Yeah, Warden. Be a real shame if you were forced to age like everyone else. Fuck you and fuck your freakishly long life. Fuck the edge it gives you, all the plans you can make knowing you've got ages left to live.
What Waxey wouldn't give to put the brakes on aging or regain a few of the years he's lost, even to slow the process down a few hairs. Just to feel a little less like he's living on the edge of an exit. Sure, he's sharp as ever, but it feels like ages since he had any solid energy. Headaches come more constant, sometimes blurring the whole world into a muddle. He tries not to think about his aches (he takes it as a point of pride that he rarely uses the cane anymore), but they're getting harder to ignore. And none of this improves his looks at all--which were, all right, never much to begin with.
"It's been my experience the federal government isn't interested in making our lives easier. And they ain't the only ones."
Waxey settles onto the sofa, trying to piece out Rankin's mood. He notes the eyes without dwelling on them; they're another abnormality Waxey's almost gotten used to. (And they're not the most unsettling eyes he's seen. That honor belongs to the sadist in the alley, reflected recently - only for a moment - in the bizarre broad who claimed to've been with Mickey.)
And then Ira's crossing with the humidor. Of course Waxey has something nice to smoke. Ever since he made his way into the upper echelons, he's made a point of maintaining a stock of costly cigars. Shows he's going to keep living high, no matter what sort of shit his enemies throw. Shows he's still on top.
They don't taste half-bad, either.
"A good cigar's the surest cure I know for anxiety." Waxey nods as Ira opens the case, offers Warden his choice. Thank fuck Ira doesn't make a stink about playing the good lackey. "Just got these in last week."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-03-28 10:53 pm (UTC)What Waxey wouldn't give to put the brakes on aging or regain a few of the years he's lost, even to slow the process down a few hairs. Just to feel a little less like he's living on the edge of an exit. Sure, he's sharp as ever, but it feels like ages since he had any solid energy. Headaches come more constant, sometimes blurring the whole world into a muddle. He tries not to think about his aches (he takes it as a point of pride that he rarely uses the cane anymore), but they're getting harder to ignore. And none of this improves his looks at all--which were, all right, never much to begin with.
"It's been my experience the federal government isn't interested in making our lives easier. And they ain't the only ones."
Waxey settles onto the sofa, trying to piece out Rankin's mood. He notes the eyes without dwelling on them; they're another abnormality Waxey's almost gotten used to. (And they're not the most unsettling eyes he's seen. That honor belongs to the sadist in the alley, reflected recently - only for a moment - in the bizarre broad who claimed to've been with Mickey.)
And then Ira's crossing with the humidor. Of course Waxey has something nice to smoke. Ever since he made his way into the upper echelons, he's made a point of maintaining a stock of costly cigars. Shows he's going to keep living high, no matter what sort of shit his enemies throw. Shows he's still on top.
They don't taste half-bad, either.
"A good cigar's the surest cure I know for anxiety." Waxey nods as Ira opens the case, offers Warden his choice. Thank fuck Ira doesn't make a stink about playing the good lackey. "Just got these in last week."