Uhhh, yeah, like a five-second heads up. Not even five seconds.
[ Ohhh my god. Whatever. Jesse's other hand smears down his face while he wills himself to calm down, then he's helping Ronan up. Once they're both standing, Jesse resists the urge to shove Ronan again just for good fucking measure. Don't scare him like that, asswipe.
Jesus, he needs another hit after that. He's digging his hand into his pocket to fish out the 8-ball again, eyes sweeping down to the box at Ronan's question. He studies it a moment in silence; he needs a second to regroup himself. After one more determinedly steadying sigh: ]
...Fuck, man. How the hell do you do that? [ Bring things out of his dreams, that is. Baggy of coke in hand, he's still staring at the box in growing mystified wonderment now Ronan scaring him half to death is dissipating. He glances over to the wreckage. Back to the box. Chewing his bottom lip in thought. ]
Either we do it the slow way and set 'em alight one by one. Means they'll last longer that way. Or... we fuse 'em together and run a homemade fuse line out from the debris. Like string or paper or something flammable like that. Or rope of some kind dipped in alcohol or fuel. Ignite it all of it from a distance.
[ Which will take a while to set up and will be fiddly as hell. He sniffs hard, sniffing cocaine backdrip down his throat, which sends a renewed small rush amping through him. He quickly wipes his nose, then bites his thumbnail in thought. ]
Or. We just pile 'em all in and toss a molotov in there, and run like hell. [ Jesse looks at Ronan. Despite the scare Ronan had given him just moments ago, there's a slow smile creeping onto his lips. ] Got any booze? That's, like, eighty proof or more?
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[ Ohhh my god. Whatever. Jesse's other hand smears down his face while he wills himself to calm down, then he's helping Ronan up. Once they're both standing, Jesse resists the urge to shove Ronan again just for good fucking measure. Don't scare him like that, asswipe.
Jesus, he needs another hit after that. He's digging his hand into his pocket to fish out the 8-ball again, eyes sweeping down to the box at Ronan's question. He studies it a moment in silence; he needs a second to regroup himself. After one more determinedly steadying sigh: ]
...Fuck, man. How the hell do you do that? [ Bring things out of his dreams, that is. Baggy of coke in hand, he's still staring at the box in growing mystified wonderment now Ronan scaring him half to death is dissipating. He glances over to the wreckage. Back to the box. Chewing his bottom lip in thought. ]
Either we do it the slow way and set 'em alight one by one. Means they'll last longer that way. Or... we fuse 'em together and run a homemade fuse line out from the debris. Like string or paper or something flammable like that. Or rope of some kind dipped in alcohol or fuel. Ignite it all of it from a distance.
[ Which will take a while to set up and will be fiddly as hell. He sniffs hard, sniffing cocaine backdrip down his throat, which sends a renewed small rush amping through him. He quickly wipes his nose, then bites his thumbnail in thought. ]
Or. We just pile 'em all in and toss a molotov in there, and run like hell. [ Jesse looks at Ronan. Despite the scare Ronan had given him just moments ago, there's a slow smile creeping onto his lips. ] Got any booze? That's, like, eighty proof or more?