Participants:
| Scene Title | Honeysuckle |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard hits a strip joint and ends up talking to one of the dancers. |
| Date | October 29, 2008 |
Another night as usual in the Exotica, which means a lot of sweaty guys, mostly perverts, some college types, and other assorted people of the masculine persuasion. There are women, too, sure, but most of them are eye candy. Like the tall one on stage, clad in… well, there are chaps. And a sparkly cowboy hat. And the rest is very brief, but includes heels. She also has a couple of bright red toy six-shooters, one of which she is presently using to 'fire' a big ol' pantomime shot into the crowd, one arm looped around the pole on stage.
Deckard is here alone, and thankfully, not in chaps. His suit is a ratty, sooty shade of grey, with the shirt beneath it a less-offensive shade of blue. He's been here for some time — long enough, perhaps, to fall into the pervert category — and he's had enough to drink that he's accumulated a private collection of beer bottles and squat glasses at his elbow. Slumped forward over his table, he watches with his chin rested across his folded arms, one critical eye squinted after sparkly hat and red six shooters. What he /isn't/ looking at are her boobies. Whatever that implies.
"And I saddle up my horse! And I ride into the city! I make a lot of noise! 'Cause the girls, they are so pretty!" goes the song. Pam - sorry, 'Honeysuckle' - blows imaginary smoke off her guns in a manner about as suggestive as you might expect in a strip joint. The pistols are returned to holders on her thighs. "Riding up and down Broadway! On my old stud Leroy! And the girls say, 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy!' Everybody says, 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy!'" Honey shakes her booty one last time as the song ends before making her way down the walkway to collect cash being offered. And then she disappears into the back with a wave and a blown kiss. About five minutes later she's back out, but not on stage; she's heading for the pool tables.
No cash is offered from Flint's table, but by this time, people probably don't expect it anyway. Once 'Honeysuckle' finishes up on stage, he moves to stand, bracing a hand against the back of his chair for support when Exotica keeps on moving after he's stopped. Woah, there. It's several seconds before he he trudges his way over to the same set of pool tables, quite drunk, and from the look of him, possibly homeless.
Pam has at least lost the gun holsters; she raises an eyebrow at Deckard and offers a little smile. "Puddin', y'all're gonna get eaten by a shark if you're gonna be swimmin' in that much drink." The accent sounds natural, if exaggerated. She reaches a hand out toward him as he looks like he might stumble.
With all systems operating on a short delay, Flint steps into her hand, then tips his head down to peer dimly after the contact. "Isn't this against the rules or something?" Nose rankled when he tips his scruffy chin back up again, he looks her over more deliberately and draws in a deep breath. Steeling himself. "Please tell me you don't seriously talk like that all the time."
"Rules say you can't touch 'less Ah say so, pard'nuh," Pam says brightly. "But you looked like you might take a spill so Ah figured Ah'd help." She reaches for his shoulders to try to straighten him, then withdraws. "No touchin'." She removes her hat and leans toward him to tell him in conspiratorial tones, "Hell no. I dial it up in here. Part of the show." She seems pretty cheerful.
Deckard does straighten out somewhat with her assistance, however reluctantly. His chin drops when his shoulders set, so there's some ground lost where it's gained, too, but he continues to eye her directly enough when she steps back and then leans in with a less exaggerated accent. "Ah. In that case, where'd you find the hat? I think it'd really compliment my eyes."
Pam makes a thoughtful face and playfully attempts to put the hat on him. "You might need a sequinned horse to go with it. I get that one a lot. There's a cheap shop called Malibar's right near the wreckage of that nice old fountain. Hats galore there. You can't have mine!"
Deckard is drunk and Pam is hot. This is an equation that inevitably evens out into a certain amount of tolerance for the gay sequinny hat that is in the process of being put on his head. His eyes roll up after the brim, and he just stands there like a particularly tall and unamused mannequin in serious need of a makeover. He's quiet for a moment, only to say, "I spent the last of my cash on booze, so if you're sniffing around for spare tips…" Yeah. He's a charmer.
Pam whisks her hat back from him and gives a great, lofty sigh. "A girl can't even be nice these days. I get that a lot, too." She plunks the hat back on her head and turns toward the bar to holler, "GEORGIA! GIT SOME WATER FOR THIS HERE POOR SONUVABITCH!"
"I can't imagine why. What, with this being such a high class…strip joint. And everything." Speech broken where he has to think to string the right words together, Flint is doing well enough balance-wise now that he's standing in one place. Not the most energetic of alcoholics, apparently. He winces and sets his jaw when she yells for water, but offers no argument past a glower at a bouncer-type whose attention veers over in their direction at the call. "What's your name?"
Georgia (presumably) obliges; Pam gives a shrug of her shoulders that probably isn't the best for encouraging people to make eye contact, but whatever. At least she's still sporting a top. "Honeysuckle. Or just Honey," she tells him, still smiling. "Yours? You look like a Mike. No, wait. Greg?"
"I'm not calling you Honeysuckle." With Georgia having presumably oblidged, Flint now has water. He sips it without much interest. It is, after all, water. "You can call me Mike, though. I could pass for a Mike." He's definitely looking down in the wake of the shrug, and hasn't bothered to look up again just yet. "Honeysuckle," is repeated eventually, making him a liar. "Jesus. Just saying it out loud makes me feel like I should go to confession or something."
"Just Honey works," Pam tells him, wriggling her fingers at one of the other dancers as the girl, now in plain clothes, starts heading out. "I'm pretty glad it's not my real name," she addresses the top of his head. "Um. If that's all it takes to get you to go to confession, maybe you're in the wrong place, Mike."
"I don't actually go anymore. I was just…saying. Theoretically. If I did," Flint tells Pam's chest, skin, muscle, sternum, spine, empty space she previously occupied. Eyes still dimly alight when he finally lifts them again, he looks briefly muddled, missing the mark on her face entirely until he blinks and…oh. There she is again, in technicolor and everything. "You have nice boobs."
"Isn't that nice of you to say," Pam says, ramping up the Southern coo. "Ah grew 'em mahself an' everythin', Ah do declare. Lawks. Ah reckon mebbe summun should call you a cab, pumpkin."
"I can walk." Flint's eyes roll away from the heavier Southern accent's reintroduction, and he takes a longer swallow of water. "The cabbies I've met so far haven't been big on IOUs. The place I'm staying isn't far. Heater's out." All this muttered together as one long broken sentence, he leans to set the glass down on the edge of the nearest pool table without falling over, if just barely. "Nice to meet you, Honey."
"Nice t'meet you, too, Mike," Pam tells him; someone calls her name and she turns about. "Mmn. Gotta go — y'all come back now, y'hear?" That's extra perky! Sort of tongue in cheek. She is possibly an unusual sort of pole dancer.
Deckard snorts as he navigates his way towards the door, shooting her a skeptical look over his shoulder and nearly tripping over his feet in the process. Lucky for him the bouncer he was giving the stink eye earlier is there to help him on his way. What a nice guy!
 October 29th: Have Faith |
 October 30th: Tu Fui Ego Eris |