apocalypse prevention

Toby sat on a plastic chair in the Lux staff breakroom, knees pulled up, gnawing at his fingernails. He'd been camped out here for a while, hogging the TV to watch news about American politics, volume cranked all the way up. He'd been at it for a few days in a row, so it was near unbearable at this point, if it wasn't already. Sometimes other employees would show up, wanting bargain with him and ask if they could watch their gameshow, or to outright try to steal the remote from him.

This was, to say the least, a very bad life choice. And when Toby wasn't getting vengeance on insolent coworkers (by chewing them out, lecturing them on the importance of what was happening in here, his impromptu election base, fucking with their shit later, or giving them very uncomfortable stares), he was having heated, one sided arguments with Donald Trump, other republican guest stars, news anchors, and varied supporters. He threatened assassination a few times, on most all of the mentioned groups, before he got one too many unsettled looks from people peeking in from behind the doorway. Then, he simply did it under his breath, rather than screeching about it.

Point is, he'd been making a very dragged out scene, and getting increasingly unstable with it. He'd never felt so equally patriotic and unpatriotic in the same breath.

Toby slammed his hands down on the table, someone getting snacks cringing and running away, and climbed on top of it, pointing at the TV and yelling, "I'LL SHOVE A WALL UP YOUR ASS, YOU CHEETO PUFF HITLER MOTHERFUCKER!" before throwing cheeto puffs and gummy dicks at the screen.

The only reason Toby didn't flip the table once he got off of it was that Dorian Crawford was his boss. He didn't fuck around in front of the big boss, not like he did with all the little lackeys. Instead, he quieted from his ranting like a toy that'd just had the batteries taken out, and calmly got down, like a good boy. He even smiled. The polite one, from when he was a kid, that'd gotten him out of trouble when another child had claimed he'd tried to shove a rusty nail through their palm. He hadn't. He'd just pretended to. "Sorry, Mr. Crawford, sir."

Instead of being lightly scolded and shooed away, though, there seemed to be another agenda here. Toby glanced at Cecil, arms crossed. He didn't really need to ask for an explanation, because Crawford got straight to the point. Toby's eyebrows shot right up. "Seriously?" he said, at about the same time as Cecil's 'really?'. Well now. Rewarded for public tantrums! Whaddya know? Toby shrugged, grinned, and nodded. He'd accept this pretty easily, as he did with most Manta Carlos mini-miracles. And it wasn't like he didn't want it.

Then came the shooing. Toby scurried out, flashing the non-polite smile at the coworkers taking his place in the once again free-for-all break room. He caught up to Cecil soon after, affectionately bumping his shoulder against the man and walking beside him. He whistled. "Paid time off, for this! What a job. Still, it's fair, seeing what this election could fuck up. Gonna screw everyone over, can't take an apathetic viewpoint. Bet Crawford wouldn't like Trumpocalypse killing all his business opportunities and the world in general."

He peered at Cecil for a moment. "You were talking about it with him, or was that a random declaration? …Nah. Of course you were talking about it with him." A laugh. "You're a superstar! Have you met Racist the Clown? Been in the same room as him, the same party? Hope it was only indirect, and he didn't ask if you were a bad hombre."

The expression Cecil gave Toby in exchange for his fondness only encouraged him, and he kept smiling. He nodded along, humming, as the star gave a less than modest explanation for how they were doing this. He knew, he knew. Would've been more shocked if Cecil had been turned down, though he was a bit caught off guard by being allowed to do this with him. Every vote counted, he supposed!

"I know you support my antics, deep down, because your heart is filled with the same Trump hatred," Toby said, pressing a hand to his chest solemnly. "And yes, yes, that's right! I made this happen. You should thank me." He sniffed and gave a smug look. "Tantrums get things done."

"Ewww." Toby stuck his tongue out and booed. "You better have washed your hands afterwards. Even I ain't touchin' that!"

Toby stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around Manta Carlos city, furrowing his brows a little. This wasn't how he'd been expecting to take a trip back home, and there definitely wouldn't be time to visit his old man. In and out of the voting booth, he expected, and that was kind of relieving. Probably shouldn't be given room for anything else. He nodded.

"Got it. I'll just grab some basics. Maybe say goodbye to someone." He flashed a grin. "Yeah, Jersey-- you know that, with how many times you've cringed at my accent. Seeya in a bit, Cece!" Toby waved, then ran off to the studio parking lot, intending to visit Felix, then go back to his apartment before the jet.