[size=9pt]Moon is well acquainted with locks and picking them. He and doors that don't want to be opened go way back. It'd been something he'd learned out of necessity, for when they were running low on ramen and the local convenience store was too broke to install security cameras. These days, the paychecks were steady enough to keep him afloat, so Benny's stayed unrobbed and Moon's record stayed clean. But there was nothing like the satisfaction that came with hearing the door click open when you get the angle just right, and petty crime died hard, so who else to practice it on but the old sap that lived next door?
He didn't think Gabe gave a shit, anyway. The guy had mysterious ex-military badass vibes enough to have Moon drawn and slaughtered by now, if he really did.
The oh-so-sweet click sounds out and the door swings open, and Moon, ecstatic, calls, "Honey, I'm home!" Through the hall he skips, pointedly avoiding the gorey decorations surrounding him - because Gabe is disturbingly good at making that shit look real and it kind of turns his sotmach - and walks into the kitchen singing the monster mash. "What's cookin'," He begins, and then realizes where the sentences is going to leave him and manages to stop himself in perfect time. But he's so close to calling Gabe good lookin' he's sure to lose sleep over it for at least the next two weeks. It takes him a moment to come up with a replacement. "Pumpkin...in'."
He moves on to a cupcake at lightning speed. It looks pretty fucking delicious, and seeing it makes him realize just how hungry he is. His mouth waters when he lifts it, watches it moves towards him, ridiculously excited to taste the weird shit on top-- and then it collides with his helmet.
Oh yeah. He's wearing a costume. Costume said generously, because, really, what Moon had assembled could only be described as unfortunate. Clad in an all grey onesie and massive white rain boots, he looked like a 6 year old ready for their first sleepover. The only thing that gave it away was the massive, fully glass fishbowl that he wore over his head. A helmet. He was an Astronaut. Except, given the hot glue with which he'd attached the fishbowl to his onesie, it was looking like he was an astronaut who'd sooner starve to death than discover any life on Mars.
The icing is smushed into the fishbowl where the cupcake had met its maker. He stares at the sugary mess in his hand, lips tilted downwards. It takes him a moment to begrudgingly admit, "Didn't really think this through."
He didn't think Gabe gave a shit, anyway. The guy had mysterious ex-military badass vibes enough to have Moon drawn and slaughtered by now, if he really did.
The oh-so-sweet click sounds out and the door swings open, and Moon, ecstatic, calls, "Honey, I'm home!" Through the hall he skips, pointedly avoiding the gorey decorations surrounding him - because Gabe is disturbingly good at making that shit look real and it kind of turns his sotmach - and walks into the kitchen singing the monster mash. "What's cookin'," He begins, and then realizes where the sentences is going to leave him and manages to stop himself in perfect time. But he's so close to calling Gabe good lookin' he's sure to lose sleep over it for at least the next two weeks. It takes him a moment to come up with a replacement. "Pumpkin...in'."
He moves on to a cupcake at lightning speed. It looks pretty fucking delicious, and seeing it makes him realize just how hungry he is. His mouth waters when he lifts it, watches it moves towards him, ridiculously excited to taste the weird shit on top-- and then it collides with his helmet.
Oh yeah. He's wearing a costume. Costume said generously, because, really, what Moon had assembled could only be described as unfortunate. Clad in an all grey onesie and massive white rain boots, he looked like a 6 year old ready for their first sleepover. The only thing that gave it away was the massive, fully glass fishbowl that he wore over his head. A helmet. He was an Astronaut. Except, given the hot glue with which he'd attached the fishbowl to his onesie, it was looking like he was an astronaut who'd sooner starve to death than discover any life on Mars.
The icing is smushed into the fishbowl where the cupcake had met its maker. He stares at the sugary mess in his hand, lips tilted downwards. It takes him a moment to begrudgingly admit, "Didn't really think this through."
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]