Below are the 3 most recent journal entries recorded in 7th St. Warehouse's LiveJournal:

Monday, July 28th, 2003
8:29 pm	same shit, different day. Bam's needs in life were, for the most part, sweet and simple: skating; potentially lethal shenanigans; and a small selection of vices: women (usually other people's girlfriends), vodka, and the very-occasional bowl/joint/bong-hit. 'Dull' was not a term he used to describe himself--nor did anyone else. He was, after all, the Daredevil. But everything was uncomplicated, an allee-allee-all-in-free sort of existence; every night (early morning ... and sometimes late, as well), he smiled as he closed his big blue eyes and drifted onto sleep. Living at the warehouse should have clued him into the fact that nothing is ever static. It didn't. He couldn't have been more unprepared. Monday started typically enough--at 7:00pm, his eyes still clenched tightly closed as he sat up and ran splayed fingers through his hopelessly touseled brown hair, groped his way into the bathroom, and proceeded to full wake up ten minutes later when he stepped out of a steamy, hot shower and into a cool room. Brushed his teeth, toweled his hair mostly dry and then finger-combed it, got dressed (in black mesh boarder shorts that fell to midthigh, a plain white tee-shirt so worn it clung, and scuffed, grey Airwalks--hey, it was Monday), and emerged from his room with his skateboard in tow, beating his chest with one hand and letting out a random Tarzan-yell. Following that, he attempted to skate down the stairs; failed and remained for an hour sitting on the last one, talking with some of the guys while he waited for his tail-bone to stop screaming. "Bam, are you a masochist?" asked Billy. Johnny, not quite so succinct, chose a different approach: "For serious, mate, why ya aw'ways beatin' the bloody shit ou' o' yerself?" Bam got those questions all the time. His answer was always the same. "Same shit, different day; get the fuck outta my way!" It didn't precisely make sense, and yet it made perfect sense; it was a typically Bam response followed by a typically Bam act: completely disregarding every ache and pain, he hopped up and onto his board, and out the door, on his way not to the riverbed but the park. Everything was fine there, too--at least at the beginning. Skating, watching, playing WHORES on boards (a typically Bam-made game: two or more players, the first executed a trick and the rest had to follow or get a letter; a not-so-clever [yet terribly clever] play on HORSE ... of course), shooting the shit. It wasn't until he was up on the ramp and goofing around ('goofing around' on the ramp, for Bam, consisted of pure poetry on wheels, a grace and skill succeeded only by Carter Jaimeson; perfect 180s, stunning 360s, and whipcord aerials), getting ready for another drop-off, that he noticed her. Girls were more rare on off-nights, which made her stand out; also, she was new--at least, he'd never seen her before; he was sure of that because he was equally sure he would have remembered seeing a girl like this, a girl not at all like the girls who hung around with boys like these. A five-second glimpse told him all of that. Bam was in trouble from the second he saw the embers of her cigarette flare, casting a glow over her moon-pale face. He dropped off without meaning to, found himself hurtling down the decline before he realized what was happening, and came back reality just in time for his board to go skidding out from under his feet, leaving him suspended in mid-air for a moment before he landed on his back in the curve. Arrogance was not a character trait of his; nor was pride, nor a need to seek attention or impress others. However, his baby-blue eyes wide and focused on the star-spangled sky, his usually smiling mouth twisted into a rueful smirk. "Fuck," he murmured, squirming around in a second-nature check for broken bones. "Don't look over there, do not look over there." He looked; brushed off well-meaning hands and put off well-meaning boys who wanted to rag their demi-god, the 24 year old immortal; gradually sat up, scanning the park as he got to his feet and retrieved his board. She wasn't where she'd been. Consternation furrowed his normally unmarred brow; inexplicable relief (oh, he knew why) smoothed it out again when he saw she'd only moved into a small group. She fascinated him. Apart of the crowd she stood with but not exactly of it: not stand-offish, she was too attentive to the speakers to be that; only cool, perhaps cooled by the milkwhite of her skin. Her eyes, lifting seconds after his sought her out, assured him that beneath that flesh might be another story. The park was well-lit, his eye-sight good enough, she positioned just right, the planets aligned; whatever, Bam saw the color of her from ten feet away: bourbon-fire, wild amber blooming whiskey-warm in the low of his stomach. Girls were not supposed to affect Bam that way; Bam affected girls that way. Likewise, Bam did not approach girls, but waited for them to approach him (and they always did), so he was surprised to find himself leaving his board in the care of a buddy and ... approaching the girl; even more surprised that she didn't look up the moment a fifth presence arrived just outside the four-person circle. Strangely, he didn't mind; fooled himself into thinking that he observed without her noticing. There was something undeniably elven about her, dark hair silky and framing her face in layers, baring the swan-slope of her neck; something fey about the slant of her eyes lined in black and metal-fleck. Tall (almost as tall as Bam, and he was 5'11") and willowy, she was sylph-like; seemed made of air, looked it, a dazzling pearl in black: a fairy skirt of airy black material that floated around her ankles, cherry-red maryjanes, something short-sleeved and burgundy hugging the fine lines of her torso, overlaid with black lace. Her eyes never rose, didn't meet his until he cleared his throat. The ghost of a grin, hinting at teasing, played around her silver-dusted mouth, as slow as her hand lifting, her lips closing over the filter of her cigarette; pursing, next, to fan smoke just above the Daredevil's head. "Smooth moves," she murmured, her voice all summer storms, heat lightning, and humidity: sensual in its warmth; trendrils of smoke able to work beneath the skin of the listener in no time flat. Her expression betrayed nothing, but her burbon eyes said something: perhaps hinted that although her comment might sound sarcastic, she meant it sincerely. A finely-shaped brow arched; another inch: she'd noted the rise and fall of baby-blue over her body. It was the reason Bam didn't answer right away; he couldn't help himself. The comment caught him off guard because, while he was listening, he was also staring. At first, uncharacteristically self-conscious, a blush rose, staining his cheeks until he saw the glint in her eyes. The stain fell in favor of a mischeivious smile that lit up his face as he rocked on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. "You like 'em? Wanna learn 'em? I'll teach ya. I haven't seen you here before--are you new? Who are you? Can't skate in a skirt, you know. I'm Bam--just Bam. Maybe someday I'll tell you why." That was the way Bam introduced himself to the people he didn't intend to one-night-stand: he gave himself that way to friends, colleagues, peers in that wonderful sport he so enjoyed. To the girlfriends of other boys, he never said much of anything important. "Oh, yes. Maybe you will." Over the course of two hours, he found out that she knew how to skate but wouldn't mind being shown a few of his tricks (the Sylph said this with that same smile, laughter in her undertones, glancing up at Bam through the spiderweb of her eyelashes); that she'd been here but never at night, that she stopped here after leaving a cafe-gathering through of stuffy and pretentious writers (she was a writer; knew shit, thought about shit, wrote that shit down; the Daredevil, not being prone to eloquence, found this amazing, was awed by it); that her name was Cecile Johns, but Ce-Ce would do. Bam tried both of them out, often marveling at the way her name rolled over and off his tongue as they sat cross-legged beneath a streetlight and talked. Later, but long before the night was over, he gave her his address--something else he never did. "You know, if you want to hang out--later tonight even, I keep odd hours. Don't say no--just think about it, okay? No big deal." Never nervous but terrified then, trying to skate backwards because her eyes intrigued him; drunk on short-acquaittance by the warm whiskey color. Bam couldn't bear to hear a no and couldn't live through waiting; couldn't watch the expressions on her face if they implied she didn't want to spend the rest of the evening with him. So the Daredevil turned toe--after almost falling over the curb; waved wildly and skated at a break-neck pace up the street. Home an hour later, someone knocked on the door; a false alarm. Bam skulked into his room and left the record on too loud, stage-dived off his bed. Twenty minutes after that, someone knocked on his door. Having dived one time too many, he was in the floor; roused himself and knee-walked, wrenched the door open. She came. (Comment on this)
3:06 pm	Roach has a dream: or, does the pothead actually speak the truth? "Naw, see, I'm serious man, there's this chick that I met down near the riverbed, and we for real talked -- ain't none of that, 'you a dealer can i get some shit?' 'sure okay,' stuff, neither!" "..." "Aw, what the fuck, ya fuckin' trenchcoat wearin' motherfucker? Okay, it started that way, but we talked for like an hour straight, I shit you not." "..." "In your silence, you're tellin' me -- you're sayin, 'Hey Roach! Kick my fat ass!' ya are." Roach lifted his forearm in the perfect mimic of a backhand, but Bob didn't even flinch. Instead, he leaned back against the hallway wall and sparked up a cigarette, and continued to watch the lanky pothead in subtle bemusement. "You talk too fuckin' much .. shut up and listen now, alright? I know her name -- couldn't have gotten her name if we didn't talk, right? Her name's Colette, Colette Wood -- see, I even got a last name, huh? Except she says she prefers Cole, 'cause only her parents call her Colette and shit. I don't know if she's french though -- didn't get that far. And -- and she's supposed to come over here later tonight and we're gonna SMOKE A BOWL. YEEEEAAAAH!!!" At which point, Roach half-crouched and banged his head; a flurry of long, blonde hair for Bob's benefit, and sometimes taste. Through that last bit from the pothead, Bob's brows had raised curiously. You see, it was habit for Roach to talk up many a chick; and sure, he sold to them, some he even hung out with, but more often than not, the case was pretty sad. It's believed that Roach has only been laid twice in his young 21 years, and as time went on, no one held out much hope for a magical third time. After the tall, wiry boy finished his show (but still seemed to bounce to music only he could hear, now and again), he reached and plucked the cigarette from Bob's lips, stole a long drag and, after finishing with a classic Rock Face, handed it back. The shorter, quieter one of the pair simply made a squinted-face, and took it back, shaking his head. "Yeah! Yeah, see? I ain't lyin; I ain't now pussy-foot story-teller, shit! You'll see! She's even shorter than you, motherfucker! -- hey! Don't be gettin' any ideas, lunchbox, 'cause her and I are gettin married! Okay, not really -- shut the fuck up!" Someone was, apparently, over-excited; fell into a mild boxer's posture for a moment there, before re-righting himself, and shooting near-constant, pale-blue-eyed glances toward the warehouse door. Roach always acted this way, of course, and everyone was used to it, but beneath his over-exuberant, and borderline spazz behaviour, he was actually quite .. nervous. Expectant; and had even held nearly still at one point, when shooting another glance toward the door (and held the expression of a nervous boy on a first-date; half-serious and half-nauseated). About a half an hour later, a flurry of pounding was heard at the main door, along with the muffled sound of a dulcet-soft voice hollaring outside. A voice, Bob thought, when wandering toward the door to unchain and wrench it open, that he didn't think would belong to a girl who was even remotely interested in his friend. The quiet one pulled the large door open, and was greeted by the sight of a girl he knew shouldn't be interested in Roach. A short, petite little thing; fair-skinned with short, dark, rust-red hair, laced through with firey-red streaks at the front. Her eyes, blood-shot but so very bright, were pale-moss flecked with bits of hazel. Bob's eyes bugged out in his head just as Roach came tearing down the main hall, howling about Don't get the door!! Someone get the fuckin' door!! Don't TOUCH that door!!, until he'd come skidding to a halt whose end slammed into the back of Bob himself. A second (or four) had passed where pale-blue had gone in a downward, then upward trail over the length of the girl beyond the threshold -- taking in the changes that had passed over the course of five hours. From worn-in, faded, too-long jeans and a violet poet's shirt to something a bit more classy, without being overdone -- Colette wore a pair of jeans that rode perfectly on flared hips, and had thin, black lace running down the side-lengths of legs, coupled with a dual-top of a black-silk tanktop overlayed with thin, sheer mesh. Then, Roach was suddenly all gentlemanly (or, as much as a guy who'd just finished a whole bowl to himself, to calm his nerves, could be); nudging Bob out of the way, and reaching a long, sinewy arm out; his hand snatching quick around Colette's wrist. "Yeah, see, don't mind my friend here, we all think he's got downs or some shi --- ommmph!!" A kick to the seat of Roach's black with white racer-stripe, low-riding shorts; behind backs and courtesy of Bob. "Well. He don't talk much; rude motherfucker, huh? But his name's Bob. And this is Cole." By then, the pothead had, despite his demeanor, gently tugged the girl inside -- who at that point was swallowing back a flurry of giggles in the back of her throat. "Ahh-hahaha, be nice, Roach. Hi, Bob." Her voice was even more lovely when she wasn't howling through several layers of metal, and Bob would swear that he felt his friend swoon like a chick himself, behind him. Bob oh-so-courtiously nodded his head, and had even executed a little bow, before standing aside -- before Colette got tugged in against him by the over-eager Roach, and he wound up accused of copping a feel, or something. Roach easily wound an arm around the shorter-girl's shoulders and, coy and coquette, by the time they were half-way down the hall, Colette's arm had snaked it's way low around the boy's waist. "You smoke yet today?" Asked the boy whose eyes were made all the more iced-blue, thanks to the blood-shot threads through the whites. "Fuck, are you kidding? Not at all -- I don't smoke that nasty shit; this is just me not having slept yet -- remember?" came the sneaky, purred reply from a girl whose eyes were glass-encased pieces of spring; soft-sand and grass that lay in hollowed beds of bruises. "Awwww, yeah. That's what I'm talkin' about. How's about we go to -- oh! Hey no, we're here, okay. Well, would you like to come in and not smoke, and shoot the shit?" From comical to gentleman again -- Roach stepped forward and opened the door to an apartment just past mid-hall, pushed it and then bowed at the waist; long, blonde strands falling over black-clad shoulders, and a sneakier sort of glance, to match Colette's voice, peeking upward at the Insomniac. Smirking half-playfully, half-innocently, coupled with her eyes lifting to the ceiling, Colette stage-sighed, and finally lowered her glance back down to Roach's, which had her pulse racing twice as fast, twice as warm as it had down at the riverbed. Despite the slow nodding, her voice lilting through the air between them said otherwise. "I absolutely would loathe coming in and not smoking, and shooting the shit," and then she stepped smoothly past the boy, luring him out of the dazed state she left him with, and into his own apartment, with the scent of lilacs and violets in her wake. (Comment on this)
Saturday, July 12th, 2003
12:23 am	blood for no cause; a new arrival. It wasn't until after Carter Jaimeson tried haplessly to beat down Janx Patton that he'd finally calmed down enough to make mention of his brother in law on the way to town. And what was the fight for? Why, Janx opening his mouth (before Carter could) concerning a little personal business; a background that was more a part of the Skater's undoing and downward spiral into this life than even Mia had been. It didn't matter to him that the un-announced leader of their group had about a half a foot and one hundred pounds on the Skater ... he still had gone at Janx like a whirlwind; like the storm-skied tornadoes that rode his eyes. Janx had taken it, of course; at least, for the first ten minutes until he picked the whipcord-bodied boy up and threw him down onto his couch four feet away. "Ya done yet, then?" Janx growled, bemused. "Aw, fuck all, ya fuckin' fat-ass." Carter wasn't as amused; that is, not until pale eyes met those above him; dark like dirt, and they both had begun laughing -- wild and out of control. "So I take it you two worked it all out, huh? Yanno I didn't mean anything by it. Jesus Carter, I thought he knew, alright?" "Yea, yea, I gotchya. Jus' ain' 'ad a time t'tell 'im. Err, 's more I din't know 'ow. But I ain' gettin' int' tha' righ' now..." And the mohawked knew why -- Carter had told his husband the truth of course: he and Janx never spoke of it, regardless of the fact the older guy saved his life. Janx nodded then, propping his back against the beaten-up coffee table across from the Skater. "So what's goin' on this time, then?" "Ain' nothin' bad. Wot 'appened 's tha' Caleb got a 'old o' 'is lil' brother back 'ome. An' shit, man, 'e's goin' through a fuck o' a tough time. Dealin' wit' th' kinda punks we see down a' th' riverbed every weekend, yanno? Th'ones wot tried t'give me shi' from time t' time 'bout ... well, 'bout thin's." Janx listened, patiently like he always did, and nodded a few moments later, after what seemed like serious thought. Really, he knew where it was going, and thought it kind of cute that Caleb hadn't just come to him. In fact -- "So why ain't Caleb askin'?" Smirking. "Caleb's uhm. 'e's restin'. 'ad kind o' a long nigh', ya could say, 's jus' -- 'ey! Fucker's my brother too in a sense, beat off fucker!" Janx could never, and would never be able to get over how easily the Skater could go off. It took those that knew him to know when it was serious, and when it wasn't -- which was why, of course, the dark-eyed, mohawked started laughing again. "Jesus christ, ya get laid enough, I'd have thought you'd cooled out by now. Anyways, yea, it's alright that the boy stays here. Got that spare apartment up on your floor, or there's one down here. Just as long as he can wind up payin' his own way, no one'll mind." Carter said his thank-you's by way of shin-kicking his second-closest friend, and finding his head caught in a forearm with such girth it rivaled the Skater's calf, if not more. Rough-housed all the way out into the hallway, damn near finding themselves in a collision with Bam, who took to skating in the hallways (and down the stair-rails) at free-will. Further down the hall, Roach came screaming by; assuming rock-god faces and devil-fingers all the way out toward the front entrance. Through all the chaos (which was normal for evening-bleeding-into-night hours at the warehouse) no one noticed a back-way entry. A boy just fractions smaller than the Skater himself, and a million times more quiet (unless you lit his fires just right) went slipping past the mayhem, and it wasn't until he'd gotten to the stairway that someone called him out. "Hahaha, hey man; hey Izzy!! What's up? Finally gonna get some sleep, huh? Now that the Jaimeson boys actually got more than a few feet between them? Hey, a whole fuckin' FLOOR!! Beauty rest, yea!" Bam, of course, seconds before he split out the front entrance. Izzy smirked -- tried to, that is, because it dissolved into a laugh so quiet it could have been giggles by the time he'd reached the top. Stepping down the hall though, he chanced a glance to his side: eyes of an interesting sort of hazel -- sometimes yellow, othertimes green (today they were pale-muddy, in between) wandered over the Jaimeson's closed door. He sighed quietly. He was the only one lacking a roommate (the drifters who would come in and out; stay a month or seven and then find a new place to go, didn't count) as of a month or so prior. Roach and Rob had roomed up, and while Bam didn't currently have a roommate, he had enough people staying with him regularly; girlfriend's in and out, that it counted as such. Janx and Billy, of course, finally admitted their bond, quietly, by Billy abandoning his second-floor apartment to move downstairs. He couldn't get fucked off about it though, hell. He'd only turned seventeen this last autumn (though, Carter was only nineteen as of a month after little mister visionary's turn), and though he was not a new addition to the group by a long shot, he'd only moved into the warehouse upon New Years. He shouldn't get fucked off about being lonely, either. Some people in life were meant to be. (Comment on this)