Whatcha Gonna Do (Ponyboy/INACTIVE/TheGreasers)

[taylor]

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Johnny slipped out the front door, flipping the collar on his jean jacket despite the summer heat. Worn out shoes scuffing against the cracked pavement, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and shuffled his way down the sidewalk. Not for the first time he wished the clock on his bedside table hadn’t been used as a weapon and shattered into a million plastic pieces last week – he never knew the time and as a result had been continuously running late or arriving too early since then. Come to think of it, he’d probably be late tonight too. At least Pony would understand.

Dusk was falling; the sky, illuminated by the setting sun, was a bright orange color streaked with pink. It’s nice to look at it, Johnny decided. Real pretty.

The only problem with sunsets was what came after – nighttime, otherwise known as the dark. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the dark – rather, what it was associated with. As the night crickets started chirping around him, Johnny amused himself by kicking pebbles, watching as they bounced, skidded, and then came to a halt a few feet in front of him.

Kick. Bounce. Come to a stop. Kick. Bounce. Come to a stop. Kick. Bounce –

“Hey, watch where you’re kicking rocks, you little punk!”

Jonny jumped, startled, and then looked up to see who he’d accidentally kicked with a rock, but the guy was already half way down the street, briefcase clutched tightly in one fist.

“Sorry,” Johnny mumbled. He decided not to kick another rock.

Johnny curved around the corner and stared at the flashing bright lights, signs advertising one-day-only sales and Buy One Get One Free! Products; despite the raucous laughter and busy streets, he liked this part of town – he was able to blend in real well. Past the hippie health food store, the video store, the barber shop…

Windrixville Bowling Alley; there it was in all its glory. Peeling wallpaper, shattered glass in the parking lot, a broken record player stuck on the same song, an angry player shouting at the pinball machine pushed up against the wall – and that red stain on the sidewalk looked new.

Huh. Leaning up against the building, Johnny’s fingers itched for a smoke. The Joe Camel poster across the street wasn’t helping matters much either.

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[eastsidesunset]

It started out as a simple trip to the local bowling alley to meet up with Johnny. I mean, it was one of the only places you could go for fun that you didn't have to go over to the Soc side of town for. It was close to my house, too, just a few blocks walk. I wasn't looking for no trouble. What I was looking for was a cigarette. Darry'd taken my pack away this morning, saying how the cops would latch on to any excuse we gave them to arrest us-- For me, though, it'd probably be not the jail that awaited me I got caught but a boys' home. And that was worse.

So that was all I was doing, I swear, just walking by myself towards the bowling alley while there was still a bit of daylight left before sunset and minding my own business. Johnny was supposed to meet me there at six but everyone knew the clock at his house was shattered and so I didn't expect him to be on time or anything. I usually liked going places a bit early just to hang around and watch people go by anyway.

I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when I saw three greasers about Dally's age surround a couple kids on the sidewalk who looked about eleven or twelve, tops. They weren't sober, you could smell them from even where I was standing, and I think they wanted the kids' pinball-playing money. You could tell the kids were scared bad. They kept flipping all their their pockets inside out to prove they didn't have any money left, but the greasers were so drunk the words and actions didn't seem to register. They just kept on cussing them out and scaring the shit outta them.

I kinda recognised one of them, the greasers I mean, I think his name was Sam something, but I didn't know him personally. Seeing what those guys were doing, I didn't really want to know any of them. It was guys like them that gave greasers the rep we have, whether we like it or not. It wasn't anything too new, though, and I wasn't thinking of doing anything-- I mean, I'm no -- until the taller greaser-- the one with shorter hair than the norm for us-- suddenly seemed to get tired of playing games and grabbed the collar of the slightly older boy's jacket and shoved him against the nearest shop wall. You didn't have to be able to hear him to imagine what he was so obviously saying-- Pay up or get beat up. Your choice, kid.

That was when I lost it. I'm not a hundred percent sure why, but it had something to do with the look in the kid's eyes. It reminded me too much of how Johnny looked that day when the Socs got hold of him.

So, like the idiot I was, I ran over to the part of the sidewalk where they were all standing, yelling, "Hey, leave 'em alone, guys. Can't you see they ain't got no money?" I must've really surprised the tall one 'cause he actually slackened his grip on the kid's collar long enough for him and his friend to get away. They ran as fast as they could down the street and out of sight. Smart kids. Smarter than me, at least. What did I get myself into this time?

The three guys yelled after the kids for a few seconds, but didn't even bother chasing them. And then they started advancing towards me, glaring at me with slightly unfocused eyes. They weren't steady on their feet but I knew the drunk state they were in just made it worse. Sober, everybody knows what's going too far and what's not. Drunk... anything could happen and they wouldn't even remember when they woke up tomorrow. I shivered slightly, and it wasn't from the chill that this time of day brought.

"Whaddya think you're doin', huhh pal?" the one with slicked back blond hair slurred, pointing a finger at my chest none too lightly, "Stickin' your nose into our bus'ness." He shoved my shoulders and I stepped back a little before muttering defensively, "I told you, they didn't have any money. Just tryin' to tell you. I don't want any trouble. Besides, they're just kids. They couldn't've had more than a couple dollars anyway."

They acted like they didn't hear any of that. Instead, the tall one's eyes narrowed dangerously and walked right up close to me, saying loudly, "You need us to teach you a lesson, kid? Huh?" I couldn't help noticing how much taller and bigger than me they all were. Almost unconsciously, I stepped back a couple steps and almost tripped on the slight rise between grass and concrete. They laughed, a little too loudly I thought.

"You guys are too drunk to teach anyone a lesson," I muttered under my breath. Bad idea. The tall one was still close enough to hear me.

"Whaddya say, kid? Wanna repeat that?" he snarled, pushing me down on to the sidewalk without waiting for an answer. His friends caught on to the drift pretty quickly, punching my face and chest before I even figured out what was going on. The punches weren't hard but came one after another and knocked the breath outta me. A few seconds later I found an opening and rolled away from their fists but one of them pinned me again before I could do much more than take a few deep breaths. They just kept kicking and punching me everywhere, too drunk to care about what they were doing, and of course I got a few hits in too, but that was nothing compared to the way they were just whaling on me like I was I punching bag. I don't think they even knew why they were beating me up anymore at that point. I don't think they cared, either.

One of their punches landed right on my nose and warm liquid gushed out. I guess at some point someone must've gotten out a switchblade because I felt the cold metal of it slice my arm before really feeling the sting of it. Was this how Johnny'd felt?

Then, all of a sudden, one of them said out of the blue, "That's enough, guys. We don't wanna kill him. Besides, I think he's learned his lesson." And just like that, the punches stopped coming. And I think I heard heavy footsteps move away from me, but I couldn't be sure because the blood was pounding in my ears and made it hard to hear through it. Were they gone?

I lay still for a few more seconds to make sure, my whole body feeling like it'd just been through a wheat processor. I closed my eyes, forcing tears back and trying not to think about how much everything hurt. I'm not sure if I was there for seconds or minutes, but it was the discomfort of being watched by curious strangers that hauled me to my feet at the end. I hated the looks I saw people giving me even more than being beat up. I'd take the "Thank-God-This-Isn't-Me" look over the "Pity-the-Victims-of-Circumstance" look any day, though.

I walked stiffly into the bowling alley and towards the washroom, limping slightly and not looking anyone in the eye. Thankfully, it was empty and I could look over my injuries in peace. Nothing was broken, as far as I could tell, not even my nose, though it was still bleeding. I had a cut on my arm from that switchblade, a really big bruise above my eye, and countless scrapes and other bruises on my face, arms, and everywhere else. To top it all off, my head hurt like crazy. All things considered though... I wasn't too bad off. Those guys hadn't exactly been precise or anything with their hits and kicks. What really worried me was how I was going to explain this mess to Darry.

I sighed, pinching my nose to stop the light bleeding, then grabbed a couple paper towels and gingerly cleaned some of the blood off my face and arms. No need to look any more gruesome than I already did. After I had done all I could to clean up, I looked more closely at the cut on my arm. It wasn't too deep, but it was pretty big. There wasn't much I could do for it except wrap a few paper towels around my arm and leave it to heal on its own. So I went ahead and did that, then headed back outside to see if Johnny was here yet.

I spotted him just arriving, looking at a poster of cigarettes. "Hey, Johnny!" I called, my voice sounding tired and kinda croaky for some reason. I hoped he wouldn't be too shocked about all this. Either way, though, I had a lotta explaining to do.

[taylor]

Johnny turned and, for a moment, almost didn’t recognize the limping, battered kid with a swelling purple bruise above his eyebrow as Ponyboy. His voice hoarse, paper towels with spots of red – where blood bled through, he guessed – wrapped around his forearm, shallow scrapes and darkening bruises littering his body like the countless cigarette butts that could be found on any lot in the Greaser side of town; he looked like he’d just gotten in a fight with a meat grinder and lost.

Gaping at him, Johnny recovered his voice and breathed, “Glory, Pony! What the hell happened to you?”

For all his smarts, Ponyboy sure got in sticky situations often – probably more so than anyone else he knew, except Dally, who found trouble on purpose, it seemed. Crossing the distance between them, Johnny’s eyes widened. Now under the swinging overhang light, Ponyboy and his – battle wounds? – were thrown into sharper clarity. The bright red cuts were new, not yet scabbed over and the bruises hadn’t yellowed out. Definitely new, not even an hour old – he’d been battered up enough times to consider himself something of an expert on the subject. The only thing he was good at, really, besides being a screw up and a moocher. He was real good at that.

The words are you all right on the tip of his tongue, Johnny swallowed the needless rhetorical question and lapsed into silence. Man, he always felt guilty when Ponyboy got hurt. It was the only time he ever really thought about the two-year age difference between them – Ponyboy was only fifteen and yet looked like he’d been flattened by a steamroller. Or, worse, like some Soc’s had roughened him up. He knew first hand what Socs could do, the cold fear they could instill in your heart…

Johnny saw a blue outfit out of the corner of his peripheral vision and instinctively lowered his eyes – but not before he noticed this particular cop was wider then he was tall. Thick caterpillar mustache resting on top of his thin lips, pursed in a perpetual frown, he waddled down the street in the direction of the bowling alley, and, it seemed, glowering at Ponyboy.

Great. Just what they needed. An ignorant cop with a frown and a glare headed their way.


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[eastsidesunset]

Johnny sure cut right to the chase. “Glory, Pony! What the hell happened to you?” he said, staring at me wide-eyed. I shifted my weight to the other side, feeling self-conscious. I hadn't thought I'd looked that bad... I shrugged, then winced at the pain in my shoulder. Bad idea.

"Got into some trouble with a few greasers," I said sheepishly, "They were reeling drunk and tryin' to take money from some kids that obviously didn't have any to start with. I know it ain't none of my business but I didn't think. It's not that bad, really. They were so drunk they couldn't aim straight. It woulda been a lot worse if it were Socs." Yeah, now that I thought about it, trying to play Superman really hadn't been a smart idea. I couldn't do anything about it now, though. What's done was done.

Hoping to change the subject, I started saying "So how's everything with you?" but only got about three words in before I saw a flicker of apprehension in Johnny's eyes before he quickly cast his gaze downwards. I turned and immediately saw him. The cop. I mean, he was kinda hard to miss. I knew with the look he was giving me that I should be choosing to either A, think up an excuse for the way I looked, fast or B, making a run for it. I didn't do either, though. Maybe it was the hits to my head that did it, but I just kept wondering why that cop ever decided the crime-fighting career was the one for him. Was it the respect that lured him? The easy hours? The thought of being able to give anyone he didn't like a hellava lot of trouble and being authorized to do it?

I just stood there like a statue, staring at the cop and thinking. By the time I'd remembered what I should've been doing it was too late, and he had-- finally-- finished making his way towards us. I already knew what I looked like from Johnny's reaction-- This couldn't be good. Would it make it more likely for him to leave if I played the tough hood or the innocent bystander? Niether would be convincing, though, in the state I was in. So I just stood there, said nothing, and tried to look as respectfully confused as I could. I wasn't exactly the world's best actor.

[taylor]

[/i] sporting a new collection of bruises might have caused Johnny to overact. Just a little bit. Maybe. Seeing him shift awkwardly and adopt a self-conscious expression, he hurried to explain, “You don’t look that roughened up. I was just shocked is all.” As Ponyboy sheepishly explained the reason for his colorful face – he saved an apparently broke kid from being beat up by some drunk greasers and ended up getting beat himself for the trouble – Johnny wondered if this was where he was supposed to share his wisdom or reprimand Ponyboy for sticking his nose in other people’s business.

Personally, Johnny didn’t feel all that wise, nor did he think a disapproving comment would really be worth the effort – or effective. If Ponyboy had done it once he’d do it again and if he could go back in time he’d do the same thing then, too, warning or not.

Besides that, he didn’t think what Ponyboy had done was all that wrong either. Maybe even a little commendable.

He started to ask how everything was when he cut off short, and Johnny assumed he’d noticed the cop heading their way. For reasons he didn’t know, he had a problem standing up to authority – or looking them in the eye, even. Teachers, parents, cops – it didn’t matter. If they held even the smallest bit of power over him, Johnny blanched. As Ponyboy stood there next to him like a rock, not saying anything, he hoped the cop was just heading this way to let them know the area was closed or there’d been a road block or something and was just glaring at them on principle. Ponyboy didn’t move, so Johnny didn’t, either, and instead stood there looking at the floor like the cop was Medusa and one look would turn him to stone.

“Boys,” the Officer began. “I just had a dozen witnesses complain about violence down that road there.” He jerked his thumb up over his shoulder in a vague direction and made a tsking sound in the back of his throat. “You look like you just got in a fight, eh, Kid?” and his voice led Johnny to believe there was no doubt in this cops mind that Ponyboy was the culprit he was looking for and nothing he said would change that.

Johnny wished he could gather up the nerve to look this cop in the eye and let him know exactly what he thought – that Ponyboy hadn’t done anything wrong and that, unless he wanted to have something to really arrest them for, he’d best be going. Instead, he stared at the cop’s double chin and watched as the excess skin jiggled when he spoke.

“Afraid I’m going to have to take you in for questioning,” he told Ponyboy, and Johnny thought he didn’t sound very sorry at all. “And you!” The cop whirled on him, his chin-skin moving as he did so. “I expect you’re an accomplice? Tut. You’ll be questioned too.” The cop went on to explain what accomplice meant even though Johnny already knew the definition.

“He –” Johnny started to say, even though he didn’t know where to go from there and his throat felt dry. He had to try, at least. “He was here the whole time. Didn’t do nothing.”

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[eastsidesunset]

“Boys, I just had a dozen witnesses complain about violence down that road there," the cop said, "You look like you just got in a fight, eh, Kid?”

Yeah, just state the obvious, why don't you? I said silently. It wouldn't do me no good to make him angrier than he already was. Johnny seemed to be thinking the same thing, 'cause he kept quiet like he always did as the cop went on to say how he was "afraid" he "had" to take me in for questioning. Yeah, right. I bit back a sarcastic retort that would definitely put me in hot water and instead contented myself with a quick eye roll. Did these guys really have nothing better to do? It wasn't like I'd robbed a bank or something. Hadn't even been bothering anyone. Why did they care if I got myself in trouble anyway?

He shot me a sharp look, probably meaning to look strict but only managing to forcefully remind me of the 4.bp.blogspot.com/_QYd_pItgxVM/SnBEnQNcUiI/AAAAAAAABMA/2hhREEfl3mg/s400/Crazy+and+Big+Fat+Animals+10.jpg] supersized tabby cat that hung around Central Park all the time, seemingly owner-less but probably fed more food every day from good-natured tourists than an average cat ate in a week. Shoot, I bet that cat had a bigger appetite than even a hungry Soda met with chocolate cake.

I barely stifled a laugh, probably irritating the cop more than if I'd actually laughed out loud. At least then he'd have that against me too. So instead, he turned on Johnny and blamed him for what happened, too. That took the bit of humour out of the situation pretty quick. I glared at him, not bothering to keep up the pretense of respect since this situation couldn't really get much worse anyway.

That is, until he told us the definiton of "accomplice". The wrong one, to boot. In a tone that said plainly, 'You're all just no-good hoods with a lousy education and I'm so superior to you that I'll go out of my way to try and teach you something, though I know you won't understand anyway. It doesn't even matter if I'm wrong 'cause how would you know?'

I felt my face heat up, not from embarrassment this time but from fury. My eyes narrowed to slits and I gritted my teeth with an almost audible click. There wasn't a lot that hit me like that did. I mean, I'd gotten cussed out just as many times as the next greaser but this cop's condescending words just striked something in me. Letter grades and book smarts were two of the only things I had left to be proud of. This stupid cop wasn't gonna take that away.

"Well, you're close," I said sarcastically, "My English teacher would give ya a C. He's pretty lenient 'bout that kinda stuff. But just so you know, the real definition of accomplice is 'an associate in wrongdoing, especially one who aids or abets another in a criminal act, either as a principal or an accessory'. Read the dictionary more often. Either that or don't talk 'bout things you don't know."

I said all this in one burst. Then I waited, calmer than you'd think, for the absolute silence to end and the storm to begin.

[taylor]

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A blue and white police car was parked alongside the cracked pavement. It was new and shiny and the windows probably rolled down when they were supposed to. It looked out of place amongst the beat up Chevys and keyed-up cars. For a brief moment Johnny hesitated, wondering if he should split or not – no way this cop could (or would) waddle more than a few steps after him – but Ponyboy was handcuffed and didn’t have the key. Plus, Johnny hadn’t done anything, other than maybe lie to an Officer, but they couldn’t lock him up for that any more than they could lock Ponyboy up for getting beaten up. He hoped so, anyways. He’d heard Dally cuss out the cops enough times to know they probably weren’t the fairest bunch.

Taking the lead, he followed the officer towards his car, casting a longing glance at the lone pinball machine pushed up against the wall. All he’d wanted was to play a few rounds and then idle around their side of town for a bit. Nothing illegal. But here he was, sliding into the backseat of a flashing police cruiser because people spewed lies like they were chocolate pies and, judging by his size, this guy ate it up.

“How’s the jail-system stuff work?” He whispered to Ponyboy – talking loudly just felt wrong from behind the metal bars dividing the car in two. Johnny was wondering how bail worked, how much it would cost, and how long he’d have to stay if he couldn’t pay. Would they even hold them if they didn’t have proof beyond eye witness accounts? And that was just for Ponyboy. They didn’t have anything incriminating against Johnny. All he could remember about jail was that his mom had warned that his dad would beat his ass if he brought such shame to the family name, or something like that.

Scenery flashed by but he didn’t pay attention to any of it – or any of the cops ramblings from up front – until he said matter-of-factly, “Out of the car, out of the car. We’re here.” It was a gray, foreboding sort of building. No windows. A single point of entrance. Just a bunch of identical cop cars and a fake tree in a pot sitting by the front door.

They passed a brown-haired lady sitting behind a wooden receptionist desk and another fake plant before entering the back room. There was a single cell, in which someone was sleeping on cot, a bucket – he didn’t even want to think about the implications on that – and outside the cell a payphone, a desk, and a dull lamp. It was all very home-y.

“You each get one call,” Fat Cop explained. He undid the lock on the handcuffs and used the same key to slide open the bars. Pointing at Ponyboy and then at the payphone, he said, with a tiny smirk that was barely noticeable on his large face, “You first.”

OOC: I am *so* sorry this took so long. Forgive me? Dx
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[eastsidesunset]

The cop turned about three shades of red. Even while he told us our "rights", I could see in his eyes exactly where he wanted to send us-- or me, more specifically-- a place a million times worse than any jail would ever be. Involuntarily, I took a step back but that didn't stop him from pulling my hands behind my back and snapping a pair of handcuffs onto my wrists before I could even protest.

I'd never gotten in enough trouble with the cops before to have handcuffs put on me and it was hard to keep from struggling against them. The cold, hard metal was too tight against my wrists and the cop had to know it. To tell you the truth I was starting to panic but I knew I couldn't let him see. That was what he wanted. Control. At least Johnny's free, I reassured myself silently. That was about the only positive side of this situation. If there was one at all.

The sight of the police car didn't make things any better. Knowing I'd have to go inside one made my stomach queasy. And within seconds, I was. The inside was too warm and smelled nothing like Darry's old truck. The air was so thick and so reeking of the law itself that I could barely breathe. My whole body was screaming at me to get out of here now, but how could I?

My wrists felt raw already and the handcuffs had barely been on ten minutes. On top of everything, my whole body still hurt from the fight barely an hour ago, especially the bruise above my eye and the cut on my arm. The paper towels had come off ages ago when the cop had handcuffed me, and I imagined the cut reopened and pouring blood on to the silver cuffs themselves. Though it was almost definitely not that serious, the mental image wasn't the prettiest.

So I just sat there, tuning the cop out and trying to remember what on earth I could possibly be arrested for. The only person talking up until now was the cop but as we continued down the streets, away from the most run-down area of town and towards what could only be the holding jail, Johnny whispered to me, “How’s the jail-system stuff work?”

A quick glance at the cop told me he hadn't even heard him, still going on about something niether of us were paying attention to. So I stared straight down at my worn sneakers and whispered back, "He's probably gonna try to get me for something like disorderly conduct. But I'm guessing-- hoping, at least-- it won't get to the point where there'll be a trial or anything. Not like I killed someone. Maybe a few days in the holding cell... probably a fine, too, but I have no idea how Darry and Soda'll be able to afford paying that on top of everything..."

I let out a long breath, feeling a bad headache coming on and wishing for an aspirin or at least a cigarette. God, I'd do anything for a cigarette, I thought. To take my mind off things I continued whispering, "He won't have much of a reason to keep you in jail. But no one's gonna not believe him if he says you were part of it." I shook my head tiredly. "Honestly, I have no idea. Sorry, Johnny. Shouldn't've pulled you into this. I'm an idiot."

I turned towards the window on my side, watching the steadily-bigger and fancier houses go by in a blur. The station was in the Soc part of town. They could've saved a lot of money on gas if they'd just put it on the East side, I thought bitterly. And then the car was stopping and the cop ushered us impatiently out of the car. As if I should've been able to open the door with my hands in cuffs.

I barely saw anything as we walked into the building, into the lobby, down the hallway and into a back area with a small cell already with someone in it. My mind was whirling and I couldn't even think straight. As the cop took a key seemingly out of nowhere and freed my hands, I felt nothing but relief. While I rubbed my reddened wrists, he pointed at a phone sitting on the table at a corner and told me I was allowed one call.

Woodenly, I walked over and dialed the numbers of Soda's work phone. It rang three and a half times before someone answered-- I found myself wishing it would just keep ringing. No luck with that, though. A gruff, annoyed voice sounded at the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hey, uh, can I talk to Sodapop Curtis? It's his brother."

"Why?" was the blunt reply. I grimaced, knowing an unhelpful person when I heard one. Well, I sure wasn't gonna tell a total stranger everything that'd happened.

"Well, the police called and told him to go over to the station as fast as possible, it's an emergency. I dunno what's going on exactly but can you just get him?" I improvised, then added "Please?"

"He ain't here."

I stared at the phone in disbelief. "Where is he?"

"He's on break. Won't be back for at least twenty more minutes," the guy said carelessly, and you could tell he just loved saying that. I swore under my breath and tried to make my voice calm.

"Alright, well, can you please tell him when he gets back to go to the police station? And that it's important."

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say." And the phone goes dead, just like that. I knew he was never gonna tell Soda. But I put the phone back on its holder without another word and started walking back over to where Johnny was still standing.

That's when the guy laying on the cot in the cell woke up and started puking his guts out into the bucket on the floor. I winced, smelling the horrible mixture of stomach acid and alcohol even from here, and hoped he was okay, or at least not still drunk. I mean... sharing a cell with a drunk guy wasn't exactly high up on my "Things to Do Before I Die" list. Then the guy in the cell looked up for a moment and my eyes widened.

"Two-Bit?!"

[merrill]

Two-Bit looked up from his bucket to hear a very familiar voice and to be frank, it was irritating him a little. It had interrupted him from returning to a wonderful dream he was having where he was at the beach and there had been two blondes on each side of him, though they were figments of his imagination, they were not too bad-looking. They had been suntanning when he felt the urge to vomit. It was a side-effect to over-excessive drinking.

When he was finished, he wiped his mouth and sat on the concrete floor. He looked up at Ponyboy and winced at the light, but grinned, nonetheless. Times like these, if you look back on them, can actually seem humorous. That is, if you even had a sense of humor. Even now, Two-Bit found the situation somewhat humorous; if it weren't for that damn hangover.  

"You surprised to see such a law-abidin' citizen like me in a place like this?" he asked, shoving the bucket under the cot. "It seems like keepin' my nose clean didn't get me too far."

There was a loud clang as ol' Waldo whipped the bars of the cell with his nightstick. He glared at Two-Bit, his eyes disappearing in the many rolls of fat and making his face neatly indistinguishable compared to a pile of pancakes. "Shaddup Mathews. That nose is the furthest thing from being clean and if you don't keep that big mouth of yours shut, I'll clobber get in there you with my stick," he snapped, waving the stick.

Two-Bit snorted and flipped Waldo the finger. "That sounded pretty dirty, Waldo," he said, but made no further comment to entice the officer. He was not in the mood for more cuts and bruises to join the collection he already had.

He never would have been in here if it hadn't been for the fact he was drunk. Then again, a lot of things would have never happened if he kept his mouth away from beer more than once in a while. This time in particular was no different than any other trips he had taken to the jailhouse. It was the usual 'got drunk, did bad things and apparently mouthing off to the cops was not the smartest thing to do' and this time, unfortunately, it happened to be Waldo on patrol in the East end the night before.

Even drunk, Two-Bit could lift things as easy as a foxy whore can pick up guys, but last night Waldo, as per usual, was on his tail. He had only stolen a pack of cigarettes, but in the fat cop's books that counted as prison for life. Plus, telling him that he was selling Waldo's wife nude pictures for a cheap price when the cop asked what Two-Bit was doing hadn't helped much on his sentence.

Not that it mattered, it was Waldo's funeral. He had been on Two-Bit's case ever since they've met and not once has there been a time where Waldo'd been spared from Two-Bit's mouth. What else should he expect when throwing a drunken Two-Bit in jail?

He glanced behind Waldo and noticed Johnny. Obviously they were not coming to bust Two-Bit out of jail, what with Pony's wrists reddened from the tell-tale hand cuffs. 

"So, what misfortune seems to have smiled on you, today?"

[taylor]

, and he wondered what convict occupied the cell now, what'd he done to warrant such automatic annoyance from the officer. Knowing this cop? Probably breathed the wrong way or helped an old lady cross the street in a no crossing zone. Then he heard Ponyboy blurt "Two-Bit?" and peered around his shoulder into the cell to see - yup, it was Two-Bit alright, looking a little worse for the wear after having thrown up his stomach.

"You surprised to see such a law-abidin' citizen like me in a place like this?" he asked them, the bucket disappearing underneath the cot. "It seems like keepin' my nose clean didn't get me too far."

The cop, fed up of being ignored, maybe, started clanging his nightstick against the bars and threatened Two-Bit, who flipped him off in response. It looked like an altogether too often exchange.

"You." The cop - Waldo, was it? - pointed at Johnny. "Either call someone or don't." And when Two-Bit asked how they'd ended up downtown he snapped, "No talking to the convict!"

Not wanting to ask Waldo any questions and be potentially belittled, he picked up the phone and dialed the only number that came to mind: Bucks place, where Dally may or may not have been. He didn't know what to say if anyone did answer, but who else could he call?
[/color][/ul]

[yolanda7h]

Dally was staying at Buck's just for a few nights, and tonight - there was a party going on. Buck just decided to host one, because Dal was there - temporarily back from dropping off the face of the earth - and because he felt like it. So tons of beer was brought in, tons of girls were brought in, and a bunch of southern guys that both Buck and Dal got to know from Belmont were brought in. It was a typical Buck party, for sure, and Dal didn't mind it. He needed something like this with the shit couple of weeks he'd been having. The place was filled floor to ceiling in a hazy mist of smoke from joints, and Dal was sitting on the couch drinking a beer listening to some of Buck's friends drunkenly try to carry on conversation.

One thing that Dal couldn't stand was how hot it got in Buck's place. If it was hot outside, it was a sauna in that house with all those people in it. Dal had long took off his shirt, wearing only a wife beater and dark jeans. Two other guys next to him were rolling and smoking joints, while some chick Dal never seen in his life was making out with some guy she has never seen in her life on a smaller couch adjacent from them.

"So where you been man?" Eddie asked as he sort of staggered into the room, bumping into people standing around the couch with a beer in his hand.

"You talkin to me man?" Dal asked, squinting up at him, barely able to see him because of the haze, dim light and the slight buzz he had going.

"Yeah, yeah, Dal I ain't seen you in ages. I thought you got caught up again. You ain't got caught up again, have ya?"

Dal took another swallow of his beer. "Shit, I'm always caught up in somethin. Fuckin cops."

"Shoot, Dal. It ain't nothin' serious, is it?"

Dal grinned a bit. "Let's hope so."

Eddie stifled a drunken laugh, before cracking up in full out laughter. Dally rolled his eyes a bit and Eddie grabbed one of his friends - Jake - as he passed by, flinging an arm around him. "Jake, Dal's itchin' to add one to his record, you hearin' this?"

Dal kept a prideful grin and stood up from the couch, taking his beer with him. He approached to two and said jokingly. "Yeah, keep talkin and you'll be on my record too, fucker," He pulled Eddie in a loose headlock (enough not to choke him) with the arm that wasn't holding his beer, pulling him away from Jake. Jake took the opportunity to walk away, clearly uninterested in this scene.

"Dal!" Eddie protested. "Hey!"

Dal let go with a slight shove, mildly amused because Dal couldn't help but play around with people. He didn't say another word to Eddie as he coolly walked away from the couch towards the pool table, taking a swig of his beer.

Meanwhile the phone rang somewhere in the kitchen and Rob, a trainer at Belmont happened to be in there, getting some chips - a clear case of the drunk munchies. Rob absent-mindedly picked up.

"What do ya want?" He asked, voice slightly slurred.

[eastsidesunset]

There's just not a whole lot you can do or say while waiting to get thrown into a jail cell. Especially if there was an already-irritated cop breathing down your throat and glaring at you for reasons you couldn't understand. Or maybe that was what cops trained to do. For intimidation? Maybe it was just Two-Bit's grin getting to me but I definitely wasn't scared of the cop like I remembered being scared of some. First off, he just didn't look the part. Secondly, the whole situation was just starting to be kinda funny.

I suppressed a grin, instead focusing my eyes on the dull gray walls of the place while Two-Bit said something that made the cop look even redder out of anger than he was already. I knew I was in a whole mess of trouble but I couldn't get myself to take it seriously with Two-Bit joking it out.

I turned and watched Johnny as he dialed a number hesitantly, and I wondered who he was calling. Not his parents. We all knew him well enough to know that without even thinking about it. Dally? He didn't exactly have a permanent number though. And he couldn't get a cell phone unless he stole it off someone.

Whoever he was calling, though, I hoped it would go through. If the cop was serious about the one-call-per-person thing-- and he definitely was-- then this was our last chance to contact someone. The thought made the situation a little less humourous, a bit more serious. I chewed on my lip apprehensively and pressed a palm on the cut on my arm in a vague attempt to stop the bleeding once and for all.

[merrill]

Two-Bit was trouble's favorite victim to be smiled down upon. It was like a heat missile and there was no avoiding it. He attracted it like fleas to a dog and maggots to a carcass. It was often did he find himself in situations, but he always found a way out. On the most part. 

"No talking to the convict![/color]" 

Two-Bit let an eyebrow raise and leaned against the metal bar; it dug into his back, but he ignored it. That fat cop had to be one of the biggest dumbasses of all times. He was like a peacock, strutting through his jailhouse palace. Or even a hunter, presenting his newest victims. He acted all high and mighty, but Two-Bit knew the man was lower than scum from the sea. Being a cop doesn't make you God. 

Two-Bit let a smug look form onto his face as he folded his arms. "Convict, huh?" he said, chortling at the thought. "If I had a penny for every time I heard that, I'd be broke. What did they do? Looked at you the wrong way?" 

He shouldn't be talking; basically that was what he was in for. He had only been taking a walk when Waldo decided to intrude on his wonderful evening. All because the grotesque cop had a hunch about Two-Bit. Normally the other cops would let a carton of cigarettes slide, but not Waldo. His goal was to make sure every bit of 'slimy creatures that pollute the beautiful face of Earth' were put in jail. So far, it hasn't been very successful. 

Relaxing his sore muscles, he directed his attention to Johnny as he was making his phone call. With a sinking heart, Two-Bit realized the only person that Johnny would bother ringing would be Dallas. He bit his lip, thinking of the fight from days ago. No one else heard about the 'little' brawl and he was intending to keep it that way. What they, meaning Pony and Johnny, didn't know should not have to affect them. 

"Well, make yourselves comfy," he said, reprimanding a yawn from erupting. "I reckon it's gonna be a long night." He paused, looking at Waldo with a sly grin. "There'll be plenty of rats to go around."

[taylor]

[/b] Johnny asked into the phone.

It sounded like the guy said something, but between the static-y connection and loud background music, all he could make out was a garbled “chips.”

“Um… what?”

“I’m just gettin’ chips! How the hell should I know?”

At least Johnny could understand what he was saying this time. “You could check,” he suggested, hoping he sounded more forceful than he felt. “Tell him it’s Johnny. He’ll come.” Hopefully.

The guy gave a long suffering sigh, bite out, “fine,” and then there was a click. For a moment Johnny panicked and thought he’d hung up but the low, mournful country music could still – unfortunately – be heard. The guy must have dropped the phone or something.

While he waited for someone to pick up the phone, Johnny rehearsed what to say. “Hey, Dally, could you come and bust me and Ponyboy – Two-Bit too, I think – out of jail? That’d be great. And illegal.” He was pretty sure breaking out of jail would cause him more trouble than he was in in the first place.

“Hey, Dally, I’m in jail. Just thought you should know. See ya in a few days. Or weeks, I don’t really know.” That was just stupid.

But he didn’t have any more time to hypothesize; someone had picked up the phone. “What?” It was Dallas.

“Uh, yeah.” He scrambled for something – anything – to say. “Me and Pony are in jail. Two-Bit, too."


OOC: This OOC thing is longer than the post is.
[/font][/color][/ul]

[yolanda7h]

The room erupted with noise as a lucky shot was made during an intense pool game. The two players certainly had an audience. Dally put his beer down and grabbed one of the players, Rick, by the shoulders, shaking him as he was setting himself up for another shot. "Pressure, man. Better make this shot," Dal teased.

Rick shrugged him off. "Knock it off Dal,"

"Just sayin'," he said with a grin, backing away to let him make the shot. He grabbed his beer when he heard someone yelling.

"DALLAS! HEY DALLAS! "

"WHAT?" Dal shouted over the music to the faceless voice calling him, without making any effort to move. Instead, he took another swallow of his beer.

Rob made an appearance, stumbling unsteadily into view. "DAL, HEY! Oh there you are,"

"My ears, man," Dal joked with a hint of a smirk.

The guy leaned on the wall and mumbled something slightly unintelligible but Dal made out the important bits - someone was on the phone for him.

"Tell Sylvia I'll call her later," Dal said.

"No, Dal, this guy - its Johnny, he said." Rob mumbled.

Dal furrowed his brow. "Johnny?" What the heck was going on that he had to call him for? Dal knew what ever it was, it must've been something important. Dal got up and started moving towards the kitchen. "He didn't say what he wanted did he?" He asked Rob while he was on the move, but didn't bother to wait for an answer, the guy was too drunk anyway.

He maneuvered through the party to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. "What?"

"Uh, yeah. Me and Pony are in jail. Two-Bit, too."

IF it were any one else, Dal would have teased them about landing themselves in the slammer and not think anything of it - depending on what they were in for, they'd probably be out in a day. But this was Johnny - Dal just didn't like the thought of Johnny being in jail. Not even for a little while. Dal knew what jail could do to a person and he didn't want Johnny to even get a glimpse of that life. Because of that, he didn't even register yet that Two-Bit was in the mix. Not yet, anyway.

"Christ, Johnny," Dal said. Despite not liking the idea, Dal's deep voice was calm, as if he were talking about the weather. "What you guys get yourselves into, huh?" Depending on what the deal was, it might just be an overnight thing. "What'd they bust you for?"