2019-09-03 - What could possibly go wrong?

Is this place even open yet? Regardless, Graham is like, "Knock knock." Because that's his schtick.

It's open, but it seems like maybe Gray Harbor doesn't know it yet, because the place is mostly empty. Inside, through the barred glass door, Greg sits behind the counter of his new business establishment, rolling joints rapid-fire with a little hand rolling machine. Spotting Graham, he waves the other man to come on in with a hand still clutching a half-rolled joint sticking out of the roller. "It's a push!" he offers helpfully, but it is, in fact, a pull.

Graham walks into the door with his face. "Very funny," while he throws it open properly and enters this abandoned establishment. "You're rolling in it, man. How do you even keep up with all these customers?" he asks, gawking around the empty store like his mind is just totally blown, here. Up to the counter where he plops his elbows, smiling dreamily at joint-rolling Greg. "You better hire people to help you count your money."

Greg shoots a Look at Graham as he hefts the roller and grabs a nearby damp sponge to wet the gum. He sets the sponge aside, rolls the joint the rest of the way through, and tumbles it out into his palm. "Hey man, I just opened. Word will get out." His tone is definitely defensive and he looks wounded as he moves to add the joint to a bright blue bin full of them. He glances around at the empty storefront, over at the unlocked door, then back to Graham. "So what's up big dog? We gonna smash and dash these bitches or what? " He paints on his best charming grin as he scoops one of his joints back out of the bin and lights it. "Shrink," he comments loftily.

Graham quietly tries to steal rolled joints and put them in his cigarette box. He's not being especially subtle about this, mostly just waiting till he figured Greg is looking... yanno... anywhere else, like the door or whatever, so it's not going to be hard to catch him in the act here. (Probably he could just ask but where's the fun?) "I'm kinda thinking less smash, more grab. Here, check this out." He puts the cigarettes on the counter, so feel free to steal things back, and gets out his phone, tapping around for a second before he's onto the satellite-view of a map.

It's a distribution center, as advertised. Trucks and stuff. "They have proper security, but look at this place. It's fucking huge. We could get in and out and no one would ever even know we were there."

[there's 'just like your girlfriend' joke to be made here]

Greg pretends not to notice Graham nicking his supply, but he's pretty sure he saw him get away with at least one of the prerolls. He keeps his eyes on the pack when Graham sets it down, and makes an attempt to snatch it when he thinks the other man is looking at his phone. Of course he isn't, and as Greg notices Graham's total lack of distraction, he fumbles and ends up knocking the pack off the counter. He smiles brightly at Graham before putting his attention onto the phone. Well, most of his attention. Graham and his sneaky fingers...

"Oh, just like your mom," Greg comments in a dry, scholastic tone. "You think we can just sneak in, get our hands on the shit, and sneak back out?"

"Hold up." This while Graham is looking at the pack of cigarettes on the ground without a word, since apparently the game is 'we steal from each other but pretend otherwise.' "Did you just suggest that you did such a band job banging my mom that she didn't even notice you doing it?" Brows climb, stick there, then he just goes back to scrolling around on this handy map of the distribution center. Google Maps is seriously the best thing ever for planning a heist. "I can sneak in and sneak back out. You might wind up getting caught," he's still looking at the fumbled box of smokes. Pointedly. "But it's big money if you don't fuck it up."

"I'm hung like a cold, wet field mouse that just saw a hawk fly over," Greg tells Graham with zero emotion. He leans across the counter to gaze upon the grounded pack himself and slowly grins. "Family, I think me and you could sit here and trump each other at stupid games all night... because we're both sketchy assholes. This place though, it's going to be working stiffs, not guys like us, right? Should be a cinch." He sets aside his roller while he tokes on his lit joint. "I put the bunk shit in the prerolls, by the way. If you need some smoke I can hook you up with the fire."

Without looking up, Graham mumbles, "That is so hot," about the field mouse, etc. "Yeah, but lookit," of the cinch. "This long-ass service road is my only hang-up. If they see us and we do have to book out, there is no way we're losing them on this stretch of road back to the highway." Which is why he leans his chin on his hand and drags the phone-map this way and that, frowning at the problem. So he's not frowning at Greg or the shitty weed in the prerolls, just still wearing the same frown when he addresses that matter. "Elly won't let me smoke in the house anyway." (Graham is SUPER WHIPPED, just for the record. He owns this issue.) "So don't go outta your way. Besides, this way, all the neighbors have to smell this nasty shit because she makes me smoke in the backyard."

While he ponders this problem, Greg's foot snakes over to shake his skateboard down onto its wheels from where it leans behind the counter. He steps up onto it and starts to do stupid little tricks to keep his feet busy while his head works -- flipping it up on its side to land on the trucks, ollying in place, and the like. "So... we have to come out not-hot. They can't even know we were there." He pauses while perching on the skateboard as it points towards the sky like an accusatory finger. "What if we didn't leave by the road though? What if we came and went from an unexpected direction with some ATVs?"

"Ideally." With the coming out not-hot. For a second, Graham leans forward so he can see over the counter to whatever Greg is doing with his feet, sees the skateboard, offers wistfully, "God, I hope this place has a mountain of Ritalin." The idea of the ATVs has some merit to it, and he rubs the back of his fingers on the base of his chin, frowning at the map again. "You got ATVs? I bet Joey could get some..." The dot-dot-dot is because now he's chewing on that notion. "Or we could just bring Andre and a bunch of guns."

Hold on, a light-bulb just went on. "We just need a distraction. Like. A bomb."

"Uh." Greg looks stymied for a moment. "Don't get me wrong homie, but these seem to be conflicting ideas right chur. 'We need to be quiet, Greg. But let's blow up a motherfuckin' bomb, Greg.'" He quirks a brow at Graham from beneath his mess of curls. "Also no, I don't have ATVs, but I also don't have a bomb, my dude." He hops off the skateboard and starts to make a show of looking around on the racks for a bomb. "No bombs under the knit hats," he confirms. "Maybe with the bongs -- that would make sense, right?"

Like he's suddenly and completely enamored, Graham looks at Greg with (fake) hearts in his eyes. "I hope, when I grow up, I'm as good at brainstorming as you are." He leans hard on his hand, like the effort of standing upright is overwhelming in the light of how much he adores Greg right now.

He clicks the little 'turn off' button on his phone, disappearing the map while watching the search-for-bombs show. "If you actually find a bomb, I will never stop laughing." (Till he explodes.) But seriously, "I'm just thinking, if we set up some kind of distraction, me and you and Andre could sneak in and out. The ATV-thing works to avoid that service road, but redundancy, yanno?"

Greg nods and wanders back over, rubbing at the stubble on his chin while he starts thinking seriously. Visions of Rambo hanging from a chopper with a chaingun dance in his head, but... reality. "A bomb," he ponders. "A distraction..." He puffs on his joint and shakes his head. "Well... shit. Fuck it. I don't have a better idea -- let's blow some shit up!" He grins affably. "You know man... maybe it's easier than we're making it. A big place like that, they must work their people in shifts. What if we just timed it so we leave at the end of a shift? We just blend the fuck in. As long as we don't bring up any red flags while we're in there, nobody should be on the lookout for shit."

A decade from now, this is a no-brainer: disguises are obviously the smarter of the two solutions. But Graham is a twenty-five year old dude, so BOMBS just sound a lot cooler. Hence his agony over this decision, an agony that leaves him making 'gimme that' gestures about the joint that Greg BETTER BE COOL ENOUGH TO SHARE or else. "Just roll in like we work there, do our business, and drive out along with the rest of the quitting-time traffic?" Pale eyes cast ceilingward, searching the sky for inspiration. "That could work. We still better bring Andre, though, 'cause if shit goes sideways..." Andre is gigantic.

Greg nods eagerly as he hands over the joint. "Andre can be our bomb if it goes tits up." He looks to the door before walking back behind the counter. "So when do you want to do this thing?" He pulls out a smallish green marble slab, around four by eight inches, from below the counter and sets it (somewhat) inconspicuously onto the countertop behind the cash register. "It shouldn't be hard to find out what shifts they're running," he says, digging into his pocket for a little folded paper packet; he starts dumping coke out onto the slate. Not an alarming amount or anything, not like it's a house warming -- just a little bump. He pauses with the packet poised to dump more, his eyes firing the question toward Graham. "Bump?" In case it's not clear.

"I can find that out." About the shifts. Graham is technically unemployed; driving out to Elma and stalking some employees at a distribution yard should keep him busy for a while, at least. As for when, "Lemme get my ducks in rows, and I'll shoot you a text." He straightens up from his lean on the counter when the baggie comes out, and he's just left shaking his head. "You might have a drug problem, friend." Says the guy that first stole several joints and is now smoking one, voice tight for a second before the exhale. "I'm good." No coke, he's fine.

"It's not a problem at all," Greg replies as he cards up his line. "It's lovely." He doesn't make a spectacle of snorting his blow and putting his toys away, moving on with things. "Let me know if you change your minds. Just so you know, we shouldn't have any trouble with locked doors. It's kind of my thing. Well." He starts holding up fingers to count. "Drugs, skateboards, and locks. So that's three things." He checks the math analogically and seems satisfied: three things, three fingers. "I'll get a clean strap, in case it comes to blasting our way out. You got something?" His tone is thick with assumption and doesn't really allow for the negative possibility.

Graham is not a judgey bastard, at least. He's just whipped, as previously mentioned, so can't be strolling through the door of his house, all coked out. 🙁

"Cool," is his acceptance of those three things, put with the offer of a fist-bump. "Maybe," he has something. "If you're going shopping, though," he has some sort of preferred gun. His player has zero concept of what this gun would be, other than it's some kind of pistol, so just assume it's appropriate and he knows what he's talking about.

Okay, yes. He knows what he's talking about.

Miracles happen every day, it seems, because Greg even seems to pick up what Graham is putting down. Guns! All the guns. "I'll pick that up. Hopefully it won't come to that, though." Greg's face contorts in a snort that involves only the nostril he fired his drugs up as he reaches out to meet Graham's fist. "Bsssshow!" he apes an explosion sound afterwards while he wiggles his fingers. "So is this the boss's job and we're doing it, or our job and we give him a taste?" A quick glance towards a door that has no Felix in it emboldens the little asshole. "I mean, I don't see him here figuring it out, or showing up to do it. Eh?"

"Amen." The hope it won't come to that bit. Graham straightens himself out entirely at that point, holding what's left of that joint to Greg to do something with it - or else he'll drop it on the floor, fair warning. "The latter. I need Percocet." The particular urgency of that admission makes Graham sound like he's an addict, no lie, so maybe that's his bag? Instead of cocaine? "This seems like a good way to score enough to set me up for a while and make a few extra bucks on the side. Everybody'll get paid, and the boss is good with getting a chunk of change out of it, so it's win-win-win." He smiles an awesome smile - wanna buy a watch? he's totally trustworthy! - and scrapes his phone into his pocket.

"I gotta go stalk my girlfriend on her lunch. But I'll be in touch."

Greg nods amicably throughout this delivery, his level of interest markedly improving. "You know in the meanwhile dude, if you need to get fixed up... " Greg reaches out to snag the joint and puffs on it, grinning. "It's not like you identified the one drug I can't get, family." He stomps down deftly, causing his skateboard to fly up into his hand as if of its own accord. Taken by a whim, he flips it back out again and leaps nimbly land on it, slowly rolling towards the door. "I think I'll lock up for a while and go fuck around out back. I need some bodies in here dude."

Graham thinks about it... not gonna lie... but no. "Thanks, man. Don't fucking break your ankle or anything on that thing." He points to the skateboard with his now conveniently joint-free hand, and lets himself out. After he tries to pull the door open instead of push it. Grousing keeps him busy on the way to his car.