askaree

The speed with which Askaree managed to transport her more-than-slightly-intoxicated self back to Spencer's waiting car was truly an impressive spectacle to behold. Sobriety was a such goddamn son of a bitch, weaseling it's way into the warm, cozy little niche of her inebriation to spoil the luscious high and put to waste all of her hard work and (Spencer's) cash. She turns then, her intention to slur some churlish quip towards Spencer, who she is sure lags far behind her... only to find him rounding the driver's side of the automobile. Apparently Captian Boujee was faster on that peg-leg than she had been given to think, something she might have found herself tempted to comment on were the situation at hand not quite so critical.

The ride itself was a veritable washy blur of anxiety-driven foot tapping and Askaree's insistence that Spencer hurry the fuck up. The mothball-hoarders at the nursing home could probably navigate the streets faster in their damn geriatric go-carts than Spencer in his luxury-mobile. And yet such is the intensity of the young woman's determination to see to events unfolding therein that she does not make further mention of his shortcomings as a chauffeur, charging through the perfectly-appointed lobby of the facility without regard for the staff who venture tentatively in her direction as if they mean to somehow impede her. But it seems that they are not all total idiots, the greater majority of them having been unfortunate enough to have found themselves on the receiving end of Askaree's acidic tongue at one time or another.

All apart from one.

The lone nurse that does insist upon keeping in the Egyptian woman's stead halts upon the threshold as Askaree comes to a stop at the bedside of the elderly man from earlier. Clear tubes and the kinked, spindly wires trailing from various leads intersect across the thin sheet that covers the majority of his abdomen- a fitful cacophony of sirens blare from the machines stationed alongside the bed. She turns to the pudgy, tittering nurse who fidgets in the doorway then, eyes alit with an unadulterated and insurmountable rage. "Where the fuck is everyone? Why aren't you doing anything?!" Her footfalls are heavy, ominous as she draws herself nearer to the clinician in the doorway, her counterpart seeming to shrivel into a blubbering, human-shaped pile of cottage cheese as she fumbles with the clipboard vibrating within her hands. "W-we can't. He signed...," more fucking fumbling with the goddamn clipboard, paper crumbling before she comes across what she means to show the seething woman who now towers over her. "He s-signed a DNR order. Legally we c-", the mindless white noise of her stuttering comes to an abrupt halt as one of Askaree's hands clenches about her bloated neck, the clipboard tumbling from betwixt her fingers and snapping flat upon the carpeted floor. She holds the woman there for a long moment, the already-rosy flesh of her face beginning to assume a more violet hue, the thrum of her pulse against Askaree's palm a heady sensation that constricts her skin to gooseflesh and sends the predator within to purring. She could do it, she could gut her right here like the flopping fish that she was. But instead...

"Get the fuck out of here," she hisses, the venom nearly dripping from every syllable as she relinquishes her grasp about the woman's neck and turns to the individual who is of far greater concern and importance than some quivering bed-pan juggler. The elderly man attempts to speak in between fruitless gasps for breath that hardly seem to come, his bony chest heaving with the intensity of the effort that taxes him. "Shhh," she offers, her fingers curling against the aged, leathery skin of his hand, "majarred aked ola". Just hold on. "SPENCER," she shouts into the oblivion that lay beyond his bedside, having offered no attention to the whereabouts of her would be companion until this moment. But as he enters the room she fixes him with a look that might have (and probably did) forsake the veneer of vengeful ire to expose the most minute morsel of something that might have been mildly related to fear, though she would never have admitted to it and it would have been exceptionally ill-advised for her counterpart to be idiotic enough to query after it. Instead does she issue him a single command, her tone bereft the opportunity for him to rebut.

"Do something."