tragic_mask | (no subject)

"Why neo-fascists?"

"So proud of their Germanic heritage," he says. "Pure, Aryan, Norse and Germanic heritage. And so into the occult."

"Well, I guess I'm grateful that I have the Classics majors, then."

"We should exchange a few, sometime. Just for variety."

"I doubt the world needs neo-fascists that can write great literature..." she says.

"It could use some who realize that their artistic ability isn't what they think it is," he says. "Or some who are exposed to great literature and realize the error of their earlier beliefs. And are rejected from their former communities and are not accepted by society at large, either. What a tragedy, eh?"

"Oh, quite," she says, as the line moves forward.

"Whereas I could use a few classics scholars," he says. "People with an appreciation for art and craftsmanship, and not just weaponry."

"Most of the Clasics majors I've met aren't particularly interested in craftsmanship..." she says. "They mostly just prolong interest in the old poets. Which is fine by me."

"So it might revitalize them a bit," he says. "Or we can all just focus on the hippies. I have an affection for them."

"Yeah, let's just gather them all together and see what happens."

"First step, we build a time machine. Second step... Woodstock. After that, we're golden--we've got our own cults."

He grins.

"Good plan... you've already got the time machine in the works, right?"

"I do," he nods. "It's not nearly done yet, but the beauty of time travel is that it doesn't have to be."

"Well, I certainly don't want to end up in 7th century Timbuktu," she says.

"It'd be a bit miserable living through that all the way up to the eighteenth century, when we'd finally be able to get replacement parts for the machine, wouldn't it?"

"It really would... So take your time on the machine," she says, patting his arm.

"We've got all the time in the world. And then some," he nods."

"True enough..." she says.

Someone with a megaphone is telling them to climb aboard the next boat, so she does.

He follows her onto the boat, collecting the much-vaunted 'free souvenir ponchos' on the way--little more than lightweight trash bags with neck openings and hoods.

"I have a feeling we're about to get soaked," he says.

She glances at them wryly.

"Well, we are here for the water, after all."

"We are," he says, putting his on. "Come on, let me get a 'before' picture of you. Or we can get someone to get a picture of both of us. Before we get water on the lens and everything else turns out blurry."

"Okay," she says, slipping her poncho over her head and leaning against the side of the boat, with a cheesy and winning smile. "How's this?"

Click.

He grins and sidles up next to her, holding the camera at arm's length to try to get a picture of the two of them together.

"Perfect. Let's see if we can get both of us..."

"This might be a disaster," she says, moving closer. "A picture of your arm and the seat."