[Opening his door, Raylan hangs up the phone, lips pulled into a quirk.]
I'd argue I am a stud. [He didn't feel the need to tell Roman that Stud was the name for a horse that was bred out for foals.]
I am, and there's a stark difference between a hillbilly and a southerner. That and Harlan doesn't accept folk that ain't born in, no matter how long they're in there, so I'm an expert by virtue of where I was born and raised. Can't get more hillbilly than Mountain folk.
That's like--no, hold on. [He had been making a beeline for the closet, but this is way more important. He has his hands on his hips, rather effeminate. ]
Hillbilly and southerners are the same thing. Unless you're a fancy republican, and I didn't see you at the last convention we had.
[Raylan had to openly laugh as he closed the door and ambled towards the bedroom with a wagging finger towards Roman.]
They're not. Southerners look down on hillbillies as much as the rest of the country. We're a lower lifeform unless we break our backs to prove otherwise, and even the individual basis only goes so far. Folks in Lexington? Southerners. Folks from spit on the map no where with a community problem around money and pill abuse? Hillbillies. We set cars on fire. Southerners don't. They're more Civilized than the rest of us; it's all a fuckin' game. Keeping Up with the Jones, except the Jones's are the North and everyone else.
cw casual racism/homophobia, standard royco bullshit
[ Roman's lower lip juts out into a pout as he listens, though it's hard to tell if it's because he thinks Raylan's full of shit or that he's actually listening.
It's a bit difficult for him, trying to parse this sort of thing, but he's genuinely trying to. Sort of. It's not exactly in his social sphere to actually, actively give a shit about things like this. Just give him a minute to parse it into something he can get and relate it to: he follows Raylan, still with his hands on his hips. ]
Hillbillies are the ones we actively target on ATN. The guys scared of the gays and race relations and liberal media so we can pump 'em full of drugs and shit they don't want. Southerners...I guess are just normos?
Yup. [The P was popped. Just another day in the ignorant shit parade.] Well, sort of. They've still got inclinations that your type of content speaks to. Republicans. Still different, all 'States rights' and 'My freedoms as long as you agree with them or we'll lynch you'..
[He led them into the bedroom to where he had about 7 different prints of plaid flannel out on display. He gestures at them as he continues.]
These are my very best poor man hillbilly outer layers. No one wears them buttoned up; it's layers against the cold at best.
[ Roman's starting to feel like an idiot, so he's glad the subject's switched, if only by a little. He whistles appreciatively, starting to run his hands down the fabric, actually examining things. The print, the feel, the colour, how heavy or light the fabric is.
He's actually putting a lot of thought into this. ]
Not buttoned. I can get behind that. [ His lips pull into a frown, clearly thinking as he picks up a green one and holds it up. ]
Buttons are so restrictive. [ That's from someone who has almost never done the top buttons of his button-down, ever. It's called style. ]
If I do this, are you gonna make it weird? Like some bonding thing? Or can I just have the hat and wear it for you first just so I can not commit social suicide at Dorian's shindig?
[There was no stopping the creep of Raylan's smile.]
Then you're sure to live a long life. That's how assholes die you know, from gettin' old instead of goin' down like everyone else. [God, he ALMOST misses Boyd.]
Tell me about it. My dad's like 80 years old and still hasn't kicked the bucket.
[ Which is to say he's very well aware assholes live forever. He's glad, too--he doesn't think he can go through another stroke situation with his dad any time soon, it nearly ruined him.
He scoops up the hat, looks pointedly at Raylan, and, keeping eye contact, finally puts the hat on. It's a little too big on him but it's not like it falls down immediately. He opens his arms wide, brows raising. 'See?' ]
[It was gonna happen sooner or later but Raylan wasn't cruel enough to point that out. Roman knew and that wasn't the most important thing that the man needed to pay attention to.
Raylan's lips downturn in a look of approval as he nods.]
Not bad. Doesn't even sit on your ears.
I still haven't decided if I'm goin, but if I can talk James into joinin' me, we might make an appearance. I'm lookin' forward to seein' what everyone thinks of you dressin' up like this.
They're gonna think, 'oh shit, here comes Roman Roy, he makes cowboys fuckable, I can't wait to ride the fuck out of that huge dick of his.'
[ He's had that answer well prepared, if the speed is anything to go by it. He's glancing at a nearby mirror, looking at himself approvingly, nodding before setting it down and casually unbuttoning his shirt. He's got a set of keys underneath, simple but slightly out of place, and once his shirt's unbuttoned he's reaching for one of the under shirts. ]
[Raylan's head tilts a little as he notices those keys again - It wasn't off and on again, they were starting to become constant.]
If I can talk him into it. Thought I might go as a pirate, myself. Don't think they have halloween in the 17 hundreds, I'm hoping we'll be able to get him into enjoyin' himself. Shit, all we need is someone to dress up as a Leather Daddy and we're halfway to the Village people.
No. I have a fucking reputation, and that reputation hinges on being actually cool.
[ Don't even joke, Raylan. The shirt slips on, and then the flannel, and he adjusts the keys so they're out in full view. He still looks weird without the jeans on, but he grabs the hat, puts it back on, and immediately looks for a mirror. ]
I look better than you, that's for fucking sure. You're not bad looking or anything, it's just, you know. You're not a Roy.
[ He finger guns in the mirror, just to get a feel for it. ]
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I'd argue I am a stud. [He didn't feel the need to tell Roman that Stud was the name for a horse that was bred out for foals.]
I am, and there's a stark difference between a hillbilly and a southerner. That and Harlan doesn't accept folk that ain't born in, no matter how long they're in there, so I'm an expert by virtue of where I was born and raised. Can't get more hillbilly than Mountain folk.
no subject
Hillbilly and southerners are the same thing. Unless you're a fancy republican, and I didn't see you at the last convention we had.
no subject
They're not. Southerners look down on hillbillies as much as the rest of the country. We're a lower lifeform unless we break our backs to prove otherwise, and even the individual basis only goes so far. Folks in Lexington? Southerners. Folks from spit on the map no where with a community problem around money and pill abuse? Hillbillies. We set cars on fire. Southerners don't. They're more Civilized than the rest of us; it's all a fuckin' game. Keeping Up with the Jones, except the Jones's are the North and everyone else.
cw casual racism/homophobia, standard royco bullshit
It's a bit difficult for him, trying to parse this sort of thing, but he's genuinely trying to. Sort of. It's not exactly in his social sphere to actually, actively give a shit about things like this. Just give him a minute to parse it into something he can get and relate it to: he follows Raylan, still with his hands on his hips. ]
Hillbillies are the ones we actively target on ATN. The guys scared of the gays and race relations and liberal media so we can pump 'em full of drugs and shit they don't want. Southerners...I guess are just normos?
no subject
[He led them into the bedroom to where he had about 7 different prints of plaid flannel out on display. He gestures at them as he continues.]
These are my very best poor man hillbilly outer layers. No one wears them buttoned up; it's layers against the cold at best.
no subject
He's actually putting a lot of thought into this. ]
Not buttoned. I can get behind that. [ His lips pull into a frown, clearly thinking as he picks up a green one and holds it up. ]
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I'd suggest a grey under that one. And hey- [He pulls the hat off his head and holds it out.] Let's see if this rests on your ears or not.
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If I do this, are you gonna make it weird? Like some bonding thing? Or can I just have the hat and wear it for you first just so I can not commit social suicide at Dorian's shindig?
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Can't lend it too you if you look like an asshole from the neck up in it.
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Then you're sure to live a long life. That's how assholes die you know, from gettin' old instead of goin' down like everyone else. [God, he ALMOST misses Boyd.]
Well then, go on.
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[ Which is to say he's very well aware assholes live forever. He's glad, too--he doesn't think he can go through another stroke situation with his dad any time soon, it nearly ruined him.
He scoops up the hat, looks pointedly at Raylan, and, keeping eye contact, finally puts the hat on. It's a little too big on him but it's not like it falls down immediately. He opens his arms wide, brows raising. 'See?' ]
no subject
Raylan's lips downturn in a look of approval as he nods.]
Not bad. Doesn't even sit on your ears.
I still haven't decided if I'm goin, but if I can talk James into joinin' me, we might make an appearance. I'm lookin' forward to seein' what everyone thinks of you dressin' up like this.
no subject
[ He's had that answer well prepared, if the speed is anything to go by it. He's glancing at a nearby mirror, looking at himself approvingly, nodding before setting it down and casually unbuttoning his shirt. He's got a set of keys underneath, simple but slightly out of place, and once his shirt's unbuttoned he's reaching for one of the under shirts. ]
Please tell me Flint's gonna dress up.
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Excuse you, I'm plenty fuckable.
[Raylan's head tilts a little as he notices those keys again - It wasn't off and on again, they were starting to become constant.]
If I can talk him into it. Thought I might go as a pirate, myself. Don't think they have halloween in the 17 hundreds, I'm hoping we'll be able to get him into enjoyin' himself. Shit, all we need is someone to dress up as a Leather Daddy and we're halfway to the Village people.
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[ Don't even joke, Raylan. The shirt slips on, and then the flannel, and he adjusts the keys so they're out in full view. He still looks weird without the jeans on, but he grabs the hat, puts it back on, and immediately looks for a mirror. ]
I look better than you, that's for fucking sure. You're not bad looking or anything, it's just, you know. You're not a Roy.
[ He finger guns in the mirror, just to get a feel for it. ]
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[Raylan rolls his eyes fondly over a grin, giving Roman a disbelieving-] Oh uh-huh. Well thank you for that rave review.
[The finger guns get their own scoff but he keeps on, with a little lazy gesture towards the keys around Roman's neck.]
I see you already got the side accessories; what're those to?
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They're keys to a bunker in Montanna. You know, for the inevitable end of the world.
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Didn't figure you for a bunker, end of the world kinda guy. [In fact, he knew Roman wasn't.] Have you even ever been to Montana?