arguing
Bobby "Beartalky McCute" Drake longislandiceme
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Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, Sunday All Day
So as it turns out, Fandom wasn't the only place where people had disappeared. Over in Westchester, only occassional glimpses of one very dishelved and grumpy looking Robert Drake had been managed over the past two weeks.

Apparently, one of the drawbacks of living in a mansion, or at least this mansion, was that several other people lived there too. Several other people who either couldn't afford to have someone do their taxes, had never done taxes due to living in underground sewer systems most of their lives, or were just too damn lazy to hire someone else to do them.

So over the course of the past few months, they'd all come to Bobby with stacks of paper and pleading looks in their eyes. And like the helpful guy he was, he'd said yes, leading to his current predicament.

He hadn't slept in what he was certain were days, because every time he closed his eyes they were still there. Numbers. Everywhere. He ran a hand through his already-dishelved hair as he tried in vain to figure out if there was some way to write off a trip to outer space as a business expense.

[ooc: open for the fiancee, or anyone who'd like to call/text/email or whatevs.]

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