Participants:
| Scene Title | Not a Stripper |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Deckard refuses to be infected by Jezebel's holiday spirit, and she refuses to show him her boobies. |
| Date | November 28, 2008 |
Deckard's inclination towards austere living arrangements might qualify as a plus in this environment. The room is bare. A bed, a desk, and a chair that doesn't match hunch awkwardly against the wooden floor, which also plays host to a small collection of heavy plastic cases that have been shoved over to one side. There is one window with pains so dusty that it's a miracle any exterior light makes it in at all — which is unfortunate, because the interior ones are rarely on. They certainly aren't on right now.
Deckard himself is currently on the bed, which he's pushed back into a corner of the room, possibly so that he can have the support of the wall at his back while he sits on it. In a ratty grey suit, sunglasses, and socks, he sits with his knees bent up before him and his scruffy head tipped back against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. Ready for a business meeting at a bowling alley on the beach, maybe.
Several pieces of balled paper and a miniature bottle of vodka rustle in the sheets around him. One at a time, the wadded pieces of paper are tossed at a wire trashcan some ten or fifteen feet across the floor.
Jezebel politely knocks on the door.
"What?" Deckard is not polite. His voice is a little cracked with disuse though, so he goes through the effort of clearing his throat before reaching over for the next ball to toss. His aim isn't that great, so far. Wads of paper litter the floor around the bin, and only two rest inside of it.
Jezebel sticks her head in the door. "As long as I'm here," she explains, "I thought I'd ask everyone what they'd like their turkey leftovers turned into. I rather like the idea of turkey curry, but I'm flexible."
For a moment, Deckard is incredulous. He just stares at her, not moving to throw the paper in his hand until his head has lolled forward away from the wall. He misses. "I would like my turkey leftovers turned into a time machine. Do we have anyone here who can do that?"
Jezebel shakes her head, smiling. "I can't use them to summon Doctor Who, either. Sometimes I wish I could."
Again there is a silence, through which Deckard moves from incredulousness to hazier suspicion. "Could you…utilize them in the creation of a makeshift bazooka? Because I'm pretty sure Captain Kirk did something like that once."
Jezebel shakes her head. "Even if I could, I wouldn't try making explosives without pure reagents and good equipment. Revenge is like sugar, anyway; it's sweet, but it's bad for you."
"Maybe I just like bazookas." In addition to cigarettes, which he's decided to go for instead of retrieving his spent paper ammunition. One long white stick is danced out of the box and into his fingers in the time it would take to say, 'don't' and a lighter follows it almost as quickly. "What's your name?"
Jezebel smiles. "I'm Jezebel, Jez for short. I happened to be both dropping off the mail and a half-decent cook, so I decided to cheer people up here in the way I'm best at. What's your name?"
"Boris." Deckard smiles too — flatly, falsely, and with a huff of smoke spent through the flare of his nostrils. "Are you a stripper? Because that would cheer me up."
Jezebel shakes her head at the false smile and replies, "No, I'm not a stripper. Unfortunately, calling in a strippergram would be far too dangerous for everyone here. I fear you will have to manage."
"Well, if I don't want any turkey, and you don't want to show me your boobies…" a lazy turn of one of Deckard's hands suggests that he is all out of ideas.
Jezebel shrugs. "Then I suppose I'm out of available ideas. Brownies are a possibility, but I won't feel free to make those for a few days yet."
Deckard puffs on his cigarette and says nothing to that, eyes unreadable behind the lifeless black of his sunglasses. He hasn't moved from the back corner of bed and bedroom, though the fact that he's dressed and capable of moving furniture means that he's been up at some point or another. For now, he lifts an incredulous brow at her, and that's about it.
Jezebel explains, "There's too much pumpkin pie around here to even consider it. Okay. I know needing to be here sucks. I don't think I can make you more comfortable, so I'm going to go finish my turkey poll and wrap up the mail run."
There's an angling to his jaw at that — the beginnings of a dirty look — but it's quashed into a rankling of his nose, which he tips down at the foot of his bed anyway. "Okay. I abstain, for the record."
Jezebel laughs. It's a merry, honest laugh. "So noted."
"Super." Thunk. Deckard's head levers itself back against the wall a little harder than is probably necessary. Maybe somewhere there's a culture where that passes for a farewell.
Jezebel gently closes the door behind her.
 November 28th: Happy Here |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 November 28th: A Present For Hana |