"Look at that, he makes a decision. L&L it is; I think there's one on the way."
Truthfully, he still can't quite adjust to the Hawaiian version of fast food. Instead of hoagies from a truck, or gyro, or anything else you could easily eat while walking, they're all about caloric mounds called plate lunches: white rice and charbroiled meats swimming in barbecue sauce or gravy, sometimes with an egg thrown on top, usually with something fried. How the hell Honolulu isn't the most obese city in America he's got no clue; everyone seems to be able to put them away without too much difficulty, whereas Danny feels like he's actively swallowing cement, like he might sink in water after one of them, if he were so foolish as to try and swim.
Which is not to say he isn't routinely foolish, okay, because he is, and this is all just another example of it, because he just can't leave well enough alone, can he? No matter who those numbers had stopped on, he would've found himself involved somehow, because he just can't stop himself, has, apparently, not yet had enough of the world blowing down his house of cards, stomping all over his pathetic sandcastles. No, he just keeps building them, then waits for someone to come along and burn them to the ground, hands them the matches and gasoline to do it.
Whatever. He's not doing this for some damn numbers on his wrist, he's doing it because it's his job, and he's good at his job, and because no one should have to hear their father die over the phone and then be forced to hunt down his murderer alone.
no subject
"Look at that, he makes a decision. L&L it is; I think there's one on the way."
Truthfully, he still can't quite adjust to the Hawaiian version of fast food. Instead of hoagies from a truck, or gyro, or anything else you could easily eat while walking, they're all about caloric mounds called plate lunches: white rice and charbroiled meats swimming in barbecue sauce or gravy, sometimes with an egg thrown on top, usually with something fried. How the hell Honolulu isn't the most obese city in America he's got no clue; everyone seems to be able to put them away without too much difficulty, whereas Danny feels like he's actively swallowing cement, like he might sink in water after one of them, if he were so foolish as to try and swim.
Which is not to say he isn't routinely foolish, okay, because he is, and this is all just another example of it, because he just can't leave well enough alone, can he? No matter who those numbers had stopped on, he would've found himself involved somehow, because he just can't stop himself, has, apparently, not yet had enough of the world blowing down his house of cards, stomping all over his pathetic sandcastles. No, he just keeps building them, then waits for someone to come along and burn them to the ground, hands them the matches and gasoline to do it.
Whatever. He's not doing this for some damn numbers on his wrist, he's doing it because it's his job, and he's good at his job, and because no one should have to hear their father die over the phone and then be forced to hunt down his murderer alone.