Lafayette hated Hot Shot, but it's got a good number of V dealers and users. Unfortunately they're all rednecks, so let's just say that his brand of fabulousness doesn't translate well among them.
Still, there he is, in a cluttered workshop, trying to convince a dude to buy his supply, but dude ain't feeling his sales pitch. He even goes so far as to ask if Lafayette is a cop.
"Nothing this hot will cost you this little and earn you so much," Lafayette insists, holding up a tube of the opaque, red substance.
But he only wants to eat his sandwich (seriously, who eats in their garage?).
"We're not gettin' in business with people like you," the guy says.
...Now, why he gotta go there for.
"People like me?" Lafayette says, hackles rising, eyes narrowing. "Look--"
"No, you look, son," the man snaps, pointing at him. "Polite's in short supply around here. It's time you get your ass home."
He's about to give the guy a piece of his mind and then some when a commotion outside gets his attention.
Oh, hell naw.
He gathers up his (unsold) supply of V and rushes out of the garage toward his brand new car -- which has been set upon by several rednecks looking to scrap it. One of them is even in the passenger seat, defiling the pristine leather with his dirty-ass jeans.
"Hey! Get the fuck up out my ride!"
The man gets out and gets in his face. "How about no?"
"How 'bout I whup your fuckin' ass?" Lafayette shoots back, giving him a push.
"Faggot!"
The guy shoves him hard, and he stumbles backwards, into the grip of one of the other rednecks. They surround him like a pack of laughing, braying animals. Struggling, Lafayette is held fast as a knee is driven into his stomach, and he crumples.
The man who he tried to sell the V to comes up behind him.
"I told you we ain't so polite around here," he snarls, and grabs Lafayette's arm, holding him up, readying him for another blow.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2014-09-29 09:16 pm (UTC)Still, there he is, in a cluttered workshop, trying to convince a dude to buy his supply, but dude ain't feeling his sales pitch. He even goes so far as to ask if Lafayette is a cop.
"Nothing this hot will cost you this little and earn you so much," Lafayette insists, holding up a tube of the opaque, red substance.
But he only wants to eat his sandwich (seriously, who eats in their garage?).
"We're not gettin' in business with people like you," the guy says.
...Now, why he gotta go there for.
"People like me?" Lafayette says, hackles rising, eyes narrowing. "Look--"
"No, you look, son," the man snaps, pointing at him. "Polite's in short supply around here. It's time you get your ass home."
He's about to give the guy a piece of his mind and then some when a commotion outside gets his attention.
Oh, hell naw.
He gathers up his (unsold) supply of V and rushes out of the garage toward his brand new car -- which has been set upon by several rednecks looking to scrap it. One of them is even in the passenger seat, defiling the pristine leather with his dirty-ass jeans.
"Hey! Get the fuck up out my ride!"
The man gets out and gets in his face. "How about no?"
"How 'bout I whup your fuckin' ass?" Lafayette shoots back, giving him a push.
"Faggot!"
The guy shoves him hard, and he stumbles backwards, into the grip of one of the other rednecks. They surround him like a pack of laughing, braying animals. Struggling, Lafayette is held fast as a knee is driven into his stomach, and he crumples.
The man who he tried to sell the V to comes up behind him.
"I told you we ain't so polite around here," he snarls, and grabs Lafayette's arm, holding him up, readying him for another blow.