Daphne Meets Shaggy


amadeus_icon.gif daphne_icon.gif

Scene Title Daphne Meets Shaggy
Synopsis Amadeus celebrates his people's sacred holiday by crashing a stranger's pad.
Date April 20, 2011

Eltingville Blocks

The "home" of Daphne Millbrook is about as no-nonsense as you can get — but then, she's one of the "Restricted" residents. Number Nine Scarsdale Street is little more than a two-room apartment, three if you count the tiny bathroom. It's much smaller than the penthouse she had back in Manhattan, filled with art and artifacts from her travels around the world; here, there's nothing personal to be found, nothing that speaks of the kind of person who lives here. Even the bathroom has little more than a toothbrush, toothpaste and soap; the kitchen cupboard bare.

The only hints as to who lives here would be the few pieces of clothing, and even those are drab and monochrome grays and blacks. It's hard to tell for sure, really, if anyone's even been here recently, except that the practical and mismatched furniture is not dusty, and a window is cracked open for a breeze.

And Amadeus broke in, wearing his black jacket with AC/DC written on the front in red magic marker, blue jeans, and black Chucks. But, why did he break in? That's a hard thing to tell. He has a radio under his arm and somehow he's acquired a bag of pot, one of which is inbetween his lips. There's also a bag that seems to be full of whiskey, and he chooses to sit with his legs crossed on the couch. Ahh, 4/20, obviously best spent breaking into someone's house and forgetting what you've done once you succeed.

The front door is unlocked and Daphne enters, returning from dinner at the community center. She's a study in contrasts — pale hair but for two-inch dark roots, dark eyes, black and drab clothing that makes her pale skin look all the more pale. There's a flat expression on her face as she kicks shut the door and moves toward the couch without really seeing — every day is the same here, day in and day out, for her, so she doesn't expect to see a stranger sitting in her living room.

It's a delayed reaction — even for her — that she notices him. There's a blur as she zooms back toward the door, but then…

She may be caged, but it's her goddamn cage. And he's in it.

There's what seems to be a whirlwind or a black and white striped dervish, and a moment later Daphne has a baseball bat pointed at Amadeus' head.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?" she demands.

"Huh?" Amadeus asks as he stares up at her, the smell of pot rising into the air as he looks around, then up at her. "Hot, a goth chick." he assumes purely based on dark clothes and pale skin. "It's 4/20, I'm smokin' and I got like three bottles of whiskey." He motions to the bag on the floor next to the couch, then holds up the bag full of rolled up joints.

Her eyes narrow dangerously at being called Goth, and she shakes the bat at him menacingly. "Yeah, Chronic, I can see that. You trying to get me in worse trouble than I already am? I can't have that shit in here." The cut-off sweat pants she wears allow for a decent view of the anklet she wears — it's not dainty or gold or silver but clunky with an ominous red light that makes it just a little different from most of the accessories worn by restricted Eltingville residents. It's most definitely not for looks but utilitarian reasons — and not for her own use at that.

"Why are you in my house?" Daphne demands again, nose wrinkling at the stench of the weed.

"I don't know, I had an idea, and now I like… don't anymore. Can I get drunk if I get rid of the pot?" Amadeus asks as he stumbles from the couch and makes his way to the window. "So fuckin' grumpy. Hot chicks shouldn't be grumpy, fuck. Bitchy I can take, but grumpy is like…" Like…

Apparently deciding he's not a threat, Daphne sets the bat down. She should be able to get away if he tries anything. "I'm not grumpy," she insists, an adamant shake of platinum dreadlocks to punctuate the word. "Or, you would be too, if you were me. Don't dump it out the window!" In case that's what he's thinking — it's hard to be sure when apparently only a small percentage of his brain cells are firing. "It's better you take it with you when you go."

She glances at the bag of whiskey. Something the community center doesn't share with the residents in need. "There's better houses to break into. Tennyson has some rich people who actually have… you know. Something worth breaking in for."

"I'm just celebratin' the holiday, then I'm gonna go break John Logan's kneecaps." Amadeus slides the bag into his jacket, stumbling back over to the couch so he can grab a bottle of whiskey. "Amadeus Deckard." he introduces, taking a swig of whiskey. "You can have one of those bottles."

Daphne's dark brow arches. Small world — after all, the rich people on Tennyson include a Mister Logan, though she doesn't share such information with her "guest." She's more interested in the bottle being offered to her.

"Yeah? You think whiskey'll buy me off? I should call the guards right now for you breaking into my house, you know." Except she's not a stool pigeon, and except she has a doubt they'd take her side. Still, a bluff is a bluff, and she might be able to get something out of this. She tips her head, studying him for a moment.

"I ain't the kinda guy who says he'll drag a nice piece of ass down with him, but I'm just sayin' maybe some of this pot was yours too." Amadeus takes one last puff, then puts out the joint in the knee of his jeans, and slides it into his pocket so he can focus purely on drinking. "But if I don't have to drag a nice piece of ass down with me, maybe I can get some more stuff to make this place more comfortable, and you won't have to eat the shit food they serve here."

She moves a little closer and perches on the arm of the sofa, feet ready to take flight at any moment. "Pot's too slow for me usually," she says, the usually making her brow knit just a bit — there's only so far she can run, and pinioned as she is, she's taken to moving at normal speeds most of the time. "And it smells like ass," she adds, nose wrinkling again, but she reaches for the bottle, taking a healthy swig that makes her clear her throat after the fact. Smooth.

"I'm not a narc," Daphne adds. Her rep is on the line, after all. "But dire times call for dire measures. I don't want a lot of crap that people can see, or they'll think I'm the one stealing, you know? But I could come up with a list of things that would make me more comfortable." She peers at him through the corner of her eyes, appraising him.

"Hey, stop undressing me with your eyes, I'm under the influence, you wouldn't take advantage of my delicate virgin body." Amadeus mock-holds his jacket together, but never releases his whiskey. "Gimmie a list and I'll see what I can do. Uh… what's your name again?"

Daphne snorts. "I didn't give it to you, but it's not like I'm not listed somewhere. Daphne," she says, and she gets up to go find a pen and a newspaper to jot down a list. "And quit flattering yourself, Chronic, I'm not undressing you with anything."

She writes for a few seconds, the pen moving rapidly, and the list is complete:

Manic Panic Amplified Flash Lightning hair bleaching kit
Black eye liner
Nike women's sneakers size 5
Red only Swedish Fish
Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey

Clothing that doesn't smell like a Goodwill. Size 4 or S.

She peers at the list, chewing the pen, then hands it over.

Amadeus takes the list and looks it over, rubbing his chin after sitting the whiskey down. "I think I can swing this, I've just gotta poke a few of my connections." He folds the list and slips that into a zipper pocket, then lays on the couch and lifts his bottle again. "But I'm gonna sleep here until I catch Logan and his kneecaps alone."

"Make sure you get the amplified on the hair bleach and only red Swedish fish, I don't like the citrus flavors mixed in with them," Daphne points out, taking another swig of the whiskey and coughing again. Dark eyes peer at him and then she shrugs.

"Fine. For tonight, but if you set foot in my bedroom, you will find yourself knocked out before you can even find the bed. Got it?"

"Yeah yeah, I smoke pot and drink, but I don't screw up instructions. I worked for some pretty big deal mob guys." Amadeus looks over at what he believes is the room door, and laughs when she coughs. "I ain't gonna sneak into your room. Don't get me wrong, I'd hop on your ass like a rabbit on a carrot, but no means no and all that shit. Learned it from those douchebags who visit high schools."

Daphne smirks and slips onto the cushion of the couch, another swig of the bottle taken before she sets it down on the coffee table. "I don't drink. Much. Or smoke. Gets in the way of work and gets in the way of travel, but I'm not going anywhere these days, so why the hell not." She nods toward the bag. "I'm not a prude about it, just that I'm kinda worried about getting thrown someplace worse than this, on account of me not being here for the low property costs and the good schools and the fine dining experiences and all."

She props her feet up on the coffee table, leaning her head back on the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. "Thanks," she adds — for the fact he's going to procure her wish list items or for the fact he isn't going to crawl in her bed in the middle of the night is left ambiguous.

"It's cool, it's just my way of hittin' on you." Amadeus points out all-too-honestly, sitting his bottle on the table as well so he can remove his jacket and reveal a faded black AC/DC shirt under it. "I lost my ability to the flu, but they threw me in here 'cause I got arrested on purpose. Got sick of bein' out there, so I wanted to see what was in here."

That he'd willingly get himself thrown into what she sees as a cage has Daphne shaking her head and rising from her seat. "Congratulations. It sucks. Gonna send post cards to your folks back home?" she tosses over her shoulder. "I'm going to bed. Don't draw any attention to the house. If you get caught and I get in trouble for weed, you're gonna owe me more than that list, Chronic."

"I don't think my mother or Flint Deckard care." Amadeus curls up into a ball on the couch like a cat, yawning and getting comfortable. "Good night Daffy."

She shakes her head, wondering at the fact she's allowing a strange and doped up man who broke into her apartment to sleep on her couch… but solitude gets lonely, and she's more inclined to trust another would-be thief and stoner than those standing guard somewhere in the night outside.

Misery loves company, after all.

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