Participants:
| Scene Title | See What Happens |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Assholes, terrorists, staring contests, free drinks and titties abound one afternoon in The Exotica. |
| Date | January 18, 2008 |
It's early in the day. Still light outside in the dry stretch between lunch and dinner. Early to start drinking. Early to be in a strip club in the first place, really.
And yet. All unfavorable circumstances aside, Deckard is here and has been here for at least an hour, narrow black straw prodded idly through the ringed ice in his glass of crown. He hasn't actually touched it beyond that, and he isn't paying a terrific amount of attention to the stage, either. Occasionally his attention will catch when a new song starts up and he'll let his mouth slack open while he stares, but for the most part it's ice-poking and prodding at the cell phone splayed out next to his napkin.
Seated back away from the stage, closer to the bar, he's a lean, scruffy guy in a brown leather jacket at a table for two. Two cuts slash across his face — one well on its way to healing across his left brow and temple, the other scabbed over black again after last night's ordeal.
"A bit early to start wanking, isn't it boy?" Comes that oh so familiar voice, that could just make your heart all warm and fuzzy just at the sound of it. The man doesn't ask, or gesture or anything he simply takes a seat by Deckard, one hand going up to greet the man by clapping down on his shoulder. Retrieving his hand, the man tilts his head back. "Do they make you feel better, boy?"
Dressed in black from head to toe, Ethan seems to have followed Deckard once again. The Wolf has prowled his way into Exotica and went to terrorize the poor little sheep known as Deckard. "Order me a drink." Ethan commands, reaching into his pocket. "I'll pay for both of us."
Remarkably the man does not pull out a gun, or a knife, or a blunt instrument to bludgeon with, he pulls out a sleek black wallet. A pair of twenty dollar notes are pulled out before the wallet is tucked back away into the jacket.
"'Ave you 'eard anything?"
Deckard's eyes roll into a slow blink against cockney accent and shoulder clap alike. The one place you'd expect not to be bothered by someone like Ethan. Even so, with the way things have been going lately, it's hard to be surprised. So he isn't. Just a little resigned.
With the order of a cosmo near automatic on the tip of his tongue, it takes some effort to quash the impulse. The bruising creeping fresh out of his hairline from last night's attempt at smartassery makes it easier than it might otherwise be, though. The next girl that passes gets a muttered request for another whiskey and a hard look when she glances pointedly to the one he already has (and hasn't touched.)
"Never too early for a wank," mumbled without terrific enthusiasm, he sits back in his chair until the wood creaks against his shoulders and tries to force himself to focus on the stage. "I haven't heard anything from anybody. I've only been up for a couple of hours."
"Whot the fuck boy, you been 'ibernatin'?" Ethan asks in a near growl, sending a harsh glance to the other man. "I need that meet, Flint." the Wolf states simply. "What the fuck you been up to that's more impor'ant than tryna work that out for me?" He asks, half turning in his seat to fully look at the man.
"I gave you the phone. Teo said she would call." Voice coarse with lack of sleep and something else that can't be bothered to stir itself into full-scale anxiety right now, Deckard is slow to look back over at Ethan, eyes just a tint or two too blue in the club's atmospheric lighting. Or lack thereof. "They don't trust you for some reason. I know you probably don't like people giving you advice, but it might have something to do with the fact that you're a scary son of a bitch."
For some reason this gives Ethan pause. His lips purse for a moment as he looks coldly at the other man. "Roight." He finally concedes. Bringing one finger up to tap idly at his lips. "I suppose that makes sense. You should try and encourage 'em boy. Let 'em know 'ow friendly and 'ospitable I can be." He suggests softly, his eyes searching for that stupid girl who's supposed to bring his stupid drink.
Cue the music. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FrVkA3mvdU4)
As another scantily-clad and hollowed out soul takes the stage, a far fairer — far darker — one slinks across the floor in custom-tailored Armani, though she seems to have forgotten to wear a shirt beneath that suit jacket. Oh well. Seems all it takes to summon an angel these days is to merely make up a cause and invoke a name. Meet Saint Lucrezia — guardian angel of Teodoro Laudani and patron saint for scary sons of bitches everywhere.
"I would, it's just…I'm not a very good liar. I think you even said so, once." Upon a time. Now seems like as good a time as any to go ahead and start drinking, so. Deckard does. Within a few seconds of that first long swallow, Ethan's drink is clonked down onto the table in front of him by a blonde in a hurry to get back over to a table full of younger guys in suits taking a late lunch. She's not inclined to hang out with the pair of creepy middle-aged scuzz occupying their own table for some mysterious reason, despite Deckard's automatic reach back around for his wallet. She's gone before he can tip.
Brows knit low in distant annoyance, it's mostly by chance that Deckard catches a glimpse of Lucrezia. One brow goes back up again. "Holy shit."
"It wouldn't be a lie, you prick." Ethan responds sharply. "I can be very 'ospitable." He remarks defensively. He gives a little inclination of his head to the woman who sets down his glass. Picking up his drink, Ethan mirrors Deckard's action taking his own pull from the drink. With Deckard's discovery of a pious piece of poop, Ethan's brows arch. "Whot?" He asks, going to look where Deckard's gaze was.
And you would, too, if the sexy devil caught your eye…
Lucrezia's long legs parade her past the pair of pervs seated off by themselves while she, it seems, is bound for much more comfortable and sexier climbs. There's a VIP corner booth the boasts a certainly over-stuffed, possibly under-cleaned sectional; all black leather and low corners with room enough for six. This woman — this shameless and immaculately constructed slice of sin plus six inch heels — just saunters right on through as if she owned the place; she's a hot seven seconds of sleek kohl hair pulled back into a long ponytail and plenty of naturally buoyant cleavage exposed for all the black-lit world to see. When she finally claims her seat, she positions herself just so, able to keep an eye on the club and its patrons — queen of all the bartered flesh she surveys. Someone bring this bitch a mimosa, okay?!
"You're right," says Deckard. Unconvincingly, because it's a lie. Granted, it's not helped much by the cynical furrow at his brow and in the lines around his mouth when he looks sidelong over at Ethan and tips his scruffy head after Lucrezia. His drink is lifted again, but the sip that follows does little to mask his stare. "One o'clock, in heels."
"Fuck you." Ethan retorts hotly, taking another sip of the glass. Setting it down he inclines his head once Deckard points out Lucrezia. His gaze lazily goes to find the woman. His lips tighten for a moment before he gives a shrug, expressing that he is not particularly impressed. "Why don't you go ask for a number, my son." The man says with a hint of amusement. "See whot 'appens."
Well, screw you, too, Efanfase! She's here for the ladies, not to impress y— hey! We can't all be young and nubile nineteen year olds, okay?! For a woman working with what God gave her in her forties, Lucrezia's a pretty tasty piece of ladycake. Sure enough, a pair of previously bored and disinterested waitresses begin to bicker about who gets to flaunt themselves in front of the buxom big-spender… meanwhile, a third waiting in the wings capitalizes and has her clear hooker heels on the dais just as fast as her bony knees will allow. Formalities addressed, she's soon shuffling back to the bar to prepare the woman's drink while she comments to the bartender, "Foreigner." The bartender, however, knows better and corrects: "Famous."
Seemingly oblivious to any discussion being had beyond 'pass the Grand Marnier', Lucrezia's attention lies not on stage but rather on the floor of the club as she makes few bones about eyeing up the middle-aged 'come hump me' crowd sharing a hunch together not too far from the bar.
"Sure," says Deckard, who makes no move to stand, much less go over there. His chilled glass is lifted to the ache in his temple, painting amber over blue and black while he squints a speculative eye after VIP Lucretia and the girls already hamming things up for her. "Maybe if you vouch for me when I tell her we should have sex because the world's about to end, she won't call the bouncer."
"That would work." The Brit says confidently, draining the rest of his glass easily. Setting down the empty glass he takes a deep breath, examining Deckard for a moment. "Well boy. I'll leave you to lookin' through 'er clothes and all that. Make sure you encourage those lovable kiddo's to actually meet wit' me. No way I share wit' them whot I got on a fuckin' phone." The Wolf points out. A glance is sent across the room at the boo—Lucrezia.
The man slides out of his seat and goes to stand. Flinging the twenties on the table, he inclines his head to Deckard. "Get shitfaced. You look like 'ell." Ethan says calmly, taking a step away from the table.
Do you always feel like somebody's watching you… and you have no privacy? Whoa-oh. The money you could be saving by switching to Geico has somehow found its way up into the VIP booth and now occupies a place close to Lucrezia's Armani-clad thigh. That must be why. She waits for the return of her hooker-heeled waitress and her ironically chosen choice of drink — a femme fatale — and otherwise wastes her time by keeping an eye on Deckard and the departing Ethan unabashedly.
"Try answering your phone next time she calls. Play up the chummy angle and maybe she'll arrange a meeting. I don't know. But I'd appeciate it if you at least made an effort to do this in a way that doesn't end in me trying to force her into the trunk of a stolen car." Voice dry in a mutter that isn't quite low enough for Deckard to escape a suspicious look from another girl in passing, he forces an apologetic half-smile and nods to the suggestion that he get shitfaced. A lesser, "You don't look so great yourself," follows when he turns his head back in Lucrezia's direction, only to find that she's ogling them back. Brows hooded, he…looks over his shoulder.
"Come on now Flint. Stuffing young unwilling girls into the backs of ve'icles is one of your favorite 'obbies." Ethan comments flatly, walking around the table. Tilting his head, he goes to pick up the glass from the table, Deckard's glass. And take it for himself. "Watch your mouth, Flint. I look fucking amazing."
Turning his back on Deckard, Ethan goes to take a sip at the glass as he takes a few steps towards the woman staring at him. His head cocks to the side a bit. His gaze not one of admiration, not one that is blatantly taking in her assets. His gaze is a challenging one. 'What the fuck do you want?'
The lovely lady in the corner only smugly smiles in reply to Ethan's unfriendly gaze. For all he knows, she could just be another nasty no one with a smarmy European accent working the closet lesbian angle in order to take a few girls home and give 'em a good garroting tonight in the name of some misguided plan for ridding what's left of the world's white trash one poor soul at a time. The way she's sipping that pink drink, though, suggests something ever so subtly otherwise. And, no, he doesn't earn a wink. Limey scum. But… Deckard? OH HI. She really shines up that smile for the scruffier of the pair. The rat's getting introduced to Lucrezia's canines already from alllllll the way over there. That's a good sign, right?
Annoyance creases into Deckard's crow's feet at the suggestion that kidnapping people is a favorite pastime of his. Even so, he doesn't counter Ethan's assertion that he is a Studs McGee, if only because he doesn't feel like having the butt of his pistol applied to the side of his head again. Meanwhile, Lucrezia is smiling at him, translucent blue lips pulled back to bare white teeth, and…his drink is gone. Puzzled by both, and eyeing Lucrezia now as if he isn't exactly sure what to do about her, he splays his left hand over the place it was in. Eventually he rankles his nose down at the damp ring it left behind on the table, connecting the dots necessary to assume that Ethan jacked it like the douchenozzle he is.
A crease of his brows, and the limey scum turns his back to the breasts. Placing the now empty glass exactly where it was before, allowing Deckard to take it if he wants to. The black clad Wolf steps crisply past Deckard, on his way towards the exit.
Whatever. Screw him. (Maybe later.) In the meantime, Lucrezia makes a subtle summoning motion for her waitress, who summarily sidles her way on over in order to hear whatever it is that the well-dressed woman might be so inclined to whisper in her ear. The femme fatale murmurs lightly against the young woman's lotion-scented earlobe, all the while maintains her partially unobscured view of Deckard, who seems to have lost his drink… but not for long. The waitress is soon swinging back by and replacing the man's poison of choice with a sing-song explanation: "From the lay-dee."
"Thanks," muttered hoarse in the wake of Ethan's deposit, Deckard lifts his damp hand to splay it over his face while the other paws idly through the mess of twenties the man in black left behind. One is flick-folded over his thumb and pocketed. Information isn't free, you know.
In the time it takes him to lean forward, pocket tuck, and resettle, a fresh round of crown is knocked down onto the table in front of him. 'From the lay-dee.' Bafflement resumes in brief, to be swiftly replaced by a certain flatness around the line of his mouth when he pushes himself up out of his seat. The glass is snagged on his way around the table, and carried all the way over to Lucrezia's VIP booth, which he drops into across from her without waiting for an invite. "What do you want?"
This? No, no. This won't do at all. Lucrezia's perfectly arched eyebrows elevate upwards as Deckard appears to have interpreted his free watered-down Canadian whisky as a ticket for admission. It wasn't. "I want you do go back over to your table… and enjoy your drink," she says in a silky smooth and flattering tone of voice, hung around the 'ohs' with a certain familiar Sicilian tang. In other words, honey, this ain't your party. Get the fuck out off of her sex couch.
"Usually when people do something for me, it's because they want something in return." Deckard does not get up or go back over to his table, but he does enjoy his drink, lifting it to sip with a slow sort of relish that might be intentionally irritating. Considering his pathological aversion to following instructions, 50/50 isn't terrible.
The glass is dropped down onto her table, nearly forceful enough to slosh its contents onto the blacklit, glowing napkin he was halfway aiming for. The glass's temporary owner slouches back into black leather, perfectly comfortable where he is if the lazy absence of unease about the harsh angles that comprise his long face is any indication. "I'm not here to molest you. Just curious, I mean. You're a little high class to give a fuck over whether or not some asshole steals my booze. Do you feel sorry for me?" He lifts a hand to gesture loosely at the side of his own head. "Is it the damage? Because I pretty much always look like a piece of shit someone's stepped in."
From the first word of Deckard's little downtrodden diatribe to his last, Lucrezia wears a perfectly manicured mask of features that suggest she is absolutely not interested in anything he has to say but she's more than willing to sit there and be stared at while he says it. For a long time — maybe too long — after Deckard's finally ceased his babbling and Lucrezia's resumed kissing the lip of her dirty glass with those lips that mere mortal women who weren't blessed with her family's fine genetics have to see Doctor Sonny Bianco for, she doesn't seem to have much else to say to her new tablemate. Is that unnerving? Or is it somehow more comfortable without conversation while a primal beat pounds like a subwoofed drum in their ears. Finally, she breaks the silence and says: "Alright. One lap dance. After that, you're on your own."
And, just like that, she's crooking a finger at whatever piece of convenient flesh for sale happens to be nearby and — wait. WAIT. Did she just order a lapdance for him… or for herself?!
It is a long silence. Fortunately he's as much in his element there as he is yammering about the pathetic state of his life lately, cold eyes studying her marbled lack of reaction across the table in a manner less omniscient than Ethan might give him credit for. Then she speaks.
Deckard chuckles. There isn't any real amusement behind it, hardly audible as it is through the slim bare of his teeth. If anything he runs the risk of appearing mildly and mutely deranged in whatever he manages to find funny about this entire situation. A long, sobering breath later, he plants both hands against the table's edge and pushes to his feet, already moving sideways out of the booth. "Thanks for the drink."
Ruse successful. Some men just can't take a hint; sometimes you have to call their bluff. "Ciao." Lucrezia waggles her fingers in the air briefly at Deckard's departing back, even as some blonde-haired piece of pretty fluff finds her way up onto the VIP dais. Poor thing. He doesn't know what he's missing…
The lapdance wasn't for him.
 January 18th: Old Lucy's Recruitment Center |
 January 18th: Final Exam |