"Ben?" Ooooh shit, the plot just thickened. " Ben 'Electra Complex' Fields?" Darius was definitely bullshitting, but it'd be fun to humor him a bit, just to see what he has to say. "What the fuck is this? Some sort of cheap 90's nickelodeon sitcom?" Of all things, a wedgie? Who the fuck does that anymore?
Darius must've been huffing paint or jenkem again or some shit. Michael actually took a quick sniff to see if he smelled acrylic paint or recreational drugs floating around the two. All he could smell was nicotine and cancer, as of right now. Though nothing covers up any scent more than cigarette smoke, so he'd probably have to wait a bit just to see if it changes. He made a mental note of if he smelled bullshit or not, it was either Darius' story or the jenkem he theoretically inhaled. I mean, if he wanted it to be believable, he'd have probably picked anything other than a wedgie.
"You're telling me that Ben reeled your ass like that Spongebob hook episode shit?" Michael took a quick laugh before putting on a cheap Mr. Krabs impersonation. "Yo ho yo ho, near the hooks we'll never go!" Okay, it was harder to humor Darius than he thought, but damn, he was asking for it worse than wearing a fur coat down a dark alley.
I mean really? It was almost an insult to Michael's intelligence. Darius' story implied Michael had an IQ in the double, nay, single digits. It's on the borderline of warranting a dick-punch. Not like a massive ball breaker, just a quick shot strong enough to make him gasp or squeak or some shit. I mean, Ben Give me a faggot and I'll lynch the maggot Fields? The idea of him getting close enough to touch a guy's rear end is already preposterous, let alone actually grabbing their underwear.
"Could I give you some advice, Darius?" Michael reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his Rayban Wayfarers and placing them over his face. He'd only pull out the old Blue's Brother's sunglasses on special occasions, and he'd figure this would be one. "If you ever want to be a conman, just remember..." Michael stretched his legs out on the bench, crossing his ankles, as he rested his hands behind his head, in the what could be the most campy 1980's Tony Montana cartel boss fashion possible. "You. Can't. Con. A conman." His grin widened. He couldn't take this seriously, so he might as well not act it either.