Participants:
| Scene Title | Marking Territory |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Amadeus arrives at Peyton's place looking for sympathy. Instead, he's met with an unhappy cowboy who is more than happy to show the younger man where the fence lies. |
| Date | September 25, 2010 |
Upper East Side, Peyton's Apartment
Woe is Amadeus! Who shows up at Peyton's door in the middle of the afternoon, in his usual AC/DC t-shirt and converse all-stars. He knocks on the door a few times, the area right under his eye a bit swollen and purple. "Peyton, it's me!" he calls through the door, not sounding all too urgent or anything, but he makes sure that something is wrong, is firmly rooted into his voice.
A cacophony of barks answers Amadeus's frantic knocking, and the canine alarm sounds as if it is coming from more than one dog. Of course, Von's barking is undoubtedly egged on by Carson's. There's a scuffling sound as Wes pushes the animals away from the door with one leg so that he can peek through the peephole.
When the door opens, it doesn't open very far. The dogs can be seen just past the older man who stands scowling down at the boy. He's got a good inch and a half on Amadeus, and by God, Smedley'll take advantage of it. And from the look of him, he needs all the help he can get.
Several days worth of stubble coats his jaw in a dark reddish brown scruff, and his hair sticks out at odd angles due to a desperate need to be combed. Dark circles hug the underside of his eyes, and his cheeks look a little hollow.
"She's not here," he growls at Amadeus after a moment of simply staring at him. His voice is gravely - the result of a throat recently abused with far too much alcohol.
"Fuck, you serious? I got punched in the face yesterday and I was gonna show 'er, and be all 'Yeah this fucker punched me in the face', then I was gonna lay my head on her shoulder and get sympathy and stuff." Amadeus grunts and crosses his arms, shaking his head. "What're you doin' here anyway? She trust you with all her shit in there?"
When it is clear that Amadeus doesn't know where Peyton is, it cements Smedley's already pretty firm decision not to tell him. "Of course she trusts me," he says with a deeply offended and 'duh' sort of expression. "'Cause unlike some, I've got what some folk like to call manners, and I'm not so low to think sympathy for a shiner's gonna lead int'a roll in the hay." When the euphemism escapes his mouth, it does so through gritted, angry teeth.
"Who gave it t'you, anyway? I'd kinda like t'shake 'is hand."
"Some dick, he was all offended 'cause someone said Richard Cardinal was gay, and I said that totally explains why he doesn't wanna fuck Peyton. So he punched me in the face. What a dick." Amadeus shrugs helplessly, eyeing in the direction he hears the dog a bit warily. "Peyton's a great chick, I ain't gonna deny that, but at least I've got the balls to just throw it out in the open that I wanna fuck 'er. It ain't like I'm tryin' to weasel my way in, she knows what I wanna do. And when she says no, I shut the fuck up about it."
"Only y'don't," Smedley retorts, his eyes narrowing. "And she's more'n a great chick, y'lug. S'more t'a chick than the bits she got and you ain't." He lifts a hand to rub at his brow and sighs. Was he ever as young, cocksure, and stupid as this kid? He must have been, but damn. "She's told you no. And yet here you are bringin' it up with me like she's gonna have a differn't answer today. Or the next day. Now I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume you ain't that popular with the ladies, Deckard. Want a bit of advice from an old hand?"
What is this? Is… is Smedley being…
Nice?
"I've got a great fuckin' system. I ask until a chick says yes. But I don't ask more than twice a week or it's bein' pushy." Amadeus apparently has some twisted sense of ethics, but, he tries! Of course he's never one to turn down advice from an older, wiser person, so he crosses his arms and stares. "I'm listenin'."
Smedley just shakes his head. "You're like a pup wants t'grow up t'be a cowdog, but all y'know how t'do is bark 'n whine. Ain't gonna do you no good. You come straight out like that, and y'think it makes y'nobel. But all it does is paint'cha for a snake thinkin' with his dick. Only a few kinda women respond t'that, and they're the ones likely t'leave y'with life-long presents, if you get m'meanin'."
He steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind him so he can lean against it and the inside of the frame and gesture with one hand. "What you gotta do is this - be aloof. Act like y'don't wan'tuh bed the gal. Play into that bad boy fantasy all women have. Make it work for'yuh."
Amadeus squints down at the floor, the cats in his mind working at full power to get the gears spinning. "Aloof, huh? I'm already a bad boy, but I guess nothin' says 'I break knees for a livin' than bein' aloof. That why chicks wanna jump my dad's bones, eh? I think I get it…"
Folding his arms across his chest, Smedley nods, running his tongue over his teeth behind tightly closed lips. "You think on it awhile. Try it out. It ain't about speed, boy. It's about precision. Also, leave Pey the hell alone, or I'll even up your face for'yuh. Free uh'charge."
"But come on, she's Peyton, she's like… Peyton!" Amadeus unfolds his arms and holds his hands out, flailing as he tries to explain. "It would be like fuckin' a goddess on top of a pile of fish while it's raining milk!"
"Yeah," Smedley says with a deeper scowl. "She's Peyton. And she's mine. You can dream all you want, kid, but it ain't gonna get you nowhere." He takes a deep breath and lifts his chin. He may be only a little taller than Amadeus, but he has age and experience on his side, as well as just a bit more bulk that's been built up over years and years of hard labor versus regular trips to a state of the art gym. "Go on home, Deckard. Call your mama. She'll put some ice on that eye."
"You don't own Peyton." Amadeus backs up, despite Smedley having, well, everything on him, he suddenly starts banging fists against the chest of his AC/DC shirt, as if inviting a beating. "You ain't got nothin' on me that's gonna make 'er not wanna let me in her pants. Come 'ere, bring it on, let's see what you got! You think you're hot fuckin' shit just 'cause you're fuckin' Peyton, well, I'll fuck you up!"
"You're right," Smedley says, the picture of clam despite his scowl. His voice is even, even if it is a bit low. "I don't own her. But I don't see you standin' here. I didn't see you come out this door just now. Seems to me Peyton made a choice. And that choice weren't ever your sorry ass." He swallows then, the tension in his jaw as plain as the nose on his face as he readjusts his weight so that it's spread evenly between each foot.
"And just so we're clear, Deckard," he says in an even softer voice, leaning forward slightly, "I ain't hot fuckin' shit because I'm fuckin' Peyton. I'm hot fuckin' shit because I can lie in bed next to that beautiful woman and not fuck her."
"I ain't fuckin' ugly!" Amadeus yells out for some inexplicable reason, then dramatically points. "And you're fuckin' gay!" Then, he just goes running, dashing down the hall and yanking open the door to the staircase. "Fuck you dude!" before exiting with the rapid sound of feet marching down the steps.
Once again, Amadeus leaves Smedley standing somewhat dumbfounded, but now he has to nod apologies to neighbors who stick their heads out of their doors to see what the fuss is about. He slips back into Peyton's apartment, shaking his head as he both tries to make sense out of Amadeus's parting remarks and tries to forget them on his way back into Peyton's bedroom. He had been enjoying a nap when the dogs started their barking. When he flops back down into the bed, his face immediately meeting a pillow that still smells like it's owner, he sighs.
He doesn't even like pudding.