((OOC: Sorry it took a short while g-g-gang! >.>'))<br/><br/>You know those glitchy moments where chya stride into a room all full o' purpose, know exactly what ya need t'do, then, no sooner than you cross the threshold of the place, you<span style="font-style: italic">completely</span>forget what you came for?<br/>--- Well Phillipe-me-mates-call-meh-LIP had walked into<span style="font-weight: bold">life</span>and forgot what he came for.<br/>He seemed to exist eternally in the mind that he had forgotten something of great importance and couldn't for the life of him recall what it was... it made it all so terrible irritating... It wasn't a question of questioning his pitiful existence. Nossir. YES, he knew he had meaning, YES, he was there for a reason despite the doubts of a million-billion-and-something philosophers throughout the ages who threw a shadow of doubt on conscious sentience at all...<br/>Lip had a crucial role to play (and it wasn't just the paranoia the years of weed had blessed him with talking!) he'd just forgotten it was all, like the aftermath of a stoked night out!<br/><br/>The baby haired piss artist magically transformed into pseudo-intellectual every full hangover. Like clockwork! He'd follow his nose and crawl to the local coffee haunt at seven AM when his stomach would rudely jerk him awake by feeling.... well, something like he'd imagine cement mixers to feel! Mouth dryer than death valley on a sunny afternoon, tongue feeling like a chewed wad of cotton, eyelids weld shut with duct meat.<br/>It was the same old routine. To the bathroom like a shot, speak to God on the big white telephone, dunk his head in the sink and swallow enough water to drown certain breeds of small fish. Fall over whilst attempt to coolly slip into jeans and whoevers shirt he could find on the floor first-- damn acrobatics-- shrug it off. Dash out for the bus just in time to catch it pulling out, give the driver the two fingered salute (oh come on! He could've seen Lip running from a mile away!) and trudge the thousand mile (probably only three at most but Lip was prone to exaggeration) trek to<span style="font-style: italic">Wolf's Cove</span>. Find his old faithful corner table and fiercely claim it. If anyone had been unfortunate enough to already be seated there, he'd wordlessly sit next to them, like it was completely normal, carry on with his hangover ritual and wait for them to fuck right off. They always did. Guilty any? No. These were 7AM people. Dozy housewives clutching milk bottles to their hearts and cheerful office drones who needed a second seat for their suitcases!<br/>He'd sprawl across the table for a while, head buried in his cross arms, maybe dribbling on his sleeves a little if he'd rested his cheek flesh funny and couldn't be bothered to move.<br/><br/>Then he would think.<br/><br/>About anything, about everything. About himself, about others, about things, about places, about you and about me. It was good personal space.<br/>After a while he checked himself over for damage, counted his fingers and toes and consider himself lucky if they were all there, rolled his shoulders and neck back in their joints, casually rub his face like he'd had a looong ass day (today's casualty was a split lip and a couple of stiff joints, could be better could be worse) and check the old pocket museum.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">Wallet-- yup, keys-- yup... what the hell is this.. a bottle of..</span><br/>-- he checks the label.<br/>--<span style="font-style: italic">... kitchen bleach? The hell am I gonna use 'Mr Muscle' for!? Jesus H! I don't even got no kitchen! ... when's dads birthday...?</span><br/><br/>"You want a refill, hon?"<br/><br/>A soft voice crashed his train of thought.<br/>Lip settled back in his chair with a laboured sigh, looking up at the waitress with the best pitiful, wide eyes expression in his artillery,  "That'd be a Godsend, babe!"<br/><br/>"You gonna pay for it in<span style="font-style: italic">real</span>money this time?" she raised a disproving eyebrow, arms crossed over neat little swell of her chest. Her Stepmother (owned the place) was a savage old cow of a business woman, made Cindy do all the work (whilst her own two daughter ran off scott free to wear too much makeup and go clubbing), but, better yet, made her do it all in a uniform one uncomfortable size too small, brought in business. Usually meant she got bigger<span style="text-decoration: line-through;">tits</span>--<span style="font-style: italic">tips, tips, he meant TIPS</span>.<br/>Only last time Lip had tipped her in the buttons he'd managed to pry off of his shirt fidgeting that morning...<br/><br/>"Aye," He switched to charming mode, shooting her a crooked wee grin and a wink, "If ya promise t' bring us<span style="font-style: italic">real</span>coffee this time and not tha' processed shit ya usually do?"<br/><br/>"Oh very funny!" she flicked him with a tea towel irritably, not that she wasn't fond of the kid. She'd seen him on and off nearly every week for the past three years.<br/><br/>â€œIt was! But... well. Yeah, am kinda sorry fer tha'...â€ he pulled his knees up to his chest, bare heels (the shoes were snuggling up to the table leg in a neat pile beneath them and his socks had long since traded their soles to the devil) resting on the edge of the seat by his skinny backside.<br/><br/>Cindy topped him up with a quick roll of her eyes.<br/><br/>Lip fidgeted with his nose stud awkwardly, wide eyed with sincerity, â€œI'll help you out in the kitchen if you want? Make up fer it?â€<br/><br/>Cindy snorted, â€œLike hell you will!â€<br/><br/>â€œI will!â€<br/><br/>â€œYou won't! I know you better than that Lip! If you're a man of your word, I'm a slug princess!â€ she snatched up one of the plates loud enough his hangover groaned.<br/><br/>â€œWhat do you mean?! I<span style="font-style: italic">love</span>hard work!â€ he protested.<br/><br/>â€œYeah, you could watch it all day!â€ Cindy sauntered back into the 'neutral' coloured labyrinth of chairs, tables and  nobodies.<br/><br/>He watched her through the curls of steam above his mug, baby blues narrowed. Hmm...<br/><br/>A short while later he wrestled his train-wreck blazer back over the thin rack of his shoulder, dug out the last of his change for her and hid the coins under the bottle of bleach. He had no facking idea what he'd had the thing for in the first place (was no stranger to coming home with strange things), but see, everything worked out in the end! Ha! Man of his word, indeed sir!<br/><br/>The bell jingled cheerily as he skipped out onto the curb on the corner when a face he very much recognised emerged from the shop opposite. Snow was a common enough face about town, a bit... well 'off' he gathered from the way the other girls in town seemed to avoid spending too long in her presence. Maybe it was contagious? People did the same jazz around him-- hey! She was a slight thing, hair standing out against the urban gloom like a silver dollar coin caught in the gutter-- most interestingly though was the fresh groceries...<br/><br/>More fascinatingly still was how the shape of the bags seemed to match those groaning empty space in Papa Bears cupboards back at the flat...<br/><br/>â€œLil Miss Markenson!â€ he grinned widely, dashing across the road to greet her, â€œHow you doin' this mornin', chick?â€