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19th july, 2018 10:37 am
"NO, I DON'T WANT her to be French!" Michael groans, tapping his pen impatiently against the table as he speaks to stop himself from grabbing at his hair, "What? No, she's Portuguese. Portuguese and Spanish are not the same — what? No! Look, Gallur, I want to be out of this continent in this week. I'm mailing you the names and the pictures in an hour, and I swear to god, if you fuck up this time, I will not hesitate to grab you by the balls and take you for a spin," As he says, he presses his phone between his ear and his shoulder starting up his email, "Yes, Gallur, I'm using the private server. Goodbye."
"Are you guys done already? Even people on viagra don't take that long to finish!" Michael shouts, his question answered by a groan and a long string of curses. The next minute, Carl rushes in, his glasses askew and shirt crumpled, very visible bruise marks on his face.
"Jeez, what happened to you?"
"Well, your girlfriend and Teresa thought it would be perfect to make me look like a bitch straight out of a juvenile detention center. Like that won't draw any attention," he explains, plopping down on the stool next to Michael and pulling the strap of his camera over his head, removing the memory card and gently shoving it into Michael's laptop.
"Also, classic parallel drawn there. Sex and work, very equal. Very, very equal. Did you take a class for that?" He adds, watching Michael launch the files as he scoffs.
"Shut up, kid. They know what they're doing."
"Know what they're doing? They've made Agnes into a thirty year old Chinese woman. Hey, you smell that? Yeah, smells like bullshit to me."
"Shut up, Carl, we don't question you when you're toying around with those chemicals of yours."
"Yeah, because you don't understand—"
"Shhh," Michael says again, turning around and pinching his lips shut, causing Carl to wince and push Michael away. He doesn't say anything after, because Michael would probably tell him to shut up again. His very original, classic retort. He just watches as Michael opens up a new document, inserts the pictures, and pushes the laptop towards him as he says, "Your turn. Let's just say I didn't choose creative writing as a major."
"Michael, you didn't even go to college."
"Jesus, dude, what's with the stick up your ass? We can't all be child prodigies who graduated college at the age of seventeen. The world needs some Michaels, you know — smart, charming, nearly bald—" Michael rambles as he watches Carl work, trying very hard to tune the latter out, "Rosemary Ethel? The fuck kinda name is that? Didn't know we were back in the renaissance ages. Let me just call Gatsby and ask him to throw us a ball."