Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho.

[prettygoodplan]

Hunting down slimeballs generally ain't a job you can do and stay local. You wanna make the big money, you gotta be willin' to travel halfway across the damned universe and back, and you gotta be willin' to put yourself in the middle of a lotta different kinds of people. Slimebag people, but you know. Culturally different.

They got festivals on almost every planet out there, and unless they're givin' away free booze, there ain't nothin' Rocket likes about 'em. Even the free booze ones usually have a catch, and he don't understand why people want to be around each other on purpose anyway. If he could have a festival, it would be a festival of one.

...okay, maybe two. But that's it, and he don't mean Quill.

This Terran holiday shit's got to be the most annoying of the whole lot, though, with it's frickin' twinkle lights and trees in the middle of the room for no good damned reason. 'Supposed to be all about love and cheer and all that bullshit, but he ain't feelin' any goodwill from any of the humans who've yelped just at the sight of him.

Like they ain't never seen somebody looked any different from them before.

He don't like the hotel in the first place, but it won't let him back home yet, and even his room is filled with spangles and fake snow. (Who the hell wants real snow, much less fake snow?) In his attempt to find someplace a little less annoying, he's found himself down in the basement, sitting alone in a row of cushy chairs with very low expectations for whatever he's about to watch. If it's got anything to do with that fat guy in the red suit, he's bailing.

But oh, it ends up being so much better than that.

"Aw, what! Just take 'em out!" he's yelling now, on the edge of his seat and motioning angrily at the screen. "You gotta machine gun!"

[Watching Die Hard, best of all holiday movies.]

Comments

[buryyouwithmysound]

"Bullets are such a pain," Marceline agrees. "You just gotta swoop down on 'em and chomp!" She floats a little higher in the air, lengthening her fangs and taking a snap at the air.

"Strawberry? The gray ones are still good."

[prettygoodplan]

"Yeah, well, sometimes bullets are all you got," Rocket replies with a little sniff as he sits back in his seat to give the girl a once over. "Not everybody can fly around. Besides, I like havin' somethin' I can hold in my hands." Makes people take somebody like him real serious real fast.

"Nah," he says of the strawberries, waving them off. "I don't do fruit."

[buryyouwithmysound]

"I thought your species were omnivores. Oh well." She throws the gray strawberries, one by one, into the trash.

"I can only eat the color."

[prettygoodplan]

"First of all," Rocket says with a frown, his posture stiffening. "I ain't got a species. There's just one, and that's me," he says with a jab of his thumb toward his chest. "So don't act like you got any idea about what I'm like. Second, I'm allowed to have a frickin' preference, lady. You don't like eatin' nothin' but red, I don't like eatin' fruit."

[buryyouwithmysound]

"One of a kind, huh?" Marceline asks. "Badass."

Shrugging, she sucks the red out of yet another strawberry.

"Well now I know."

[prettygoodplan]

Rocket knows he's abrasive, and he likes it that way. He goes into most situations swinging as a matter of self-preservation. With the teeth and all, he'd expected something else entirely from this chick, and now he doesn't know what the hell to do with her but stare.

"Now you know," he finally slowly replies, and looks back to the screen.

[buryyouwithmysound]

"Yup. And now I know what an awesome movie this is."

She sets her bowl of strawberries aside and moves into the chair next to the not-raccoon, shape shifting into her bat form for some kind of solidarity.