, but still, it can not be stopped.]
Pickles! How's that melon bread coming?!
[There's an off screen ruckus about the bread. Greed is handed an open jar of sliced pickles from which he takes a hand full of them and throws them vaguely at the plate. There's no time for delicacy in this situation. Quickly, someone hands him a carton of toxic-pink looking strawberry ice cream. One scoop is decisively thrust down onto the heap. Relinquishing the jar and the carton to a minion on either side of him, each quickly vacating the premises, Greed plants both hands onto the bar, staring down at the open faced sandwich with a palpable terror, his determination maintained by sheer animosity.
Within a few more seconds, somebody presents him with what looks like traditional Japanese melon bread, placed on top like a hamburger bun. Greed smashes it down on top of the sandwich defiantly, squishing the bread, causing some of the sauces and the melting ice cream to ooze out the sides.
He keeps his hand on top of it for a moment, taking in a shaky breath. The wings of that tattoo flap once as if expressing the shiver the rest of his body managed to repress.
And then he lifts it and takes a huge bite, more than a mouth full, more like an attempt to swallow the bastard sandwich whole. It's a valiant but failed attempt; tragedy in the absurd. He holds the sandwich with one hand, bringing the other over his mouth to hold it in as he chews it down and swallows. His balance wavers, but he shoves the remaining sandwich into his mouth, chewing, keeping that hand in place as the first bite already threatens to rise up again.]
[A few restrained, hiccup-like spasms later, the sandwich is down and prepared to digest.
Greed's going down, too. Settling onto his bar stool, he grabs the beer again and swallows the rest of it down, slamming the bottle onto the bar and pointing at the camera lens with a glare focused enough that this could only be a look meant for YOU, dear viewer, determined to get what gloating he can out of such a Pyrrhic victory.]
Take THAT!
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