Some Familiar Faces, 9291 words

Man, inspiration has left the building. Tough day of writing, so I decided to mess around. Here's what happened when I had nothing to write:

“Goddammit Reggie, I am sorry to hear about your father,” a familiar voice intones.
“Toni Myers, you son of a bitch” Reggie answers, “how the hell are you?” Whilst this exchange of greetings might seem inappropriate to some, it couldn’t be more appropriate. Old friends have their quirks, you know? Best to leave it at that.
Reggie and Toni had formed their friendship in the 8th grade. Reggie was a bit of an oddity in school, what with her family history, and her extremely overprotective next door neighbour. When Reggie was in the 8th grade, Jack was in his late twenties, and he certainly got a lot of attention from the 13 year old girls when he dropped her off and picked her up from school. Especially when he wore his uniform. Not that Jack cared. But he noticed. He noticed everything. He had already developed what would become a lifelong habit of scanning the perimeter wherever he went. The girls would squeal when Jack’s icy blue stare found them. Reggie thought they were vacuous assholes. They thought she was weird and morbid. Toni and Reggie bonded over a shared love of Stephen King, cheesy horror films, and long winded philosophical ramblings about the nature of mortality. A strong foundation for a friendship if ever I’ve seen one.
“Man, I am alright. Liverpool is killing me. Killing me.” Toni replies. Toni is a freelance writer, currently on location in Liverpool, writing an exposé about football players (the real football, not the American version), their odd fashion choices, and the WAGs who love them. “You would not believe the shit that I am seeing over here, oh, I wish you were here with me.” Reggie wishes the same thing, and says so. Toni continues, her enthusiasm spilling over, “last night, I ended up in this pub, where there was a victory celebration going on, and man, these soccer players are insane! But the WAG culture is something else. I think we need to import this to Canada and start a WAG subculture for hockey players because this is beyond entertaining. I thought I was catty, but these women! They have taken trash talking and elevated it to the level of... well, of art. I was reading a blog yesterday dedicated to trashing WAGs, like, literally dedicated to it. It’s called Kickette. This poor goddamned woman, Olgalina, I think her name was, was getting her ass handed to her for dating the latest soccer hottie. It was harsh, though, I must admit, she did look a bit gormless in the pictures.” Reggie laughs. “And in the papers this morning, there was a report on the party that I was at! Like, it made the front page!! Apparently, once they left the pub, the victory celebration devolved into some kind of hooker/stripper extravaganza! Oooh, I hope that young soccer player Fernando wasn’t involved. He seems really sweet. It was probably that smarmy douche carrying some sort of clutch. Or maybe it was the guy in the silver hot pants. No, I’m serious, silver hot pants. And I think he was wearing iridescent pantyhose. He probably stole them from a Hooter’s waitress. Oh, anyway, look at me, what an asshole I am, talking about Liverpool. How are you holding up?”