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[sweetsalome]

Is he sleeping?

He sleeps a lot, even during the day! 

Doesn't he know only babies nap?  Guess not.

Wee Salome learned at a tender age not to make too much noise, well, ever.  Not that she was ever a very loud child but it was easily apparent even to her that loud noises weren't something enjoyable around the house.  Outside was fine, but inside she had to be quiet. 

It's really, really, really, hard to be quiet.  Really, really, really, really, really hard.  Especially when there is nothing to do.

Bear ear between her teeth she does a slow crawl up to the couch and slowly, or as slowly as she can manage, inch up to peer over the edge of the cushion at her dad.  It's all in the eyes, if he opens his eyes then he is not asleep and she can climb up with him and try and get him to do something.  Or at least put a different video in.

She isn't allowed to play with the VCR.  Any more.

Taking the bear from her teeth she lifts it as well and lets it's floppy little legs dangle over his arm and up to his chest till Richard Vasko is nose to muzzle with stuffed bear face. 

WAKEY WAKEY MOTHERFUCKER.

Comments

[soursanguine.livejournal.com]

Something wrong, or something right? Shit, most parents these days just plop their kids in front of the television and forget about them for eighteen years. At least he's thinking of her. This will all reassure her that she's perfectly safe in his presence.

She'll thank him in twenty years.

Her supposition that Susan is a clown nearly results in him choking on his tongue. Oh, how he thinks about agreeing with her. It's so hard not to. He barks out a laugh, hand covering his mouth as he watches her pretend to put on lipstick, and then gently pats her head. "No, baby, mommy's not a clown. She just wears make-up. Lots of women wear make-up. Someday, you might, too. But not until you're twenty-one." Keep dreaming, Richard. Keep dreaming.

Then, pausing, hiding his smile, he says, "Anyway, your mother can't be a clown. Witches can't be clowns. But-- perhaps I've said too much."

Oh, yeah. Susan'll love it.

The block they live on is a fine little chunk of suburbia; under normal circumstances, he wouldn't be able to afford such a house, but four years previous it came into his possession by way of inheritance from someone he cared about, and Richard knows a lucky break when he sees one. He hates the suburbs, but it's good for the kid, and as suburbs go, this one isn't terrible. Maybe old fashioned, but full of upper-middle-class cougars and literally a two to five minute drive from the city, proper. Hell, he could walk to the nearest gallery if his leg wouldn't give out on him after forty minutes.

At the end of their block, they take a left, walking past the brick sculpture that decorates the entrance of the neighborhood. He chuckles and squeezes her hand at the look on her face, and her answer. Yeah, he kind of figured. "You always get chocolate and vanilla and sprinkles. Someday you're going to turn into chocolate and vanilla and sprinkles." He chuckles and shakes his head, and then struggles against a smirk as she gives him permission to hold bear.

"Can I! Well, I shall certainly look forward to it." Yes, her bitch, forever and ever. But that's fine, she gets so distraught whenever the animal has to go in the washing machine, so it's easier to simply hold it than let it get dirty. "Bear and I can hang out and keep an eye on you." And maybe he can teach Bear to flirt with MILFs. It's an important moment in any stuffed animal's life.

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"No, princess, but you're too young, little girls shouldn't wear make-up." Also, that shit is expensive, but Richard is only half-aware of that little fact. "But actually, if you put on too much, then yes. Yes, you'll look like a clown. And nobody wants to be a clown."

Is there a reason why people go into that career, other than latent pedophilia? It's like voluntarily becoming the most universally-hated type of person in existence.

Oh, Richard is going to get one furious phone call that day. Accusations of his daughter dumping water on her because someone apparently told the girl she was a witch. Yeah, that's really not going to go well at all.

Hey, it's not his fault the girl is proactive when it comes to taking care of monsters. And it will be satisfying to know that she tried to melt her mother. Point: Richard.

"Naah, if I wanted to eat you I'd have done it already, sweet as you are." He laughs and reaches down with his free hand to tickle her ribs, and then he moves the cigarette from his lips to make as though to scarf down her head. "But you're right, I suppose if you turned into chocolate you'd be even tastier."

As she skips to hurry up, he slows down just a little bit more. Yes, his adorable little caretaker who does such a good job nursing him back to health when he's down and out with pain and Percocet.

Poor Bear's got to get clean somehow. He always bounces right back. The trick is to put him in a pillowcase so he doesn't get hurt, and instead enjoys swirling around in the machine. It's like a water park ride made just for stuffed animals.

The street fades from suburbia to rustic little shops in old buildings on a brick street quite quickly; Richard flicks a glance at the cramped candy store with the glass window front but makes his way instead to the ice cream parlor, lurching in and hanging on the glass door to keep it open for Salome.

"Don't worry, baby, I'll keep an eye on him. I wouldn't let Bear get lost, or wander off with a pretty lady." From the corner of his mouth, in a higher-pitched, cartoony voice tinged with a vague hint of Boston accent, he makes Bear say, "'I ain't goin' nowheres without you, kiddo. You know that.'"

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"Because clowns are like werewolves." Oh, boy, here we go. "If you ever go walking in the dead of night, say, around a fairground, or a circus, you'd ought to be careful. Really, you shouldn't go at all if you can help it. Because when you're walking in the dark, you might hear a scary...honk, honk. Don't ever take a balloon animal from a clown. That's how they get you."

Yeah, that party is going to be hilarious. He will happily comfort her and pet her, and send her off to play with the other sane children who have healthy fears of strangers wearing terrifying face paint and rainbow wigs. Not that he doesn't love it when she uses him as a hiding spot, but dammit, there's divorcees to hit on at those parties. And grown-up punch to drink.

But goddamn does that child have a steel grip.

With a warm little chuckle, he enunciates for her. "Del-ish-us, baby. Del-ish-us." As adorable as her mumbling is, it's always important to help children speak properly.

Nope. Nope, that's dirt. All his love is inside, tucked along the fibers of the cotton that fill him. And that's obviously what makes him talk, too. Richard isn't going to need ice cream if this keeps up, the girl is going to give him a goddamned cavity all by herself.

Bending down, Richard scoops her up to let her see the case better, and to let the college students working behind the counter a chance to coo at her. "'I love you, too, kiddo,'" 'Bear' says, slightly muffled, the effect achieved by Richard moving his lips even less. "'Ack, you're squishin' me.'"

"Of course Bear talks," her father tells her, "all favorite stuffed animals talk. Mine talked when I was little. One chocolate and vanilla kids' cone with extra sprinkles and one large dark chocolate malt."

Anorexic young women, take note: the secret to a slim figure is to take junk in all its forms, and eat nothing but the occasional rich sweet food. Occasionally chasing around a teeny menace is helpful, too.

The girls both look like they're about to expire, and while one (6, butterface) sets about making Richard's malt, the other (7.5, bad teeth, cute nose) smiles at Salome. "Do you want to taste test any of the other flavors before I make your cone, sweetheart?"

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Well, maybe he'll buy her one of those little balloon animal-making kits they sell at bookstores. Balloon animals are safe if they don't come from clowns, everyone knows that.

Oh hell yeah, bitches love a single young father with an air of responsibility, especially when he's as good looking as Richard is. He uses the elderly for the same purpose; he's all for helping little old ladies across the street, or volunteering at hospices, because that shit is the perfect cover in every possible way and gets you pussy because you look compassionate as fuck.

Plus, old people are interesting to talk to. They're the one group of people Richard can (generally) stand straight across the board, or at least respect. After all, they've made it this far. They've seen some serious shit, and war vets have some crazy fucking stories if they don't get all 'Nam-flashback on your ass. There are lots of benefits to occasionally volunteering to help the elderly.

Also, they don't really need all that pain medication they keep lying around. If they did it wouldn't just be out in the open like that, am I right?

There's nothing more annoying (or depressing) than a child who enters kindergarten barely knowing how to speak. Luckily for Salome, however, ignorance is not tolerated by either one of her parents, so she has the benefit of being given a head-start on most of her studies.

The coo that her shyness tears from the girl gets a chuckle from Richard, who turns his head to kiss hers and pat her back. "You don't have to be so shy, baby." He grins toward the girl behind the counter and shakes his head, saying, "She's fine, thanks, though. Can you tell the lady 'No, thank you,' Salome?"

As he carries her to the other end of the counter, and the cash register, he says, "Well, when I was little, I had a stuffed black wolf named Onyx. Of course he talked to me." Not in a Son of Sam way, just in a little boy with a vivid imagination, Calvin and Hobbes kind of way. "We would get up to mischief together, sleep together, draw together, so of course we talked."

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Certainly, he was already mellowing by the time Salome got to him--Delilah's influence, no doubt, and murder's--but the simple fact of the matter is that, when one's own garden bears the sweetest fruit in the neighborhood, why bother plundering the neighbor's trees for a few paltry crab-apples?

And as to stealing drugs from old people, well. If the opportunity arises, he won't say 'no', but it's not as much a part of his life in 2012 as it was when he was occasionally volunteering to help them in his younger years. He has bigger, bloodier fish to fry when it comes to doing illegal things.

For now, though, his bad habits are moderately small, excluding a night or two every year when he gets a certain urge. The fact that these things are small makes them easy to hide from his daughter, whom he would prefer not to grow into a criminal. Not that he's concerned about her growing up to be something necessarily constructive or helpful to society, but it might be nice to see her successful for herself. She's rather well-adjusted at the moment, anyway, so why fuck it up?

Aside from things like clown-related trauma, of course.

He's probably dragged Salome volunteering with him, or attempted to, anyway, because there's nothing old people love more than tiny children who they can mistake for their own grandchildren who are by now twenty years old and disinterested in visiting. Why she threw such a fit about coming with him, he'll never know (though he has some small idea, the elderly are rather dull) but it was important she come at least once or twice.

Looks are important, but Richard would rather have an elephant girl with a genius IQ than oh, say, Kim Kardashian, who is not that attractive in the first place.

"You're much too cute, Salome." Richard chuckles at her little joke, then shares a roguish grin with that cooing girl behind the counter. Yeah, without a couple of drinks in him he wouldn't fuck her, but he'd let her give him a blowjob any time. He's picky as hell.

With his free hand, Richard extracts his wallet from his back pocket and flips it open. "It has, look at that! Thank the nice ladies, now, Salome."

It's a delicate juggling act. Wallet, child, malt shake. Somehow, he manages, and notices the girls seem to have forgotten the charge for Salome's cone. Clearly the actual manager is not about. He flashes a glinting smile and drops the cost of the cone into the tip jar as he chuckles to his daughter. "You see, you claim to be afraid of monsters. Think how terrified of you that poor ice cream cone is."

She's like ice cream Hitler, that child.

Sipping on his malt, Richard makes his way back outside. He sets her down and places a hand upon the back of her head to keep track of her, saying, "You know, I think I might still have him someplace, yes. I'll look around, you can meet him." He's not much one for keeping sentimental shit from his childhood, but he's pretty sure there's a couple of boxes of stuff he ended up saving when Salome came into his life because hand-me-down toys are still excellent toys. "I'm sure he'd love to be your friend, and friends with Bear, too. They can wreak havoc on all your other little stuffed friends."

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He's got so much swag he might as well have invented the concept. This child, though, is like the ultimate swag accessory. He loves her for other reasons, of course, but that fact is a marvelous bonus he will never be able to complain about.

Oh, that cute baby. Such a horrible scene of gore he's never observed with his own two eyes, not since butchering his own mother in a bathtub; he laughs, trying his best to look faint as Salome eliminates the ice cream. Thank God he grabbed some napkins on the way out, damn, what a mess. "Oh, the humanity!" Dair-manity? "It had an ice cream family! Kids to sprinkle!"

With the way he is bound to obey her every beck and call, he'd might as well be calling her Mein Fuhrer. Jaysus. He chuckles, though, and leans down to steal a lick of her cone, then straightens up with a thoughtful look. "Hm. Perhaps you're right, the deliciousness is worth the cruelty."

Again, his pace is forced to slow as the girl clings tight to his black jeans. He keeps an eye on her as he sips his malt--oh, so delicious, those girls put extra powder in, fuck yeah, who needs blowjobs when there are malts this good--and says, "Don't they? I was always lead to believe they did. Well, perhaps they'll surprise you, it can't hurt to give it a shot. I'm sure Onyx would like to play with you, and would be willing to overlook any animosity toward Bear to do it."

Traffic is slow, but it doesn't stop him from keeping a firm hand upon her as he ushers her across the street, turning another corner. Walking always makes an opiate high so pleasant, it's like the ground is rising to meet him with every step, like the world is a treadmill just taking him wherever he needs to go. A malt in one hand, his daughter in the other--this parenting thing isn't so bad. Exhausting, maybe, and a drain on the wallet, sure, but whatever. He's got means. There's always more money, and as far as that sort of thing goes, he's fortunate.

Even if one of the reasons for that fortune has him on the end of a fucking leash.

"Anyway, you never know if two people--or animals--will be friends until they meet each other. They might very well surprise you."

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Yeah, that was...that was just great. That dog was the happiest goddamn dog ever, and Salome had a good time. He's thought about getting a dog before, but it seems fiscally unwise, and like it'd be a bit of a pain. Too bad, he likes the animals (more than he likes cats, anyway). Maybe someday, though. Some big guard dog to keep Salome safe when he isn't looking.

Maybe it's her choice of words--'this wolf'--or the fact that Bear only condescends to meet with some who request his audience, or the fact that Salome is apparently his agent in these matters, but whatever the reason, he cracks up. His eyebrows lift to the middle of his forehead and knit while he stares down at Bear. "Is that so? Why, Mister Bear, I had no idea you were so very influential a gentleman."

"'That's 'cause you gotta be in the know to know, bub.'"

That bear is awfully abrasive at times.

That little song just about kills him, it's so cute coming from her. "Just so, clever girl." He gives her hand an affectionate squeeze and helps her back up onto the curb, eyes tracing over the colorful foliage dotting the sidewalk.

"So, princess, what do you want to be for Halloween this year? Any ideas yet?" Speaking of invisible men, she's about old enough to show her the old Universal Horror films. Fuck yeah, they're going to have a good time this month. "I'll have to decorate the house soon."

Halloween at the Vasko house is an all out affair. Some people get all into Christmas with the lights and the big blow-up figures of Santa and Frosty. Richard's preferred holiday tastes are somewhat spookier than that, and he has recently begun going to great lengths to make his house the most badass on the block. By the time he's in his thirties, it will become notorious as 'that awesome house' around every Halloween.

Because Richard only likes other people's children when he has an excuse to scare the everloving shit out of them.

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Perhaps for Christmas, there will be a dog. One never knows what Santa will cram under that tree, after all.

He chuckles at Salome's suggestion to Bear, nodding. "Exactly, Bear, you'd ought to thank me."

"'Yeah, sure, whateva. Thanks, Richid.'"

With an 'oh, you' sort of look on his face, Richard shakes his head and smirks. Bear can breathe in the washing machine because magic, that's why. Stuffed animals are magic, they can breathe anywhere no matter what. That's stuffed toy 101.

Her intended costume has him fighting back laughter again; a little bit slips through and he grins. "A whale, silly girl. Wouldn't you rather be something exciting, like a little monster of some sort? A little vampire, a werewolf? A dragon? Perhaps a Disney character?" Be careful, Richard, she'll pick the whale from Pinocchio.

Well, whatever. Whatever she ends up picking, he'll do it, although he'll certainly try to talk her out of it, or at least make it interesting. If she really persists on the whale line of thought maybe he'll go with something like 'a whale that's just eaten a seal'. Or he could talk her up to shark, maybe. They smile, they smile a lot.

Though the fact that she thinks whales are really happy is so fucking adorable. This is how she gets away with so much, and why he spoils her rotten, because she just absolutely strangles him with how cute she is.

"Don't worry, baby, I won't put any clowns in it. But yes, I'm going to make it very scary. And awesome. Lots of headstones and cobwebs and maybe some scary monsters." He laughs at her little statement and pats her. "I'm sure you would do a fine job eradicating the clown menace, baby, everyone would be very proud and maybe they'd give you a medal."

She's creative, his little Salome.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, girl, are you eating that ice cream or finger painting with it?" He laughs, squatting down before her to extract the dripping cone from her hand and wipe her hand and face mercilessly clean. Ignoring the playing children, he assaults her still-vaguely chocolatey cheek with smooches before leaning away to appraise the squealing children that clamber over the playground toys like bacterium wiggling over a men's room door handle. Eugh.

Oh, fuck. That little prick is here. God dammit. And of course his mother is nowhere in sight. She lives only a block away, but five is too young to just stroll la-dee-dah to the park by oneself. But a few other parents are about, at least, and so are a few of Salome's bearable friends, so it's not a total disaster in the making.

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A little snerk of a laugh is produced when his five-year-old daughter uses the word ''tude'. "Indeed, he does, quite the 'tude." One can hear the quotation marks around the half word, see them in the smirk on his face. Bear's 'tude is just part of Bear, and he wouldn't do a thing to change the little animal.

As she expounds upon the glory of whales and all that infectious enthusiasm comes through in her words, he chuckles. "Well, I suppose I need to learn more about whales to be as excited about them s you are. You know, they get even larger than ships. they're really tremendous things."

Yes, the happiest little killer whale in the world. Kill you with cuteness, she will.

"A whale person, that's a brilliant idea!" Please, like he'd ever let her run around in an outfit that bared anything, especially not on Halloween. She will be the most modest whalemaid ever. Modest and adorable. "We can give you little fangs, too, you can be a killer whalemaid. Very clever, Salome."

So adorable.

Indeed, Tommy is on Richard's shit list, and will be forever and ever. He laughs as she crams the bear into his hands, and he looks down at the little creature with a look of strange mutual understanding before turning to watch as his little daughter dashes into the squealing, yowling thick of it. Chuckling, Richard makes his way to the nearby bench and drapes himself in one end, nodding toward the ladies that gather talking to one side of the playground. He settles back, one arm draping upon the wood as he sips his malt, keeping an eye on Salome, and an even closer eye on that little bastard.

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Fuck people's legs. Maybe he'll make the tail extra-hair so she can use it as a weapon. In all actuality, though, he'll probably go for gentle foam, because his legs are at peril, too. Half the fun of Halloween is designing his daughter's costumes.

Bear settles himself upon Richard's knee, the latter disposing of the ice cream cone in the trash. He and the stuffed animal understand each other very well. They are both very protective of their girl, and both happy to oogle the mothers who stand to the side.

Someday, that gross little bastard is going to grow up and live a life of being creepy and unlikable. The only women who will ever visit with him will be whores, in either a literal or metaphorical sense. But for the moment, the little bastard doesn't seem to be doing much, so Richard makes his smiling way over toward the chatting mothers when the youngest of the three waves to him.

"Mrs. Haze, Mrs. Trapp, Miss Violet." Smiling, he tucks Bear beneath the arms he crosses over his chest as he watches the children with them. "And how are you ladies doing this fine day?"

"Dick, we were just talking about you and little Salome. How have you been?"

"Fine, fine..."

One eye never leaves the children, though, and he hides the sudden tension in his jaw as he sees Tommy weasel his way into their little group. Of course he's suddenly interested in them now that Salome's here. The little creep.

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The candy is great, sure. Nothing is better than picking over Salome's bag and taking out a few taxable items for himself, sugar fiend that he is. But the best is the challenge of driving all over to thrift stores and Halloween shops, of using costume make-up and gory prosthetics.

And goddammit, if she wants to be a whalemaid, he will make her into the coolest fucking whalemaid that ever flopped along land.

Tommy's arteries are going to be hard as rocks by the time he's fifty, and when his heart attack finally happens, it will be in a cramped little apartment with a depressingly low-watt bulb.

Unfortunately, Richard will never know any of this with certainty; he just sort of assumes it. For now, he doesn't even do that, getting wrapped up in flirting with Melinda Haze as he is. Sure, she's married, but that never stopped anybody from anything, least not of all him. He's already up close to her, almost touching but refraining for the sake of propriety while he engages in charming conversation with the other two, less interesting women.

But then that little pissant cuts in front of Salome, and Richard leans around the women to clear his throat incredibly loudly. "Let's wait our turn, now. That's what lines are for."

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His child has the most disturbingly small sweet tooth of any little girl her age. When he was a boy on Halloween he gorged himself until he was violently ill and fought all efforts on the part of his mother to in some way maintain her son's intake. Crazy. But her generosity is adorable, so he's not too concerned.

Yeah, funny that. Late sixteen, early seventeen seems an unnervingly good age for Salome. Wonder why. Either way, it just means Halloween that year is going to be awesome.

Back in the present, though, he quirks a little smirk as the child darts off. His narrowed eyes track the boy across the playground as the child clambers upon the merry-go-round. In his head, he loudly thinks, Yeah, you little son of a bitch, you do whatever you want. And so do I. So you had better hope what I want doesn't include giving you your first black eye.

Then, with a polite smile and a little 'pardon me' from the ladies, Richard disposes of his empty shake cup and makes his way over to Salome, one paranoid hand on her waist as she attempts the monkey bars. Bear peers up safely from the pocket of his coat like a fuzzy little tumor.

"You want to go on the swing in a little bit, baby? I can push you." Yeah, you creepy little fucker, when was the last time a responsible parent pushed you on the swing? Suck it.