Here's the thing about Pot Noodle - it has too much sodium for any sane human being to be eating in a week, let alone a single sitting. That had never stopped Jack from bolting it down, though, before the end of the world and all. And now that he's in a place with a basic level of technology to have dried noodles, and a stove no one's going to tell him off for using because fuel is rationed, and so much of this really lovely red-colored salt? Well. Can't fault a soul for being nostalgic, now can you?
Unfortunately, here's two things about coming from the zom-infected post-apocalyptic shambles of the UK. One, you're used to food being precious rare - as in, you have literally seen people fight for it. Tossing something unpalatable is not an option. Two, when you can get food at all, you're lucky if 'bland' is the worst you can say about the flavor - and your last good spicy curry is probably a fond and fuzzy memory to even your brain, let alone your tastebuds.
The consequence was inevitable - that Jack Holden had made himself a pot of essentially inedible noodles, bolted it down regardless in a compulsive fit of machismo and completely inappropriate guilt, and is now huddled half-blind and disgustingly miserable against the well behind the property. He's occasionally, wretchedly, trying to scoop some water into his mouth - though any passers-by may find a red-eyed and flushed-scarlet ginger who's foregone nursing his mouth entirely and has resorted to wrestling off his sweat-drenched shirt, hoisting another bucket, and feverishly dumping it over his head in pure desperation.
Wildcard
All right, so the low-tech unplugged mountain retreat thing isn't precisely Jack's idea of a vacation. But when you were used to all outdoor areas carrying a moderate-to-strong risk of death by dismemberment? Well, it makes one a little less prone to fussing that there isn't a television or sound system to be seen.
Maybe eventually he'll get tired of the simple pleasures. But for now, at least a few times a week he's trekking out to the hot springs, stripping down, and enjoying the chance at a proper soak for the first time in literal years. Apparently the water is supposed to be rejuvenating or something fancy like that, but even if it wasn't, he's glowing with the sheer lack of grey water rationing or scrubbing with sand on a literal shoreline while your mate makes sure nothing worse than a minnow's going to try to take a nibble of your toes. It may just be hot water and some rocks, but it feels like heaven, and anyone else who comes along is bound to get at least a bright wave and a cheery morning! on their way in.
Text (un: redmenace)
All right, it's past time we had a cricket league here. Who else plays? Anyone fancy knocking together a bat or two?
Jack Holden | Zombies, Run!
Here's the thing about Pot Noodle - it has too much sodium for any sane human being to be eating in a week, let alone a single sitting. That had never stopped Jack from bolting it down, though, before the end of the world and all. And now that he's in a place with a basic level of technology to have dried noodles, and a stove no one's going to tell him off for using because fuel is rationed, and so much of this really lovely red-colored salt? Well. Can't fault a soul for being nostalgic, now can you?
Unfortunately, here's two things about coming from the zom-infected post-apocalyptic shambles of the UK. One, you're used to food being precious rare - as in, you have literally seen people fight for it. Tossing something unpalatable is not an option. Two, when you can get food at all, you're lucky if 'bland' is the worst you can say about the flavor - and your last good spicy curry is probably a fond and fuzzy memory to even your brain, let alone your tastebuds.
The consequence was inevitable - that Jack Holden had made himself a pot of essentially inedible noodles, bolted it down regardless in a compulsive fit of machismo and completely inappropriate guilt, and is now huddled half-blind and disgustingly miserable against the well behind the property. He's occasionally, wretchedly, trying to scoop some water into his mouth - though any passers-by may find a red-eyed and flushed-scarlet ginger who's foregone nursing his mouth entirely and has resorted to wrestling off his sweat-drenched shirt, hoisting another bucket, and feverishly dumping it over his head in pure desperation.
Wildcard
All right, so the low-tech unplugged mountain retreat thing isn't precisely Jack's idea of a vacation. But when you were used to all outdoor areas carrying a moderate-to-strong risk of death by dismemberment? Well, it makes one a little less prone to fussing that there isn't a television or sound system to be seen.
Maybe eventually he'll get tired of the simple pleasures. But for now, at least a few times a week he's trekking out to the hot springs, stripping down, and enjoying the chance at a proper soak for the first time in literal years. Apparently the water is supposed to be rejuvenating or something fancy like that, but even if it wasn't, he's glowing with the sheer lack of grey water rationing or scrubbing with sand on a literal shoreline while your mate makes sure nothing worse than a minnow's going to try to take a nibble of your toes. It may just be hot water and some rocks, but it feels like heaven, and anyone else who comes along is bound to get at least a bright wave and a cheery morning! on their way in.
Text (un: redmenace)
All right, it's past time we had a cricket league here. Who else plays? Anyone fancy knocking together a bat or two?