Bound (not gagged) and hating it.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Tortoise-shell glasses (non-prescription lenses, by Oliver Peoples) are sliding down the bridge of his nose. Expression (mouth a knife slash) severe. Stretched across one side of a booth, reading (the dust-jacket is seen as The Bonfire of the Vanities.)

Comments

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

Why do people bring books here?

*Thom sounds curious.* I mean, it's like asking not to be interrupted. If you have any manners.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Licks the tip of his finger, turns the page, (It was the body of a woman who'd been cut in half and was laying face-up in the dirt). Not looking up. He answers in a mutter,

"Because I do not want to be interrupted."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

Then why not stay home.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He grimaces, teeth cutting into his lower lip, and peers over the edge of the book, speaking in quiet monotone. "My door is currently indisposed right now. If you leave a message after the beep, my door will try and return your call at its earliest convenience."

A pause.

"Beep."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

*Thom has no idea what an answering machine is.*



What?

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Patrick never cares about these (meaningless) details, skipping over it in order to hack into the (meat and bones of the) matter. Eyes vacant and glassy (the shiny eyes of taxidermy animals) he turns the page.

"I'm bound, Thommy-boy."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

*automatically* Don't call me that.

Bound by . . .

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"The fucking door is gone."

He clarifies, and finds himself distracted with a glossy page with a black-and-white photograph of the (pieces) of Elizabeth Short. Tracing the scattered limbs with his pinky.

"Shame, I like that nickname."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

Oh. Is that what usually happens?

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I don't know. I suppose that is what could happen."

He's calm again, and turns the page to continue reading.

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

You've got rotten luck.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"You've got worse luck, Thom-my. You're dead."

[giftedthom.livejournal.com]

Precisely.

*Thom bites his lip, not smiling.* For me, this is a pleasant alternative to . . . what I earned in my life.

What lies outside that door's a little different for you.

[song_tra_bong]

A waitrat approaches, bearing a (shoe)box.

Inside the box are a familiar pair of yellow satin Nina stilettos--with one key difference. The spike heels of the shoes have been removed and been replaced by knife blades that look to have been seen some use.

Accompanying the box is a note:

To keep you on your toes.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He accepts the shoe box, tips the wait-rat with a twenty dollar bill. Opening the box (instinct tells him to open it away from himself) although his facial expression never so much as twitches with caution.

(Oh, that's sexy.)

One long, low whistle through his teeth and he starts to chuckle lightly beneath his breath, speaking to himself, "There are some girls you wish you could bring home to mother."

[song_tra_bong]

The lady leaning over the back of his booth smiles, amused.

"I know they're not your size, but I hoped you could enjoy them anyway."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He looks up, and over at the leaning Mary Anne, eyes wandering around. Enjoying the presented view before he looks at her directly in the eyes. His smile is one-sided, tight.

"It is a very thoughtful gift."

[song_tra_bong]

She beams.

"I'm glad you think so. I put a lot of effort into it."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"And it shows. It reminds me of. . ." He pauses, trying to remember the woman's (Left her in the bathroom, didn't you? DHer dress, that zebra-striped number, pulled up to her hips and her fishnet stockings wound around and around her neck until--) name. But he cannot remember her name. It might have been Miranda. Or Martinique.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

[song_tra_bong]

"You're very welcome."

She slings first one leg, then the other over the divider. She spends a moment perched atop it before dropping down onto the bench.

"Gifts aside, how are things?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Watching her. He sets the lid on the shoe box and places it next to his opened attaché case.

"Dead boys keep turning me down," he says casually, in the same manner that he would discuss the weather. The tone twists when he shifts into the next statement, "It also seems that the door is gone, and I do not think that I approve of this."

[song_tra_bong]

"Dead boys are more trouble than they're worth."

She speaks with the voice of experience.

"And the door can be a fickle bitch. It'll be back."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

(Stanley 12-inch Super Wonder pry bar)

"Ah."

(A Browning 9 millimetre Hi-Power semi-automatic pistol)

"It would be terrific if it came back soon. I had business."


So much room in the attaché case. He needs to write the Samsonite company a letter.

[song_tra_bong]

She smiles.

"Wish I could give you a time table, but I've yet to hear of anybody alive being Bound permanently."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"I suppose until that time, I will need to postpone my plans."

Grins slightly.

"And redirect my energy." He tries to sound as if he might take up a hobby, continues with, "Collecting stamps. Or postcards. Or autographs." A shrug.