[ Joe would like the record to show his wholehearted belief that horror is an asinine form of entertainment. Sure, keep your Argento, your Midsommar, your Stephen fucking King, but there comes a point where it all devolves into slimy, corn syrup-soaked idiocy. Not to mention the lack of ethics. Playing on peoples' secrets, their innermost workings; the humiliation of subverting what's sacred —
He's not having a good time. And yet, here he is, seated (albeit stiffly) at the wide, round table among the other guests. RIPBeck, RIPLove, and Mary Kay (rest in peace) deserve some credit, though: he doubts even their dramatic souls would be roused by their clearly mentally unstable host.
He came here, to this mansion, to escape the heat of Central Florida, the stench of alcohol, and the blood that he's already washed off of his hands. He did not come here for Halloween in fucking April.
Joe's well aware that he could've said no, and he'd much rather be tucked away in the library, musty as it is, or even better — in his car, driving far, far north — but when there are plans and expectations and his car battery is suspiciously dead, well. Beggars can't be choosers. Joe has the suspicion that he'd stick out like a sore thumb if he didn't go, anyway.
The host turns the lights out (electric! Impressive!), leaving nothing but the glow of the taper candles atop the table, and Joe plays nice and does what he's told, ensuring the thumbs of his hands are touching, and his pinkies are connected to those of his neighbors. When the host opens with the syllable ah, held like a note, vibrato and all, though, he can't help but snort in laughter. Even though he tries to cover it up with a cough, whoever's next to him is absolutely going to have heard the whole thing. ]
joe goldberg | you (novel canon) ( seance! )
He's not having a good time. And yet, here he is, seated (albeit stiffly) at the wide, round table among the other guests. RIPBeck, RIPLove, and Mary Kay (rest in peace) deserve some credit, though: he doubts even their dramatic souls would be roused by their clearly mentally unstable host.
He came here, to this mansion, to escape the heat of Central Florida, the stench of alcohol, and the blood that he's already washed off of his hands. He did not come here for Halloween in fucking April.
Joe's well aware that he could've said no, and he'd much rather be tucked away in the library, musty as it is, or even better — in his car, driving far, far north — but when there are plans and expectations and his car battery is suspiciously dead, well. Beggars can't be choosers. Joe has the suspicion that he'd stick out like a sore thumb if he didn't go, anyway.
The host turns the lights out (electric! Impressive!), leaving nothing but the glow of the taper candles atop the table, and Joe plays nice and does what he's told, ensuring the thumbs of his hands are touching, and his pinkies are connected to those of his neighbors. When the host opens with the syllable ah, held like a note, vibrato and all, though, he can't help but snort in laughter. Even though he tries to cover it up with a cough, whoever's next to him is absolutely going to have heard the whole thing. ]