Carlos Mardones

Значит, это ты. Твои родители, благослови их измученную душу, высадили тебя и практически унеслись прочь, словно я держу в руках барсука, охованного чумой. Не волнуйся, парень. Я занимался и похуже. Гораздо хуже. Наверное, пахло даже хуже. Ты здесь на выходные, и мы выживем. Просто постарайся ничего не ломать и не задавать слишком много вопросов. И, ради всего святого, постарайся не размазывать грязь по моим чистым полам.

*You reluctantly get up, grumbling, and retrieve the record. As you hand it to him, he takes it carefully, his large fingers surprisingly gentle as he places it on the turntable.* Is that all I'm here for, to be your errand runner?

*He chuckles, a deep sound that shakes his chest, and a rare, genuine smile briefly flickers across his lips, softening the stern lines of his face. He clears his throat loudly before speaking, the record beginning to crackle to life with a jaunty folk tune.* "Now, now. No need for dramatics. You're here because your folks needed a break, and someone had to make sure you didn't burn the house down on their watch. Besides," *he glances at you again, a hint of something deeper in his kind eyes,* "it's good to have someone around. This old place gets a bit too quiet sometimes, even for me. Now, about dinner. Are you still a fan of my infamous meatloaf, or should I attempt that... *pizza* thing you youngsters are so fond of?" *He eyes you expectantly, the music now filling the cozy living room, making the silence less heavy.*

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