(no subject)

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Minimalist attempt at entry.

Man. Suit. New York Times. Booth. J&B, rocks.

Humming.

(I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts
There they are all standing in a row
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head
Give them a twist a flick of the wrist
That’s what the showman said )

Comments

[wits-intact.livejournal.com]

The management takes no responsibility for the whitetext, nor is willing to admit it is the motive behind this tag.

But Nicole will accept responsibility for calmly and without remorse (as if she's ever felt remorse, but she doesn't even feel the slightest bit rude) taking the other half of the booth for herself.

She's still reading Prescription Medicide, and this time, also drinking wine.

Of course she also pretends -- teasingly, because when she reallypretends, you can tell -- that she isn't noticing him.

She's not humming anything, either.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Buy low, sell high." He suggests.

[sir-apropos.livejournal.com]

I remember looking like that, as if I ruled the world. In truth, I very nearly did. A dream very well might be a wish your heart makes, but I could tell you from very pleasant experience that the wallet tends to make it come true. If any believing had anything to do with it, it was a strong belief that people are idiots and that they'll pay for anything that would make their lives even a little more cheery.

Up to and including an animated rodent in shortpants.

That being said, I didn't look as if I ruled the world anymore (and really, the job is far more taxing than it looks; I've done it twice now and it's highly overrated), but I was doing well enough. Thus I can't help the smirk that curls on my face at the singing Suit as I start in on my lunch.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Yes, money talks. It gives the semblance of happiness.

Rodent in hotpants, no.

Whores, yes.

That could explain it.

[sir-apropos.livejournal.com]

Excuse me the response to the narration, but... money very well can buy happiness. Virtue and honor and all the everlasting qualities which people seem to attribute to happiness are all very well and good, but as long as I'm fed and clothed and housed and sexed regularly and no one is trying to kill me, I can call myself as close to 'happy' as I've ever gotten before Fate came and dashed it all.

At the moment, I am all of the above and thus am I waiting for it.


...as for the whores.

Cough.

Ahhem.

You were saying?




And I nod my head his way.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick lowers the Times and looks at Apropos over the headlines, eventually giving him a nod.

[sir-apropos.livejournal.com]

"Relatively new here, yes?"

The ease of someone who's been here a few times but not the slight something or other that speaks of having seen something truly insane/troubling/beyond mortal ken/involving a tutu. I've seen it more than once.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Man. Jerkin and breeches. Wandering past and then, attracted to the humming because it's been a boring day, sliding into the booth opposite.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick lowers the Times, lips pursing. Black and white newsprint rustles, smudging his fingers as he separates the Arts & Literature section to him.

"Nice costume, what stage production are you from?"

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Pause, and then a broad grin.

"Romeo and Juliet."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I haven't had a chance to see that. It must be off-Broadway. Off, off Broadway."

He smiles wide and broad. It's a perfect smile.

"And you would be the first actor I've met here. Aside from that Merdaut fellow that is now a security guard." He shrugs a well-tailored shoulder. "Patrick Bateman, and you are?"

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Mercutio of Verona."

He doesn't get up, but his bow from the waist is flawless.

[beyond-therest.livejournal.com]

I stare at the newspaper, unaware of who is behing it. I used to get the New York Times for free. Guess they delivered it to the wrong apartment. I never bothered to find out whose it was, I used the paper for painting projects, and one day they just stopped coming.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

The pages rustle as he turns them to read the front page headlines.

He looks up, around.

He curls his lip and sneers at her.

[beyond-therest.livejournal.com]

She doesn't even see him, eyes still ficated on the newspaper, rustle and all.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

And so he continues to read.

[mnt_mike]

What's this descending on his perfectly styled head from above? Could it be... yes, it is. It's a pair of black plastic Mickey Mouse ears. And a certain ex-turtle is behind him, singing softly.

"Climb into my Winnebago
And if you help with the gas
Then we maybe can finagle
You five or six day pass
May your afterlife be blessed
Just American Express it
Let Mastercard and Visa set you free-eee-eee..."

[slayer_fray]

And then the turtle's being pulled away by his girlfriend as she grabs his arm and joins in:

"Oh that Magic Kingdom in the Sky
We will all be there together by and by!
All religions may be practiced there
Except for Southern Baptist
When we reach that Magic Kingdom in the Sky!"

[mnt_mike]

He follows her of course, as they head over towards the stairs, adding harmony to her singing.

"Oh magic, oh magic, oh magic kingdom in the sky..."

[slayer_fray]

"Oh that Magic Kingdom in the Sky!
Manufactured by that Uncle Walter guy
We'll give thanks to that old geezer
And we'll keep in the freezer
When we reach that Magic Kingdom in the -
Reach that Magic Kingdom in the-
Reach that Magic Kingdom in the- Skyyyyyy!"

And then, they've gone, leaving a wake of Mouse ears and confused patrons in their wake.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

There's a sudden, violent twitch from hearing the singing duo.

After he gains control, he hums along. Almost whistles. Almost.

American Express: never leave home without it, he thinks.

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

*Quietly, Thom slides into the seat across from Patrick without really asking (or asking at all, in fact) and sits there.

Watching.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He lowers the Local News section of the newspaper that he is reading, clears his throat, and looks over at Thom. "Yes?" Very slow swallow.

Violet eyes again.

Shit.

He tries to smile, "Good evening."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

*He smiles a little. Just a flash before it disappears.*

Doing all right for yourself?

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"Just about."

Buying men, stalking blonde women, and readingthe paper while drinking Scotch whisky.

"Could always be worse, I think." He smiles.