Post by Watt Johnson on Jul 25, 2013 17:42:48 GMT -5
Shinigami, were, by and large, essentially soldiers of the Soul Society. Ever-vigilant, always ready to launch an attack on any threats that presented themselves. Countless Hollows had fallen before their blades, and they had endured terrible hardships that would make the mightiest of warriors quake in their boots/ however, every warrior needs to rest now and then, lest they risk tiring themselves out. And, as it happened, this was exactly what was happening in a location barely touched by human hands. Granted, the brass hadn’t exactly been approving of the idea, but then again, anything that didn’t involve ceremonial tea-drinking wasn’t likely to get their approval.
The beach itself was picturesque in how it looked – it was the kind of beach you only expected to see in brochures. Mostly because there was a distinct lack of wrinklies, pale teenagers with the mental capacity of a potato, and middle-aged women reading some god-awful romance novel under the shade. Instead, it was a gathering of people who should have been wrinklies a long time ago, pale teenager lookalikes with the combined mental capacities of a potato, and middle-aged (by Soul Society standards) women reading something that vaguely resembled literature. Oh, the scenery was good, but the people? Not so much.
“Oh, for the love of- Who the HELL put Barbie Girl on the mix tape?”
As the one organising the event, it was only natural that Watt got annoyed when someone played the song. He did suppose it was partially his fault, however – he did ask someone else to take care of the music, so it was only natural a few stupid selections were in place. He shrugged it off anyway – the song wouldn’t last long, and he didn’t want to get worked up on one of the few days he actually got to enjoy himself. He was going to make the most of it, if it killed him. If loss of dignity didn't first - a pale blue Hawaiian t-shirt, traffic-cone orange swimming trunks and a pair of sunglasses hardly made him look classy.
Through various channels and a lot of research into the finer points of the world of the living’s beach-partying rituals, Watt had successfully set up a typical scene for his comrades. Multiple kegs of beer were lined up in one of the shacks, kept cool by – well, Watt wasn’t paying attention to that bit, but he was sure the Shinigami he was talking to knew what he was on about. He had just come off barbecue duty, and for his efforts, was now holding one of the greasiest burgers he had seen in his life up on a plate. Not being a great lover of alcohol, Watt had opted for a glass of mango juice, a drink he had come to love over the years.
The beach itself was picturesque in how it looked – it was the kind of beach you only expected to see in brochures. Mostly because there was a distinct lack of wrinklies, pale teenagers with the mental capacity of a potato, and middle-aged women reading some god-awful romance novel under the shade. Instead, it was a gathering of people who should have been wrinklies a long time ago, pale teenager lookalikes with the combined mental capacities of a potato, and middle-aged (by Soul Society standards) women reading something that vaguely resembled literature. Oh, the scenery was good, but the people? Not so much.
“Oh, for the love of- Who the HELL put Barbie Girl on the mix tape?”
As the one organising the event, it was only natural that Watt got annoyed when someone played the song. He did suppose it was partially his fault, however – he did ask someone else to take care of the music, so it was only natural a few stupid selections were in place. He shrugged it off anyway – the song wouldn’t last long, and he didn’t want to get worked up on one of the few days he actually got to enjoy himself. He was going to make the most of it, if it killed him. If loss of dignity didn't first - a pale blue Hawaiian t-shirt, traffic-cone orange swimming trunks and a pair of sunglasses hardly made him look classy.
Through various channels and a lot of research into the finer points of the world of the living’s beach-partying rituals, Watt had successfully set up a typical scene for his comrades. Multiple kegs of beer were lined up in one of the shacks, kept cool by – well, Watt wasn’t paying attention to that bit, but he was sure the Shinigami he was talking to knew what he was on about. He had just come off barbecue duty, and for his efforts, was now holding one of the greasiest burgers he had seen in his life up on a plate. Not being a great lover of alcohol, Watt had opted for a glass of mango juice, a drink he had come to love over the years.
