milliways_bar | (no subject)

Current Mood: enraged

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Jack storms into the bar. He is full of rage.

Yes, that is rage you see on his face, not constipation or a really bad sunburn. RAGE.

Have at. :)

[ ooc: el warning: mun's body is slowly dragging her towards the happy land of sleep. which means she will dissappear within the next...ten minutes or so. or maybe later than that. but soon! ]

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Jack's head snaps in her direction, green eyes full of bzuhment. Bzuhment, like boredly and ragedly, is also a word.

"I do not have man-breasts," he says sternly. "And I could probably do for a sandwich and a...a coke."

"Hey! I don't judge. If you've got man-breats, that's fine." Snerk.

She orders a sandwich of his liking and a coke for him. "There you go. I, Mistress Bar, will have an ice cream sundae please."

Dead kids need no nutrition!

Nutrition is to dead kids as pants are to Gondor. Totally unneccessary.

"Well, if there was a such thing as man--anyway. Thank you."

"No problem. So. Murder. You go to jail for that you know. My sister works in a lawfirm. I know these things."

Granted her sister started working..oh...five years after Anna died. But Campbell's a lawyer. So...yeah. She's smart. That's the point!

"It was a figure of speech."

"But you were still full of rage." Anna points out. "So it's good you ended up here. And not on this person's doorstep with a crowbar."

"She's my ex-fiancee. Who happens to be my new next door neighbor."

"Oh. Ow." Anna winces. "If I were corporeal, I would so kill her for you."

"See? I can't believe she's stayed with..." A sigh. Or a growl. Take your pick. "And she tried to audition for my play."

Jack's hand clutches around the sandwich. As you can see, he is full of Rage™.

She taps his hand lightly with her fingers. "The sandwich didn't do anything to you. So don't be mean to it. Now...I shouldn't say this, because I'm a sweet girl. I died for my sister, saved her life, changed my family, the whole good-girl spiel. But, what you need is revenge. You're a writer. That's big. Especially for movies and plays. You could make it so she never works again. You're her ex-fiancee for God's sake. You know all sorts of dirty secrets, I bet."

Impish grin? Check.

An eyebrow.

"You're on to something."

"Start something. Give her a horrible reputation. Talk about her to all your writer friends, directors, producers, actors...oh! And snack people. Snack-people have the best gossip, and they talk to everyone!"

How does she know this? Not quite sure.

"She'll never work again, at least in...New York. That's where you are, right? Yeah. And from New York, she won't work in any big places. 'Cause people from New York...talk. They talk to people all over the world."

Beam!

"Yes, and I would do that if everyone except my former agent knew what she did to me. And it would take a while for me to find a private investigator to dig up the things she did in Havana."

"Then lie. Or...suck it up, hire a PI and let him do the work, while you play nice, get more dirt, and then smash her like a bug."

She annuciates 'smash' by slamming her hand down on the bar. She's still very calm, however. See? Calm.

"...whatever you say, General Anna."

He looks genuinely perplexed by this sudden burst of strategic energy.

"Look. The point is, you just...need to do something. And not just complain. You know? You won't get anything done that way. Look at me. Well...me before I died." Anna amends quickly.

"She's my ex-fiance. She's not a social ill."

"Are you calling me a social ill?" Anna wrinkles her nose. "And...is there really a difference between ex-loves and..illness?"

She gives him a calculated...smartperson stare.

And Jack gives her a "don't argue semantics with a writer" stare.

"Political statement. People shouldn't complain about social ills, they should do something about them, right? Ex-fiances aren't quite as important."

"Trying to get the rights to kill your sister really isn't important on the social-ill-ladder, either." Anna says softly. "Not like it worked anyway. I tried though. Only with nicer words."

She just looks at him. "If you aren't going to do anything, then you're not allowed to talk about it. Get a diary. Or a parrot."

Hmph.

"I have a cat." And if Jack couldn't read and thus couldn't see that the word CONGRESS was the first in the First Amendment (of the United States), he'd accuse her of impeding on his personal rights.

Well, then she'd plug her ears and hum loudly like a petulant child.

"Good. Talk to it about your girlfriend problems, or lack of girlfriend problems. I'm only thir--sixteen. I don't know how to help you except with ways of petty-revenge. I've never even had a relationship."

"When I said you wouldn't be interested in sad love songs, you told me you would be, and now you're telling me you aren't."

"I was. But then you started shooting everything I was saying. Do you do this to your girlfriends? If so, I should talk to them. And start an Anti-Jack-Driscoll club!"

GLARE!

"No usually they shoot first."

MMM SANDWICH. IT TASTES LIKE...AVOIDANCE.