love me / spin the bottle

[B. DELORIA]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9.4pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Butch hadn't had anything to drink for a while. Wasn't like he knew where to go for it, and now that he was stuck here as a slave, he kind of assumed sobriety was required. Bummer. A good bash was sorely needed- the folks here were mostly wet rags whose definition of fun wasn't in Butch's dictionary, and never would be. He couldn't see the fun in beating someone to an actual pulp. Sure, fights could get the blood pumping, and Butch hadn't ever backed down from one yet, but the kinda shit he saw couldn't fall under the category of "fight." That meant someone was giving as good as they were getting, yeah? Not here. Pounding on a punching bag had to be more satisfactory than some of the poor bastards Butch had seen, and he always told himself he'd never turn out like that, no way in hell. He'd rather die in the heat than become some kinda ragdoll with no spunk left in him, and he'd say he was doing a pretty fine job at keeping his head low while still getting in his kicks every so often.

Butch wondered if anything'd be different, now that Val was here, except he was still a slave, wasn't he? Just one a little less lonely than before.

It gave him a renewed boldness, though, so he didn't even bother checking if slaves could have a blast spinning a bottle. Tsuyu was an ice-cube, anyhow, and if she snapped out of her funk, the first thing she'd do probably wasn't going to be yanking on the collar of her least favorite slave. Probably. Predicting that lady was like guessing what color marble was gonna fall out of the bag, so with a mental "fuck you" to Froggy, Butch sauntered over to Eugene with an easy grin. "So you stuck around, dreamy. You must've flipped your lid a long time ago." He settled down across the bottle. "I think we could make a game of just the two of us, dig?"