[ He had to try one, they said. Dole whip, they said. Magical, downright life-changing, they said.

Spike, while absolutely the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, absolutely knows better to deny himself good food. It may not be free, but hey, this time, he has at least a little spare cash to pay for it.

That part's nice. Does the teenager behind the quick service counter think so? Probably not.

Spike leans against a palm tree, the bark poking into his blazer and sticking it to his skin. Too hot in the tropical sun. Reminds him of Mars. The ice cream melts in the plastic spoon before he shoves it into his mouth. He ponders. Makes a face. Then, slowly, slowly, he lifts the plastic cup toward the sun, the yellow pineapple juice swirling with the ice cream.

This isn't what he wanted.

So he sighs. It's heavy. He deflates before he trudges back to the tiny ice cream stand, where he pushes in front of the next person in line to place his cup back on the counter. ]

This isn't what I wanted, [ You know, in case you missed that. He sighs. He blinks. He pauses. ] You could at least put a little rum in it, or something.

[ Or a lot. What is a dry park? WE JUST DON'T KNOW. ]

[ And since he's already clearly having the time of his life, they decide to bless him with a suit.

A fur one.

An orange fur one.

You know - the one with the bouncy tail? Yeah. That one.

They've told him not to eat in costume. Spike Spiegel will eat wherever he damn well pleases, and he'll eat a lot. One of the perks of being a character performer (actually, the only perk): long breaks. Long breaks. And long lists of rules. He's sure he heard something about going through the park in costume, but here he is, dragging his feet through not-Frontierland. At least that fluorescent orange head tucked beneath his arm, even if he's wearing the rest of the suit.

What? The water from the log flume feels good on his face. Maybe orange is his color. Nobody wants to see the basics underneath, anyway.

He doesn't say anything to anyone. He calmly, nonchalantly gets in line at one of the food carts, sweet scents of churros mingling with the sting of turkey legs. There's chatter. All around him is chatter. The grumbles of his stomach drown it out. ]

[ i'm lazy. cyoa, fam. ]