A one-shouldered shrug pushes it’s way through the grimace that’s otherwise marring Pash’s features— because, c’mon, ain’t no one keepin’ a straight face around a decomposing dude, okay?
“In a manner of speakin’, I am,” she offers, the crinkle in her brow deepening as she crosses the threshold of the bathroom, “And before you get ahead of yourself, this—” Hands gesture to the supposed tragedy in the bathtub before the fingers of one close around his forearm.
( Pasha Novak, queen of invading your personal space.)
“—gets weirder. C’mon.”
She, as forcefully as she can without making it, like, obvious, tugs him out the lavatory again, shutting the door behind her. Hands ring up a drumroll on the white wood before—abracadabra!
Now you see it— now you don’t.
On the second reveal, the bathtub is empty— corpse gone, stench evaporated, everything as pristine as a junkie’s bathroom could possibly be. But you gotta ask, how? It had all looked so real before, so grossly tangible. And Pash fixes her witness with a knowing stare, trying to slip her final punchline in before the probable freak-out ensues.
“That, good sir, is what I call a pest problem.”
Brows raise at the gentle hand clutching at his arm with a surprising force. He has no other choice but to follow her. If he had multiple cadavers in his home, he preferred them to be gone before the cops came.
"This ain’t no pest problem, though. Listen, uh– I don’t even think I got your name or whatever but like, if you have some sort of sixth sense, I’d rather you tell me, y'know? That affects me. I don’t really let people in my house unless they got coke and booze.” Which was stupid, really, since she seemed like a helpless butterfly.
But before he can even speak again there’s a sort of eerie thing transpiring right before his eyes. The damn corpse had vanished out of the blue. He has no other choice but to stare incredulously, appendages quivering beneath the worn out fabric of his oversized sweater.
She’d been weird-ing him out ever since she arrived.
"H-how——– how the fuck did you do that shit, bro? Jesus!“
Either it was magic, or he had been under the influence again. To Jasper, it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t wont to linger in the world of the sober. That was the world of the successful, the humble, the courageous. He was a coward.
"I must be trippin’ on acid, man. Yeah! That’s it. I’m trippin’ on a ton of acid. Why else would I be watchin’ you make dead people disappear? I mean– this is some sort of cruel joke, right? God is like… making fun of me or something. Here comes a hot chick out of the blue, after my—” Both of his index and middle fingers make exaggerated quotes for his next words, “—party is over, right? Then I have a dead body in my goddamn bathroom and you make it disappear? I-I’m just high. I’m trippin’— yeah…”
He continues to mumble to himself, scratching the back of his neck furiously. Jasper Lancaster knew that his theory of using acid was just an excuse to release him from the bonds of fear. Acid was worse, and he was one to know the effects pretty well.
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