mnt_mike: (Human Orly)
[OOC: Mike's current musical fascination


Say, my love, I came to you
With best intentions
You laid down and gave to me just what
Im seeking
Love, you drive me to distraction

Hey my love do you believe that we
Might last a thousand years
Or more if not for this?
Our flesh and blood it ties
You and me right up
Tie me down

Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain
Were climbing two by two
To be sure these days continue,
These things we cannot change

Hey, my love, you came to me like
Wine comes to this mouth
Grown tired of water all the time
You quench my heart and you
Quench my mind

Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain
Were climbing two by two
To be sure these days continue,
The things we cannot

Celebrate, you and me, climbing
Two by two, to be sure
These days continue, things we cannot change

Oh, my love, I came to you
With best intentions
You laid down and gave to me just what
Im seeking

Celebrate we will
Because life is short but sweet for certain
Were climbing two by two
To be sure these days continue,
Things we cannot change...
Things we cannot change]
mnt_mike: (Default)
The Scottish Spring is indeed lovely with its mild breezes and its sunshine. But let's face it, it's no where near as lovely as the area of the lake effected most by the wayward path of a Caribbean current. It's damn near balmy in that corner of Magical Mystery Land that exists outside the back door to Milliways. And that's exactly the reason why Mike has set up camp in this particular section of Lake Front.

Camp being a couple of picnic tables complete with red and white checkered table cloths, large wicker baskets laden with foods, and a rather large punch bowl filled to the brim with what can only be Sangria. Between the baskets and the punch bowl is a sign which reads:
Welcome Bartenders.
Help yourself to punch and pie!

The smell of fresh fried chicken is heavy in the air.

As for Mike? Well he's basking on a beach chair clad in cargo shorts, a rather more obnoxious than usual hawaiian shirt, and an Asian-style straw hat.
How he found a drink umbrella that exactly matches his shirt is anyone's guess.
mnt_mike: (Stampy)
It's odd how quickly someone can just recalibrate their life to adjust for the presence of others. Being the youngest of four, Mike is used to this phenomenon, but that doesn't stop him from reflecting on it every once and a while.

For the first time in well over a year he's sitting on his own bed in his empty for all but him and Stampy room.
There's no Raph.
There's no Leo.
There's no Don.
There's no Lilly.
There's no Indy.
There's no Steph.


And there's no Mel.

Just a boy, his mental connection with a sentient piece of furniture, and his freshly launderd miniphant. The silience is broken by Mike's sigh.

"We need music, girl."

With the push of a button the auditory vacuum is filled with the dulcet tones of...well honestly it doesn't matter. Mike's not really listening anyway.
mnt_mike: (What? Uh? Aiee! Human)
Someone knocks on the front door of the Tonks-Wrangle abode.
It's somewhat quiet knock, and yet insistent in its own way.

It's certainly not someone attempting to hide from say,...the collected population of some random bar at the end of the universe.
Goodness no, what ever would make someone think that?
mnt_mike: (What tha' human)
On nights like these the roof is Bar's favorite place to be.
Overcast, crisp and cool with a slight breeze coming off of the lake.
She lays back on the tar paper, eyes wide, and just listen. Being there in the dark with nothing but sound and sensation's the closest thing to home that she's found so far.

Trust her, she's been looking.

The gentle lapping of the lake against her shores.
The occasional splash of a breaching squid.
The mournful howl of something calling from deep within the forest.

Every second she breathes in more, and with every exhale she knows deep with in her borrowed human heart that it's just not enough.

The chilling mist that falls on her naked skin isn't enough.
The rough feeling of the roof under her hands and feet isn't enough.
The shiver that runs down her spine spawning a flurry of goose bumps isn't enough.

She has an itch that needs scratching, and it's not a spot she can reach alone.

Trust her, she's been trying.
mnt_mike: (Smug Human)
What was it Mike was always saying?
Something about how the best hiding spots are the ones just out of plain sight and always out of reach.
Boy howdy was he ever right.

Bar had no idea how much fun creeping in shadows could be.
Standing just to the periphery and always bathed in the slight gloom that lives a hair away from darkness.
Muscle memory is a wonderful thing, but actual memory memory is even better.

She keeps to places people won't look. Places too obvious for reasonable consideration.
And sometimes when she's feeling extra sneaky, places that the Loompas whisper about when they think their songs can't be heard.
mnt_mike: (Caught Human)
Mike is sleeping the sleep the dead only dream of sleeping.

And for the first time in months everything is quiet.

He shifts in his sleep, slowly uncurling from his normal fetal position to lie flat on his back.

In his mind he's not so much falling as sauntering slightly downward.
Down to where it's warmer.
Down to where it's more secure.
Down to where things smell slightly more of pine.

It's soothing, this descent.
So soothing he only barely notices the nebulous form that passes right before his eyes.
It glows a radiant cherry in the gloom, and doesn't so much smile as vibrate with rapturous excitation.

He reaches out to catch the last bits of this dream before they flitter away.
Only his hands. His shape. His very being seems to dissolve.
mnt_mike: (Pirate)
The wonderful thing about Wednesday's is that Mike gets to sleep super dooper late in preparation for his Happy Hour shift.

Mel's out. Bar's happily serving away. Stampy's sleeping.
What's a boy to do when he's got a quiet room and a big bed all to himself.


He reads comic books of course.
mnt_mike: (Neutral Turtle)
He was meditating.
He was.

But then...there was panic.
Panic leads to confusion.
Confusion leads to splitting empathic headaches.

Only this time it doesn't...

That's not to say that Mike doesn't sit up quickly from his "meditation" spot on the couch. That's also not to say that said sitting up doesn't result in him falling right over onto the floor in a very un-ninja like heap.

"Woah! woah. woah Calm down. No no no. It's okay."

"I'm sure he's fine."

"No, no I can't feel him. It's okay though. I'm sure he's fine."

"No, you're right, I don't know that for sure, but let's try to think positive, okay? Just for once? Make it adventure! Yeah, an experiment."

"Exactly like science. I dare say it'd be like Science with a capital S."

"No, no MapleBaby, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here as long as you need me. Promise."

"Of course I mean it."

Mike begins to chant.
The chant becomes a low-throated hum.
It's a sound that has scared away countless nightmares and the shadows of hell.
Mike attempts to soothe her.

To soothe himself.
mnt_mike: (Human Pensive)
Mike didn't return to the Suite last night. After springing Bernard from the Cells there was just no way returning to 134 was possible. He'd probably never hear the end of it.
How it was selfish.
How it was short-sighted.
How it was against the rules.

But let's face it, there's only so long one can hide, and so Mike returns with an armful of groceries.
mnt_mike: (What? Uh? Aiee! Human)
The room is mostly dark with a 75% chance of gloom depending on how close one is sitting to the three lit candles on the bedside table.
The only sound is the rhythmic breathing coming from the figure on the bed. The other shape in the room hasn't made so much as a peep in the last two hours.

Mike is keeping watch.
It's his shift.
Four hours of sitting, watching...and fighting back the regret that threatens to consume him.
Fun and profit for the whole family.
mnt_mike: (What? Uh? Aiee! Human)
The cold suits his mood. So does the relative quiet of the roof over looking the lake area.
Mike's right arm and leg hang over the edge of the roof. In his left hand he holds a cigarette.

mnt_mike: (Bed Head.)
In Mel's room a ninja ex-turtle sleeps fitfully.
So fitfully that he has inadvertantly tied himself into a bedsheet cocoon.
And yet inspite of that, he's still sprawled across the bed.
mnt_mike: (Incredulous)
The front door opens on silent hinges, a wedge of light cutting into the darkness of the suite.
Stampy awakens with a start, and wastes no time bolting towards the door.

"Down girl. Go on. Lay down. BAD! BAD GIRL!"

Mike doesn't mean to snap, he really doesn't. It's a shame that Stampy doesn't know that.
mnt_mike: (Plotting)
The moon hangs high in the partly cloudy sky.
The is air is brisk and threatens of rain.
All around the signs of the impending fall have begun to take shape.

This was his brother's season. He lived for this time of year.
The nights would get longer, meaning more time to explore.
The weather was colder, meaning more time street level.

Mike listens to the last-ditch chirping of the crickets down below. They're too loud.
They should be entirely drowned out by the not so subtle stylings of Pearl Jam or Metallica or even N.W.A.
He turns and looks at the long time dark tent. The long dark, and empty tent.

Mike thinks back to the first time he walked through the front flap.
How easy it was, it's always been, to get past Raph's so called defenses.
Just come at him straight. He never sees that coming, because he never expect anyone to fight like he does.

Someone has him now because they came at him head on, and he never saw it coming.

Growing up it was always Raph that looked after him.
At some point that changed, and it was Mike that who became his brother's keeper.
He's not sure when it happened, but there's no denying that it did.

Mike turns back to take in the Lake.
A fin surfaces and splits the once still water.
The leaves rustle as a breeze moves its way across the open space.

Mike tries to concentrate on where the wind is coming from, how a salt water fish can live in a fresh water lake, anything that isn't where his brother is right now.
He tries to concentrate as he takes a drag from his cigarette and exhales into the wind.
mnt_mike: (Human disbelief)
A hospital.
In a freakin' hospital.
No no no, it gets a freakin' MAGICAL hospital.

Mike is seated on the floor of his living room. Around him are the scattered remains of maps and plans.
To say that he's frustrated would be a gross understatement.
mnt_mike: (Shameless)
Mike is basking.
There's just no other, or better, word for it.
He's sitting out on Lilly and Mel's porch attempting to absorb as much sun as the partly cloudy, 71 degree Scottish summer day will allow.

And remember, it's not sleeping it's checking eyelids for cracks.
mnt_mike: (Default)
Full Time
Michaelangelo(Tuesdays/by request)
George Cooper
Adam/Felicia Whitely [Tuesday AM]
Indiana Jones [Thurs pm] (Tuesday & Sunday)
Garion of Riva [Monday AM](thursday & wednesday)

Part Time
Kitty Pryde (oncall)
Edmund Pevensie
Dionysus [Tuesday PM](most other weekdays)
Richard Mayhew
Bernard [Friday] (Thursday)

Replied to post
[Definite Days]
(on deck)

mnt_mike: (Default)
And you open the door and you step inside
We're inside our hearts
Now imagine your pain is a while ball of healing light.
That's right, your pain.

The pain itself is a white balll of healing light

I don't think so

This is your life
good to the last drop
It doesn't get any better than this
This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time

This isn't a seminar
This isn't a weekend retreat

Where you are now you can't even imagine what the bottom will be like
only after disaster can you be resurrected
It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything

Nothing is static
Everything is evolving
Everything is falling apart

This is your life
It doesn't get any better than this
This is your life
and it's ending one minute at a time.

You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake
You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else
We are all part of the same compost heap
We are the all singing all dancing crap of the world

You are not your bank account
You are not the clothes you wear
You are not the contents of your wallets
You are not your bowel cancer
You are not your grande latte
you are not the car you drive
you are not your fucking khakis

you have to give up
You have to give up
You have to realize that someday you will die
Until you know that, you are useless

I say let me never be complete
I say man I never be content
I say Deliver me from Swedish furniture
I say deliver me from clever art
I say deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth

I say you have to give up
I say you evolve and let the chips fall where they may
This is your life
It doesn't get any better than this
this is your life
and it's ending one minute at a time

You have to give up
You have to give up
I want you to hit me as hard as you can

Welcome to Fightclub
If this is your first have to fight.
mnt_mike: (Caught)
He sleeps peacefully and does not dream. One doesn't really have to dream when they have the woman of their in their arms, a soft pillow under their head, all the while being surrounded 400 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets. Sometimes it's good to be the ex-turtle.

At first there is nothing, but then there is smell.
Sweat. Stale Beer. Smoke.

Then sound.
Laughing. Talking. Swearing.

And touch.
Cold at first, but warming with continued touch.

Finally there is what feels like tears, wet and filled with grief. Like a child crawling into bed after a nightmare.
It weeps and curls into a ball at the back of his mind.
That's when the wailing begins.

Mike sits bold upright in bed. It's not Mel, he's checked. She doesn't stir. He looks around the room, allowing his other senses to reach out while his eyes adjust to the lack of light. There's no one there...but there is someone there, and he knows it. He feels it, even if he can't see it or hear it.

He swallows hard as realization dawns.

".....oh boy."
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