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"..It's been like six hours. Pretty sure you'd be one of the first to go insane in a societal collapse." He casts a glance toward the clock on his bedside table. Okay, maybe it's been a little longer than that. It definitely doesn't feel as late as the neon numbers say it is. Rubbing the grit from his eye he ducks back into his window, crossing his arms atop the sill.

Late enough in the evening everyone should be asleep. He can't hear anyone moving about in the hall, but he may not have noticed in the first place. It's not as if he wants Sal to worry about his dad, he's a good guy. A good guy who Carl has demanded not be weird about his friend he made at school whose face might be more fucked up than his. They haven't exactly swapped stories or peeks under the wrapping yet.

That's definitely the second base of friendship, right?

"Do you.. uh. Want to come in, or are you working on your slasher vibes?"

"At least the second." The video games and music would keep him busy for a while, okay. Maybe talking to Gizmo - unless that's a sign he's already gone insane. In that case, he doesn't even have to wait for a societal collapse.

"Slasher vibes. My plan was to lure you out of your house and do a really dramatic chase scene." He lifts his hand and pantomimes a stabbing motion. "You get to be the final girl, I guess."

"And that's how your cat eats your eyeball." In that incredibly unlikely scenario where the end of the world happens before they graduate high school.

Carl scoffs, shaking his head with a grin. "Oh, good. Hopefully it's a Sydney Prescott special and not a Friday the 13th where I die at the beginning of the sequel. Very anticlimactic for me."

"I promised my only good eye to Gizmo anyway." Incredibly unlikely scenario!

"Heyyy, I would never. At least not before the fourth sequel." No one else would ever let Sal joke about being a masked killer without slowly backing away. Or calling him a freak and running. Which is why he tends not to make those jokes to just anybody. At any rate, he came here for a reason and he's getting distracted by their usual weird banter. "So can you come down?"

"Well, that's a relief. At least I won't die immediately, I could live with that." A pause. "Pun absolutely intended."

Very early in his friendship with Sal, he learned that their humor is special—or demented, depending on who asked. There's something about gruesome physical deformities that really brings pals together. The question catches him off guard, his eyebrow rising in surprise. Carl ducks his head back into his room, peering down the hallway. The lights are off and he can't see any spilling from the stairwell leading downstairs. If he strains, he can hear his dad snoring at the end of the hall.

He disappears from the window so he can pad over and shut his door as quietly as possible and turn off the radio. He's relieved he doesn't keep all his shoes downstairs and tugs a pair of boots from the closet, tugging them on quickly. Shoving a hoodie on, he swings his leg out the window and steps carefully onto the roof. Looking at his options, he steps over to the edge of the roof and slides onto his stomach so he can lower his legs down and step on the banister surrounding the porch. Once he has purchase, it's easy enough to ease himself down and jump into the grass behind him with an 'oof' as he stumbles.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, he walks quickly across the street with a lopsided grin. "Piece of cake."

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