Participants:
| Scene Title | My Life Sucks |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | This is the true story of how four strangers picked to live in a secret evil genocidal cult work together and have their lives taped to find out what happens when people stop being assholes and start being even bigger assholes. |
| Date | November 15, 2008 |
One of these apartments is not like the others. At least, not the others that Deckard is usually skulking around in. This one has working lights. It has running water, heat, and a decent view. It's small enough to feel a little cramped, but it's clean. There's a sparsely occupied bookshelf — a couple of novels, an encyclopedia, a bottle of whiskey, and an uzi have been tossed haphazardly onto one shelf — a couch, and a simple radio spaced around the living area. The kitchenette beyond that has the usual oven, microwave, and refrigerator, complete with vodka and beer. The bedroom has a bed, a bedside table, a shotgun, and several spare shells. There are, in fact, guns and boxes of ammunition littered all around the place, if one had the time and inclination to search for them. Also, a small stash of marijuana.
The hallway outside is dark. The bulb's been burned out for a week. So it is that Flint cannot approach his apartment with any idea of what might be inside of it apart from the usual crap. Not in current company. See. Curvy, blonde, maybe a six or a seven (in certain lighting conditions), slightly coked out and not wearing nearly enough clothes — his hooker might be weirded out if she saw his eyes glowing.
Though on this evening, Deckard's apartment is surprisingly cheery. And surprisingly occupied. A large basket sits on the table of the room filled with different kinds of goodies. Food, booze, even weapons, including guns are in the basket. The thing has a very nice wrapping on it with pink lacing to finish it off. Deckard's guns and other toys have been placed into a pile in front of the couch. Little presents are littered around the room. A champagne bottle in the kitchenette, brand new toiletries. Deckard will even find his refrigerator stocked with more food than before. It's almost like Extreme Makeover Home Edition, except with less crying, and more killers.
On the bed, Ethan is lying with no care in the world. His hands tucked behind his head, he stares up at the ceiling as he waits for his business associate to return home. Amato and Elias have been brought along tonight. Not Ethan's usual company, but Elias is a skilled soldier of Vanguard, and Amato.. Well. Ethan has to bring Amato along now. Almost like the obligatory little brother at the baseball game.
While the other two wait for Flint rather attentively, Ethan is sprawled out on the bed, possibly getting a quick nap in while they wait for the man.
If the way the apartment looked before their visit is any indication of the sort of man this Flint Deckard is, Amato isn't sure if he wants to meet him. While his compatriots placed the various goodies about the place, Amato cleaned. Monks and priests may not be fashionable or extravagant, but at least they understand tidiness.
Amato's outer, woolen coat lies expertly folded and draped over the couch, and the thin blond is currently slipping his suit jacket back on, which he follows by straightening his blood red tie and French cuffs. "Do you intend to kill him with this kindness?" he asks, though the way his voice is subdued while he stands in the living room area, it could be construed that his question is meant more for Elias than Ethan.
Skilled soldier, little brother, or whatever, Elias doesn't mind being dragged along, or even setting up the gifts scattered about the apartment. He's had enough time to make good progress with his sandwich, the wrapper of which still sits on the floor in the corner he, himself, is sitting in, so he won't complain about being hungry. "Who knows, Amato?" he asks, "Maybe he's been so horribly mistreated his entire life, that when he sees all this, he'll have a heart attack and keel over on the spot. And don't say that can't possibly happen, because, I've seen it." The chance to harass Amato while they wait is a plus, and not for nothing, he's happy to have something to do, even if that something is waiting, for the time being; much as he loves to hang out, even he has to do actual work now and then to stay sane, and what better kind of work is there than taking someone who might possibly be an asset and work his nerves a little bit.
There's a small part of Elias that is happy to meet someone with 'fellow tastes': the Uzi is a personal favorite of his. "Hey, listen, how much longer are we going to wait around? I'm almost finished eating."
Click. Deckard's key enters the lock. The lock turns. The door opens. For a moment, he just stands there in the gap, looking perfectly healthy in a grey suit under an overcoat of darker grey. There are things in his apartment. There are people in his apartment. Curious about the delay, Prostitacia leans aside to peek in past his shoulder from behind.
The door closes again. There is muttering on the other side, maybe a rustle of dolla dolla billz.
When the door opens for a second time, Flint is quick to get in and lock it behind him, head half-turned to those present in as quick a study as he can manage. He does not look happy to see them.
"We stay until I say we're not stayin' anymore. Ease on down then." Ethan says almost sleepily whilst lounging carelessly on Deckard's bed. But then there's the door, the door close, and the door again. Ethan sits up quickly. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ethan peers at Deckard with a light grin. "Flint!" Ethan says cheerily. But then his features fade into a bit of a more angry face. "Wait a minute. You don't look glad to see us. Elias, does 'e look glad to see us?"
Elias casually looks in Deckard's direction. "No, that's not what it is," he says, "I know that face." Mockingly, he pretends to look a little closer, and then reports his conclusion. "That is the face of a man who really, *really* needs a pastrami sandwich. And if you think he looks unhappy now, you just wit until he finds out that we *had* a pastrami sandwich here until I accidentally ate it. He'll be absolutely *livid* when that happens, mmhm."
Before that door closed the first time, Amato got a glimpse of the woman behind Deckard, and based on the state and contents of his apartment, Amato can guess she wasn't a regular here…or at least one with any influence. The blond clears his throat before he looks from Deckard to Ethan, his eyes half-lidded under raised eyebrows.
"I do believe," comes the British accent which is posh in comparison to Ethan's own real one, "that we have interrupted something, gentlemen. Something which I'm sure our host would have gotten quite the enjoyment out of. I would apologize, Mister Deckard, if I didn't have a deep concern for your health."
"This is how I smile," says Deckard, who lingers (unsmiling) with his back to the locked door. He suddenly looks a hell of a lot more tired than he did when he opened the door the first time, and his eyes flicker to each of them in turn, with more fleeting and incredulous attention spared the gift basket. Jesus. "The Chinese guy said I had a week."
A slight tilt of the head. "Oh really, were you about to go on an AIDS quest Flint? Well I am very sorry I in'errupted that." He looks to Elias and smirks. "Are you 'ungry Flint? Please 'ave a seat, we'll get you something to eat." Ethan says with a smile as he goes to lay back down on the bed. "Now why would you go a'ead and say 'e's Chinese? That might be a bit racist, couldn' it? Whot if 'e was Vietnamese? Or Thai? Or Jamaican? You 'ave no fuckin' idea, you just startin poppin' off racist comments. That's a bit rude. Aint it a bit rude, Elias?"
Without an immediate verbal reply, Elias turns his attention to Ethan, and then alters the topic of conversation just slightly. "This time, I think whatever Amato thinks," he says, "Amato, you field this one, I'm thirsty. Who wants a drink while I'm up? Anyone? Drinks? Pastrami Man-" he turns his attention now to Deckard- "What's your poison? Vodka tonic? Gin and soda? Assisted Suicide?"
"It isn't very fair, I will say that," Amato says after a short, contemplative sigh as he crosses the room and folds his arms over his chest. "Unless he was told he was Chinese. But if you were told that, Mister Deckard, I can't imagine why you wouldn't have also received his name." Amato pauses, lifting a hand to symbolically wave off the offense. "Regardless, there is something to be said of a man who wears his flaws on his sleeves rather then keep them tucked away under a mattress like so many magazines. Don't you agree, Ethan?"
"I'm touched that you're all so concerned about my dick and what I put it in. And the gift basket…! If only all the people who delighted in kicking the crap out of me were that thoughtful." Not left with many an option, Flint sets to shrugging out of his overcoat so that he can toss it down onto the couch. "I'm not hungry. Thanks, though." No effort is actually made to explain the Chinese thing. He just scrubs a hand over the back of his head, thinks, and stands next to the couch as if he isn't really sure where he should put himself. "Straight vodka would be super." Amato gets a sidelong Look. He better have put them back where he found them, at least.
Both Elias and Amato get a bit of a laugh. "Yes quite a bit of magazines. You must 'ave quite the 'ands Flint. No need for gloves when you got work'orses like those eh?" The Brit says with a light smile. "So Flint. I'm not sure if you've noticed yet, but we've brought presents. I do 'ope you appreciate them. Took us a long time to fix em up, it did. Especially the pink ribbons. 'ad to take that from Amato's personal things." Hey he may be adjusting to Amato, but it doesn't mean he can't say ANYTHING, does it?
The man places two elbows behind his back as he props himself up on the bed. "Now Flint, I know our man told you you 'ad a week. But I just wanted to pay you a personal visit, make sure everything was looking on the up. Make sure no one else 'as been treatin' you badly or anything like that. We take care of ours, Flint."
While Ethan continues chatting up their host (or guest? Whichever), Elias rises from the floor, brushing a few crumbs off himself, and sets about in the kitchenette securing a glass and bottle of vodka. "Ice?" he calls in Deckard's direction; apparently, even 'straight vodka' leaves room for ambiguities.
Deckard's nose rankles at Ethan's first remark, and he opens his mouth to say…nothing. No comment. No comment. Not going to reply, not going to get pissed off about it. It takes concentrated effort to play down his temper, but the conversation turns quickly enough that it's not as difficult as it might otherwise be. Thankfully for the structural integrity of his skull.
"I do appreciate them. It was nice of you to come all this way to check on me and bring me presents. You're nice people." If sarcasm could literally drip, he'd probably have a frothy little dribble going on about the region of his bristled chin. "No ice." He looks away from Ethan. No direct answer to the question of his well-being over the last couple of days.
"One thing is though.. You say you understand that we are better than you. 'Ow we know whot we're doing. 'Ow we're big bad and scary and you're not." Ethan goes to stand up off of the bed. He walks forward to Deckard. "So the thing I can't understand is why you thought you could keep secrets from us. So I'm gonna give you another question, Deckard. And I'm tellin' you right now. This is one you don't want to get wrong. 'Ave you been keepin' any secrets from me?" Ethan stands up over the man, raising his hand out to Elias to take the Vodka from him.
Two vodkas, straight up, no ice in hand, Elias turns around to face the others, seeing that yes, Ethan wants in on the party as well, consigns himself to making an extra drink. Winking out of existence for the tiniest fraction of a second, Elias reappears next to the couch, possibly startling anyone who wasn't expecting this. "Two vodkas, straight up," he says, "No ice, as per preference."
There's a beat while Deckard's guts go cold. Then eye contact. Stark, slate, unblinking, and trying very hard to read Ethan's mind. Unfortunately, to his own detriment, he's not that kind of omniscient. "I don't keep secrets," is spelled out with the extreme sort of caution that can only come from a man who is choosing his words very carefully. "That would be stupid." Really, really stupid. Breath already gone a touch sour with booze from wherever he was before, he can do little more than double take and blink at Elias's sudden proximity. The vodka is taken anyway. He forgets to say, 'Thank you,' and looks back to Ethan, who is, also unfortunately and to his detriment, still there. "I don't answer questions that aren't asked."
"Mm." Ethan says as he stares levelly at Deckard. Once he admits that he doesn't keep secrets, Ethan straightens up and smiles a bit. "Well good. Because if I found out you kept secrets from me, and didn't tell me things I should know.. well.. I would be very angry." Ethan explains, hands stretched out, palms facing up to the man. Then Ethan glances over to Elias. He gives a heavy sigh. "Actually.." He starts, looking back down to Deckard. "Wit our relationship Flint, I shouldn't 'ave to ask questions." With that the man brings his hand behind his back, and his middle finger springs out. "You can see that, can't you?" Ethan asks with a sly grin.
"*I* can sure see it," Elias interjects. Seizing the opportunity presented by Ethan's begin momentarily distracted making obscene hand gestures at Deckard, he adds, "Cheers," and tosses back some of the remaining glass of vodka. Maybe he shouldn't have poured doubles, after all….
There is nothing sly about Deckard's expression. It doesn't change at all, actually, temporarily frozen into such a state of detachment that he doesn't flinch against the chafe of vodka down the back of his throat. He draws in a slow breath, and his eyes stay up, on Ethan's face. "Yep." The empty glass in his hand is held slackly enough that Elias might remove it, but it's expressly offered out either.
Giving a long hard look at Deckard, a hand slowly slinks out towards him. Then a playful two slaps are directed at the man's cheek. Pat Pat. "Well. I'm sure there was good reason for not tellin' me. I'm sure you were going to tell me at a later time." Ethan says with feigned confidence and understanding.
"But there are consequences. Now that I know you keep secrets from me. I can't exactly let you go runnin' bout the city. You 'aven't proved yourself trustworthy Flint. So in our gift basket I've included a wire, and a GPS tracker. I want you to be wearin' them at all times. And trust me Deckard, if you try to give me the fuckin' slip. I swear to God.." He gives a solid look to Deckard. "Well, I'm sure I don't 'ave to finish that sentence. Just use your imagination." The Brit says as he steps over to Elias. The ever silent Amato stands and steps beside the two as well. "You 'ave the rest of the week. Don't fuck it up, Flint." He murmurs, Elias stands and places a hand on both men's shoulders. And with that the three Vanguard members simply vanish.
"…" says Deckard. Gosh, that's a lot of personal inconvenience and privacy invasion to take in at once. But hey, he's not dead, so that's…positive. His jaw turns automatically from the contact in a very please-don't-fucking-touch-me kind of way, but it blends easily enough into a look back at the basket in question.
"…What about the shower?" Showers are important too. Just a step above hookers, apparently, since he doesn't ask about that. Or doesn't care. Hopefully the less mind-breaking of those two options. "How do I…" He turns back, only to take note of the fact that the Vanguard vanished somewhere in that flurry of ellipses.
"My life sucks."
As of now, anyone who RPs with Deckard is on candid camera until further notice.
 November 15th: My Life Sucks |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 15th: Exciting? Interesting. |