"I know it’s not a nice solid dumpster," said the douche in a rumpled three-piece suit, "but the roof’s not too leaky most days."
Karkat managed somehow to tear his eyes away from the kitschiest sword stand ever and its glittery hopefully-fake diamonds and give the man a long, unamused, unimpressed stare.
He hoped it was unimpressed. Apartment, his ass, this was a fucking penthouse suite. There were highly polished wooden floors everyfuckingwhere and marble countertops with inlaid fake-gold patterns (dear lord he hoped fake) and a chimney with a flatscreen showing a badly pixelated fire and faced by a fur rug.
It was ridiculously gaudy. It was also ridiculously expensive.
Bring a lot of your whores back here, Hefner? Karkat didn’t retort, because hey, he was standing right here, wasn’t he.