Participants:
| Scene Title | Advice |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two Deckards commiserate on the subject of women that won't fuck them and exchange bad advice. |
| Date | September 8, 2010 |
Bella and Deckard's Apartment
Wearing his black Yankees bat bag over his black AC/DC shirt, Amadeus rings Deckard's bell a few times, rather obnoxiously so as he holds the button in for a few seconds each time. He's got a black grocery bag with him, slung over his shoulder, yawning quite boredly.
It takes time for there to be any discernible action on the opposite side of the door. On Amadeus's side, white paint and the brassy 9 that marks Bella and Deckard's apartment define a static plane of unmoving wooden planks. There's nobody else in the hallway. A great many other apartments around are silent. Few people live here. Probably with good reason.
On Flint's side, the toll of the doorbell burns tension up the ridge of his spine in a hot shock of adrenaline. He and his shotgun are rolled up off the couch and out of their slumber in a spidery sieze of wiry muscle; his smashed bag of potato chips is left sullenly behind to crinkle and tilt as they may.
It's something like two or three minutes solid before he creeps his way up to the door, unholy eyes narrowed shrill at the skeleton yawning at him from the opposite side. It's longer still before he switches 12-gauge from right hand to left, turns the lock and cracks the door open, revealing 6'2" of stone-faced Deckard bristling in a worn out Lynyrd Skynyrd concert shirt, blue jeans and bare feet.
"Yo." is Amadeus' greeting, offering the black grocery bag forward. There's a bottle of Jack hidden somewhere in the brown paper bag inside of the black plastic bag. "That Southern chick said I should talk to you. And to be perfectly fuckin' honest, she's frustrating as hell, so I figured I'd ask how the fuck you deal with that." He gets up on the tips of his toes, trying to look past the elder Deckard. "Can I come in?"
How do you keep finding me, is a relevant question, here. Flint looks like he'd really like to know, but he's either too annoyed or too apathetic overall to ask right this minute. Potentially life or death level of significance aside.
Instead he sizes Amadeus and his bag up, accepts the offered sacrifice with a bind of his free right hand and turns to drag back into the apartment proper, gun, booze and all. Silent, gruff invitation and the fact that he didn't slam the door may or may not beckon Amadeus inwards.
In any case, the place's interior isn't much to look at. What real furniture there is consists of flimsy IKEA. The television is second hand. Stacked crates stand in for end tables and decoration. There is a single print of a painting suspended in the living area. It's a Magritte — a man and a woman with brown shrouds cloaked about their their heads locked into a kiss.
It's creepy.
Oblivious, Deckard sinks back down onto the couch and turns off the murmur of the television with a dully inattentive stab at the remote.
"I want some of that whiskey too." Amadeus removes his bat bag and drops it somewhere on the floor, then sits back on the other end of the couch, reaching into his pocket to slip a joint into his mouth, not lighting it yet. "I've been tryin' to figure out what the fuck Abby's deal is. Keep tryin' to get on her good side, but she just hates the shit out of me. She's just fuckin' intriguing is all, I don't wanna fuck 'er. I mean I would if she wanted, but it ain't, like, on my priority list or anything. I think she might be a cop, or one of those underground fight club chicks, she's got some hidden shit, y'know?"
If silence is a form of agreement, then Amadeus has all the encouragement he needs to keep talking.
Otherwise, Flint's scruffy absence of contribution to the conversation might be a little discouraging. Shotgun settled into a lazy rest against his knee, he taps out a (more standard) smoke of his own before he reaches back for the bags. And the bottle. Bella's not home. He can do whatever, so long as he remembers to spray febreeze before she gets back.
"But whatever, y'know? I'm gettin' a legit job soon, I've got a chick to impress. Real straight-laced, but she's datin' this prep boy I've gotta be better than. I could just kick his ass, but that ain't gonna impress 'er." Amadeus reaches into his pocket and pulls out a zippo lighter with a black paw print on it, then holds it up to his joint before a metallic *clink* as it closes. He offers it to Deckard while smoke blows from his nose. "You fuckin' that redhead with the fine ass? I tried to get some of that, but she started talkin' about Odie's t-rex and I just said fuck it."
"No."
Says Deckard.
A little flatly.
He takes the offered zippo and turns it open without flourish, white smoke huffed out at a static drift before a second exhale kicks it away at more of a rush. The lighter's closed and offered back once he's squinted at the pawprint, skepticism a subtle twitch through the knit of his brow as he settles in to crack open the whiskey. "She's actually a man. Don't tell anyone."
"Huh, really?" Amadeus asks as he takes the lighter back, then slips it into his pocket. "She got a pussy yet?" this, apparently, is a vital point for him to formulate an opinion on the situation. "She don't seem too hard to bag, you just gotta learn her feminist rules and shit. I really wanna fuck a feminist, but I can't even figure out where to find 'em. Bella said they're fuckin' amazing at sex."
"Still saving up." Not a twitch out've place to indicate that he might be bullshitting, Flint takes a deeper drag. There's a bitter rankle at his nose when he leans to tap ash out into a beer bottle from earlier, but nothing more telling than that. Bella said they're amazing at sex.
"Let him kick your ass," muttered in a distracted aside, the cagier Deckard drops the whiskey cap aside and hefts the bottle. "He'll look like a jerk. She'll feel sorry for you. Win win."
"Holy fuckin' shit, why didn't I think of that?" Amadeus grins widely, taking the joint out inbetween two fingers as he peers over at Flint, squinting slightly. "Y'know, that's your first bit of fatherly advice. You're pretty fuckin' good at it." he says in an actually sincere tone, slipping the joint back into his mouth and inhaling.
Smoke held aloft long enough for Flint to swallow down a finger or two of whiskey, he breathes in deep against the burn, then out. By the time he's back on inhale so is the cigarette, booze extended out sideways to Amadeus without any kind of glance in that direction. Fatherly advice: he's good at it. More like he has a lot've experience getting his ass beat.
Amadeus reaches out to take the whiskey, removing his joint again to take a long sip as he turns his head up. Handing the bottle back, he asks, "Can I crash here tonight? I'm gonna crash with this sexy little lesbian tomorrow, but it'll be curfew by the time I get over there tonight."
"No," Deckard says for the second time. In much the same tone as before, actually, lazily, dejectedly irritable in the privacy of his shared home. The first real one he's had in a while. Technically.
"That's cool, I'll just sleep in the Greyhound storage thing in the bottom of a bus again." Amadeus grins, standing and stretching, then starts heading for the door. "Let me know when she gets a pussy, I want in on that."
Flint may have had vast amounts of bastard-spawning unprotected sex before he became intimately familiar with the concept of cause and effect, but his contribution ended there. And stayed ended there. The look that he ticks belatedly after Amadeus's retreating back is one of neutral interest rather than guilt or. Pity. Or affection. Or anything else that might actually be helpful under the circumstances.
He doesn't have any money. He threw his wallet at the kid and was ripped violently from employment like. The next day. "Okay."