paradisalost | 033. Royal Orleans

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brock samson

033. Royal Orleans

[People can build bonfires and burn effigies all they want -- some guys (lowercase G) have work to do!

One of whom is Brock. He has work to do.

That work is, of course, patching up the huge fuckoff hole in the side of his dumb cabin. He is out in the woods right now, though he's more staring at the huge fuckoff hole than doing any sort of repair. How does one even fix a hole in a log cabin. Does he need to knock down the whole wall ...

Making a frustrated noise, he flips his journal open.]

I lost my lumberjack. Does anyone cut down trees for fun, or do I have to go find an axe?

-- and Crowley. I hope you got a steering lock for your goddamn car.

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[Observe as Brock comically drops his beer at that statement.]

You do that and I'm breaking all your limbs.

Why? You apparently love to suffer, and I am only accommodating that desire by giving you more work.

[And now he's making choking motions with his hands. He doesn't even know he's doing it.]

It's not -- I'm not going to let you keep blowing up my shit!

[Molotov just casually sips more beer!]

And I won't, if you use the wood.

[Choke that air, Samson! You can do it!]

That's the stupidest ultimatum I ever heard. Why do you care?

Same reason you will not marry me, I suppose. Because I think it is stupid.

That's completely different! A magic castle marriage isn't like, a hobby, Mol. I'm trying to build this stupid thing without magic because maybe I don't want to rely on this place to do every single thing for me. Don't you get that?

[Wow, Brock. You say really stupid shit sometimes, why is this?

After several moments of staring at him, Molotov very abruptly produces a grenade, which she starts to gently toss up and catch.]

You really want to chop wood, Samson?

[He said perfectly fine shit, thank you! This made absolute sense, it's like why somebody makes their own clothes instead of going to the mall. Besides, she knows he hates this stupid magic stuff anyway! Why are you being such a jerk, Molotov. Why.

Brock stares at her like he is about two seconds from cutting her throat.]

Put that away!

[No, it was stupid shit! It's fine to make your own clothes if you are good at it, but this wasn't even really akin to that analogy. People who make their own clothes buy the fabric, right? They don't make the fabric and the needles and the threads themselves. Anyway, the stupid shit was more about marriage.

Molotov glares right back, and loops her finger through the pin, though she's not pulling yet.]

Why should I? It seems to me like only a wife would have to respect her husband's property. But since it would be stupid for us to be married, I suppose that respect is stupid too...

[Well, it wasn't like he was planting seeds and waiting for them to grow into trees before cutting them down! Guys who build cabins do not to go the log store and buy logs. He's trying to do this as if he weren't living in a magical paradise, okay? Let him have his dream!

Let him have his, you know, not knowing that it was a metaphor for marriage. Molotov, your boyfriend is a moron. Why do you keep forgetting?]

What -- you know, it's kind of hard to have this conversation when you're holding a grenade.

[Yes they do, why do you think logging companies exist! In the real world, you need permits and shit to cut down trees. Also, you have to own land to build shitty little cabins, you can't just take whatever parcel of land you want! So Brock is indulging in the magical paradise lifestyle, regardless of what his dumb dream is!

Angling her head a little, Molotov shrugs.]

Why? We are not on a time limit yet. Pin's still in.

Because I don't like having conversations with a weapon pointed in my face. Call me sensitive.

It is not pointed at you, Samson. I am merely holding one of my belongings, until which point I see fit to throw it.

Fine. [And he walks calmly around the side of the cabin, disappearing for a few moments.

Then he comes back with like two axes slung over his shoulders because Brock is a dumb baby. Brock, you're not going to use those on your girlfriend; what are you doing.]

So, you want me to use magic logs to ... what, prove a point? That you can make me do what you want, or something?

Of course not, darling. [Molotov's voice and gaze are now cosseting and soft, but she's still clutching a grenade in her hand.] I merely hate to see you be inefficient and wasteful of your own time.

[Brock just looks pissed off! Because he is Brock, that's how he looks.] It's a hobby. It's not a waste of time. I want to do it this way.

Rebuilding a cabin over and over again is not a "hobby", Brock, it is insanity.

It's not -- twice, this is only the second time.

[He pauses a moment to look at the car-shaped hole in the wall.]

Maybe I should have built it further away ...

Including the initial build, this will be the third time you have built this thing, Samson. And now you do not even have someone to provide the wood for you. You seem to think the wishes are something malevolent, but I think it is the other way around. I think this is the castle's way of giving us something to maintain our sanity with.

After all, for all your refusal of magic, you are still here, da? You still got turned into a high school child and a pirate and a dog, da? Da. So maybe wishing for raw lumber is not the worst thing in the world.

I don't like magic bullshit. It doesn't have anything to do with malevolence. I just don't like using it.

You lived next to a magic corpse rapist for years.

That's ... not what a necromancer is, doll.

Well, it does not matter, because you only seem to have an issue with it here.

I don't use magical castle "wishes" at home either, Mol.

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