Through the Mail Slot

Sparkle hadn't had his phone with him all day. That was one of the ground rules of the summer camp thing that he'd been sent off to, and he'd merrily broken it until he'd been busted texting and had it confiscated a few times.

Of all the days for him to follow the rules.

After his workshops, he'd listened to the voicemails a few times before trying to call back. The phone call didn't connect. Of course the phone call didn't fucking connect. Neither did the next one. Or the one after that.

An hour later, Sparkle was still trying, and screaming into the receiver. There were three empty bottles of Fireball whiskey sitting beside him, the sum total of everything he'd been able to steal for himself this week, and any minute now the landlord was going to come beating on his door to get him to stop screaming. See how many fucks Sparkle gave about that.

"Answer the phone, asshole! ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!"

Tonight was not a good night to be stranded in D.C.

[OOC: Had to. Open for phone calls? I doubt many people have a reason to be in Sparkle's neck of the woods right now.]