0.002 | text | filtered to john "kable" tillman (5% filter)

[dashhole]

[Friday morning]
[It's just one message after another with this guy.]

hey tilman

tilman

dude

u kno how 2 make an omlate

omlet?

omlay do fromadge

yo can u show me how 2 do this or not

im hungry

Comments

a c t i o n motherfucker

[sweetmotherofgod]

[She sets out eggs, cheese, a bowl and fork to whisk the eggs with and a pan. Then she glares at the stuff and wonders why the hell she's doing this again and stops. If the texting moron wants to get all fancy with herbs and shit, they can take care of it themselves.]

FUCK YEAR ACTION

[dashhole]

[Pft, he wouldn't know what herbs go in an omelet if they jumped up and bit him on the nose. That said, he arrives well within the 15-miute limit, stepping around the side of the door to pop into the kitchen and stop-]

Okay, let's do this-- Wait, you're a girl?

[Eloquent.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Cue eyebrow raise and the driest tone ever.]

Yeah. It's a pretty common condition these days.

[And you're a tool, no surprises there.]

[dashhole]

[He blinks for another second, then steps into the kitchen with a shrug.]

Oh, okay. Yeah, that makes a way more sense!

[I AM A DORK AND I'M DIGGING A HOLE, DIGGY DIGGY HOLE, I'M DIGGING A HOLE.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[PUT THAT SHOVEL AWAY YOU DO NOT NEED IT FOR MAKING AN OMELET]

What exactly do you mean by that?

[Please observe these eggs that are well within throwing distance, okay.]

1/2

[dashhole]

[He got it from Soldier.]

You were either gonna be a chick or French, and I was kinda expectin' you to be French. Gotta say, I like this better.

[dashhole]

[His eyes narrow, looking askance at her.]

Unless you are French.

...You're not actually Spy in disguise, are you?

[Because that would be weird and gross. :c]

[sweetmotherofgod]

No! Why the hell would you think I was French?

[Somebody's been spending too much time around Netherlands because the look on her face. Although apparently he also thinks she could be a spy and hey, that's kind of cool.]

'course, if I was a spy I'd hardly just tell you.

[dashhole]

[THIS IS THE FACE OF A MAN NOT ENTIRELY CONVINCED YOU'RE NOT SPORTING BAIT AND TACKLE, HERE.]

Cause omelets are French, and Spy's French, and he makes omelets sometimes.

Never shares 'em, though. Froggy jerk. [Pout]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Rest your soul comforted in the fact that you're never going to have to deal with whatever's in Heather's pants, friend.]

That's - okay, that's ridiculous. You thought Tillman could show you, and he's not French. And he's about as far from a chick as it's possible to be.

[LOADED. PAUSE.]

You haven't seen his big dumb ass around, have you?

[dashhole]

[WELL GOOD wait]

He's like one a the only people here I wanna talk to, that's why. And Cibo wouldn't know, she didn't even know what alcohol was.

[He picks up the pan by the handle, then gives it a twirl, spinning it around like the handle was an axel. Good weight on this, nice balance. Could probably even be thrown with a degree of accuracy.]

Nope. Figured he's the kinda guy who keeps to hisself. You know. Right?

[He glances at her.] Wait, you haven't either?

[sweetmotherofgod]

[That is not what that pan is for but she is going to ignore his antics. Mostly because that's kinda cool. She shrugs.]

No, but like you said. Keeps to himself. Wouldn't be the first time he's gone off the grid for a little while, either.

[Of course, he's been better about keeping in touch since she pitched a giant fit at him last time, and she's pretty sure Simon gave him the same treatment. She frowns, toys with her wristbands.]

Listen, you want an omelet or not?

[dashhole]

[Setting the pan (none too gently) on the stove, he proceeds to lean on the counter next to it with one elbow, and offer his best winning smile.]

Yes, please.

[It only lasts a second before he's up again.] There's some kinda fancy trick to it, and I never figured it out.

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Yeah it's not that winning. But hey, she appreciates the effort.]

You have to... dig a hole, kinda? Like push the cooked stuff into the middle and let the unset stuff fill the gap. That what you mean?

[Because let's face it, it is entirely possible Heather has been making omelets wrong her whole life.]

[dashhole]

[Yeah, that's news on him. ] ...Okay, didn't know that, but no, that wasn't it.

Everything goes fine until I try to flip it, but then it falls apart. Then it's just a bunch of scrambled eggs.

[You know, when he doesn't make charcoal entirely. He picks up a piece of cheese and pops it in his mouth.] I mean, I eat 'em anyway, but, y'know? Not really what I was going for.