"Can I help you? Is there someone I can call, or…?" The nice voice trailed off questioningly, and Bucky groaned into the ground, his headache cresting within his brain like a wave. It was obviously the baby Jesus, who had grown into the now-adult Jesus, because no one but a holy being could have a voice so nice. "Uh, excuse me, sir," came a deep voice from behind him. He was just a man of the grass now, nothing more than a mulch muncher. Life had been so sweet back then, he lamented internally. His peaceful half-doze was soon interrupted by the increasingly mind-rattling rumble of a large engine though, and he squinted one eye open to follow the approach of a garbage truck down the street, stopping at the curb in front of the trash bin he had dutifully set out the night before. Giving into his fate, he relaxed into the wet grass, deciding a simple front lawn nap was just what he needed to sober up. "This is it," Bucky murmured to no one but Mother Earth herself, blades of greenery tickling his lips as he sang his dying whale song into the ground. One fast-moving, half shoeless, still slightly drunk 30-year-old man was no match for the dewy splendor of a cool fall morning, and Bucky immediately skidded and face planted into the wet grass, Anna Wintour be damned. His grimy sock didn't agree with this plan, however, and betrayed him in the foulest of ways by deciding to treat him to an early morning slip and slide instead. He was essentially running by the time he came up to his lawn and decided to end his nightmare of a walk a few seconds sooner by cutting across the grass to his front door. He was gonna have to throw his sock out it was almost black from the ground now, and ripped in a few places too. Unfortunately for Bucky, any thoughts of ‘careful’ melted away from his vodka-soaked noodle brain as his house finally came into view and he picked up his pace down the sidewalk, his shoeless foot aching a bit from the repeated battering against the cement. The odds were unlikely, but you could never be too careful when it came to these things. "Forgive me, Anna!" Bucky wailed to the Vogue goddess herself, on the off chance she was in his neighbourhood at 5am on a random Thursday to judge him for his life choices (as she should). He had taken it out of the bar's lost and found in a fit of desperation, his thin undershirt no match for a late September drunk-walk of shame, and despite being a supposed 'windbreaker,' the only thing it was really breaking was every fashion law known to mankind. He hunched a little deeper into his borrowed coat, the autumn chill of the early morning creeping in around the gaping collar of the double XL monstrosity.
The one thing Bucky was sure of was that his car keys were safely behind the bar and would remain there until he sobered up, but judging by the rate at which his head was already beginning to pound, he'd be lucky to go back for them by the end of the week. His phone and wallet were also MIA, and he was still unsure of whether they had (best case scenario) joined his clothing pile, still in Natasha's venomous clutches, or if they had just fallen into a random gutter or toilet at some point in the night. He had lost not only his coat and sweater but also a single shoe for some inexplicable reason. If The Sliding Scale of Poor Decisions had been a game on The Price is Right, Bucky was most definitely the little yodeler dude who had just helplessly careened off the edge of the cliff. "This was… a mistake," Bucky declared as he slogged unsteadily down the sidewalk towards his home.ĭespite his enthusiasm last night for the news of Natasha's big promotion, going shot for shot with his best friend had been a bad idea, and agreeing to the strip poker that had come afterwards had been infinitely worse. Garbage Truck, Sex Bob-Omb (Scott Pilgrim vs. I'll take you for a ride On my garbage truck Oh no! I'll take you to the dump 'Cause you're my queen Take you uptown I'll show you the sights You know you want to ride On my garbage truck Truck truck truck
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