Mateo
Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between
and most things in between
"Weed is such a strong word," Mateo says, clicking his tongue with a dimpled smirk, but not holding the term against Finch. All plants are worthy of cultivation in the botanist's eyes, even those seen as pests or weeds, but he well understands the need to keep some things (be they greenery, predator or person) from overstaying their welcome. "But yes, I believe I do still have a few of those in my possession. Some are even ready to harvest. Are you looking for the specimens as a whole, or just to take advantage of their effects? For your garden, I mean."
Smiling behind another sip of his drink, they are interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious bonk! of a tangle of sticks, shell and bone against glass. Mateo glances over to the wall of windows to see a curious variant of tangleweed having blown into the panes, either harried by the sharp breeze or merely blinded by the rain. Scoffing, he gestures to it with a shrug. "I do not have any of those, alas," he says - though he might consider it in future.
"What are you drinking?" he adds, "and can I interest you in something that looks less like dirty dishwater?"
Smiling behind another sip of his drink, they are interrupted by a sudden and unceremonious bonk! of a tangle of sticks, shell and bone against glass. Mateo glances over to the wall of windows to see a curious variant of tangleweed having blown into the panes, either harried by the sharp breeze or merely blinded by the rain. Scoffing, he gestures to it with a shrug. "I do not have any of those, alas," he says - though he might consider it in future.
"What are you drinking?" he adds, "and can I interest you in something that looks less like dirty dishwater?"
I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm
