Lorre was grocery shopping.

Normally he would have just headed straight towards the frozen pizzas and stocked up for the whole year or something of the like, but he was actually starting to get sick of pizza. Weird, very weird, and completely unexpected. He had thought he would be able to survive off pizza for the rest of his life, but for some odd reason he couldn't even think about eating pizza again, at least for the next week or so.

So he headed to the section with those little lunchable things. You know, the kind with processed cheese and bologna and Ritz crackers and little Capri Sun's for the drink.

He had a feeling Andrei wouldn't appreciate what he was intending to bring home from their happy neighborhood grocery store, but he didn't care. If the son of death wanted a seven course meal or something of the like, he could spend all his money and time to buy and prepare all the food.

Lorre could cook. Really. He was just too lazy.

He approached the aisle with the lunchables and looked up. And up. And wondered, distastefully, why the store had decided to stick them on the very top shelf. With a disgusted snort, he started climbing up the shelves as if it were some sort of demented ladder.

(OOC: If this topic is reserved, just tell me and I'll bugger off, erase this, yadda yadda.)

"Whoa, buddy!" A smirking voice cuts in from behind. Not that a voice can smirk, really- that's an auditory impossibility. But this one does seem to doing its damndest to flash a little tooth.
"You'd break your neck for vaccuum-sealed chemicals?"

The speaker's head pops into Lorre's range of vision, as he leans at the waist to stick his head into the cool air blowing sluggishly out of the freezer shelves. He's a craggy fella for sure, with the crinkled and mildly leathery face of someone who's been freely basking in the sun since the moment of his ejection from the womb. Crow's feet and laugh lines aside, the guy's likely as not in his mid thirties. He's wearing a stained, blue T-shirt and tatty blue jeans, under the most ancient and worn-out of trenchcoats imaginable. The sad thing might have been tan once, but now it's tattered, tissue-like ends are a suspect greyish-copper color. His eye color is rather unidentifiable, something brownish greyish greenish that someone once decided to call hazel, against all logic, and his skintone leans toward sallow. The five-o-clock shadow obscuring the crags of his chin is hardly more extant than the hair atop his head, which is peachfuzz length and dirty blonde- noteably, a bald spot roughly the size of a nickel above his temple is covered by a Dora the Explorer band-aid. A plastic shopping basket is slung casually over his shoulder, containing only a bottle of Vodka and one very out-of-season and possibly overripe honeydew melon.

"That's pure plastic they put in them things, y'know. And the little bits of the pig that no sensible berk would eat." He smiles cheerfully- toothfully- at Lorre as he reaches for a package of deli-style honey ham.

(OOC: You're more than welcome to join. :D It wasn't reserved for anyone.)

His reaction to the sudden voice and face that appeared from nowhere was purely instinct—startle like a cat near a vacuum cleaner. Unfortunately, the shelves were not quite stable (and were actually bending slightly under his weight already; he may have been thin and tall, but it added up) and buckled under him with an almost demonic groan. Frozen meat and all of the like tumbled to the floor with a sloppy crash, and him on top of them with a more melodic splat.

It was lucky that this stranger wasn't behind him at the time, or it could have possibly been a messy situation. Rhetorically, of course.

He pulled his hand out of the breast of a chicken and shook it in distaste, considering wiping it on his already ink speckled faded jeans (an unfortunate accident with one of those fountain pens). Instead he wiped it on one of the sliding glass doors and pushed himself up at the same time, turning a pale blue gaze on the man across from him.

"Er," said he, quite eloquently, distractedly thinking that he would never again like to get that close and personal with a breast. He looked a bit tattered himself—burgendy hair in desperate need of a cut and looking as if it had a mind of its own (he wouldn't be surprised if it tried to take over the world, or something) and light pink shirt wrinkled (but with its collar fashionably turned up). Yes, pink. He fancied it was red once, or perhaps white, but due to an unfortunate accident with either bleach or mixing too many reds in with the whites, it was now a lovey shade of salmon.

He made a half-hearted swipe to flatten the wrinkles and a rather 'que sera, sera' gesture, and seemed to regain his composure in a blink of the eye.

"I got a taste for plastic," said he, offering his usual lazy smile that was nothing but a quirk of his lips on one side and ignoring the mess he had accidentally created. Mostly ignoring, that is, he did nudge a pack of ribs to the side. "And chemicals." He tilted his head to the side, indicating to the cigarette behind his ear that miraculously managed to stay there during his fall.

He picked up one of the frozen chickens and tucked it under his arm, then appraised the man thoughtfully. "Do you normally jump people like that? I mean, jeezus, you scared the hell outta me."

The man in the trench-kleenex steps casually backward as the shelves give way, managing to avoid the meaty downpour. Not a single bag of cold-cuts glances against the side of his soggy, green tennis shoes, as he stands back and surveys the disaster on the floor.

A chunk of smoked ham rolls halfheartedly down the aisle, stopping when, presumably, it realizes how futile escape would really be. It flops over on it's flat side and resigns itself to its fate- that is, sandwiches, mastication, and eventual digestion. The bloke with the band-aid smiles at it sympathetically as it settles in.

He bobs his head and chuckles as the kid indicates the discreet cigarette, eyes glittering knowingly. Ah, sweet vice. If he could pump nicotine and tar straight into his souls...

Stepping up, he offers a hand to the floored fella. The calloused pads of his fingers are stained.
"Didn't mean to freak you out," he offers in apology, smiling in a way that suggests he's a smidge more amused than repenant. That description suits most of his expressions. "I figured you heard me walking, but I guess you had tunnel vision there. Understand that- who can resist the allure of bite-sized cracker stackers? Gotta feed that chemical dependancy."

Lorre took his hand graciously and pulled himself the rest of the way up and ran his clean hand through his already mussed up hair.

"Yessir. You ain't living unless you have processed cheese and cardboard resting in your stomach for the next fifteen years or so." He pushed his hands in his pocket and cocked his head to the side, slightly resembling an interested bird. One that was about ready to hit the mating season, what with his shock of hair.

Hm. Mating. Wasn't a bad plan, aside from the whole trying to procreate bit. Him? A father? Horrifying thought—the kid would probably try to off someone for stepping on his or her foot, or something.

"Can I help you with something?" It was a reasonable question; it wasn't every day a stranger just hopped on you unless they wanted something or, well, wanted you. Which was something, he supposed. Unless, in a highly existentialist point of view, he really was nothing.

Too many thoughts for a sober mind. He could use a shot of Jack Daniel's or Jimmy Bean.

"Na," the band-aid man waves Lorre off, leaning down nonchalantly and selecting the deli meat he'd been aiming for before from the pile. "You already did." He drops the little plastic box into his cart and straightens, still smiling cheerfully. This intense level of easygoing good humor might give the impression of a mental disorder in other men, but this guy... you couldn't mistake him for crazy. He practically excudes sanity from his skin, oozes a sense of hidden understanding. And damn if there isn't something about him that's just inherently likeable.

"I needed a laugh! Heh. But hell, I just blew into town, don't know anyone- how about I make up to ya for," he gestures to the sagging shelves as he speaks, "causing all that and buy you a brew? If you're not doin' anything. Name's Roman Decado." He offers his hand again, this time for a friendly shake.

Lorre took the hand and shook it amiably, liking the man despite the situation. There was something cheerfully sarcastic about him that was right up Lorre's alley.

"Brew, eh? I could years a beer or two in my system. All right, why not? I can always grocery shop later." The words of a true procrastinator. He had been saying that same exact line for the past week or so—gods new Andrei was going to fry him, or something of the like. "Nice to meet you, Roman Decado. The name's Lorre Price. What's brought you to this lovely city?"

Curious talk. Small talk. He would leave out the fact that he was a trained hitman for the CIA until they were better pals.

"Nostalgia," Roman waves his hand vaguely, "and business." He doesn't seem evasive, just apathetic. Setting down his plastic basket next to the mess on the floor, he turns to go, shoving his hands into flimsy pockets.

"Let's get lost before some mop-slinger sees this. Know any good bars?"

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(OOC: >.<; Sorry it's so short, I tried to reason it out a different way, but the BAM always winds up waiting on a response from Lorre. So here you go! Another sorry I've gone and disappeared so long.)