milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

The door opens. Without notice, caught on the threshold, speaking into his cellular (not just a phone) device. "...Did you send the Frank Gehry vase to the Forlani-Scott nuptials?"

(Small. Hand-blown Venetian glass. 12" high. Size may vary slightly as each piece is unique.)

"Along with my sincere regrets that I could not attend their reception in... where was it...? Pievebovigliana?" Keeping the door open with the toe of his (Salvatore Ferragamo, in a style called 'Revival') shoe.

(L’amministrazione comunale di Pievebovigliana. Mayor: Sandro Luciani.)

Slick smile. (Here again. When life gives you lemons, you put strychnine into the lemonade and sell it for thrice what it's worth.) A stalking pinstriped tiger in (Hugo Boss. Navy and white pinstripes color a grey suit of fine-woven wool.) an urban jungle. He releases his hold on the door, and steps into the Bar, concluding his conversation: "Catch the next flight out of Roma. Oh-- and bring back some of the octopus alla Pierluigi. Ciao."

After that, one may find him seated at a table with the best view of the Window. Contentedly watching the destruction of the universe while nursing a glass of (Vietnamese iced) coffee.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The elegant woman in a business suit approaches, taking a seat at the next table. She has a mug of coffee, and a file folder, but neither seems to captivate her attention, since her gaze keeps drifting to the window and to the victory of Final Entropy.

Oh yes, she also offers the man a nod.

A quick glance over, a moment of his attention while he makes an assessment of her.

She offers a nod. He reciprocates with a often practiced, mostly polite, and very false smile that is plastic. As deliberate as melamine added to the wheat gluten filler in pet food. In lieu of starting actual conversation.

It takes three seconds.

He glances away.

Finally, the coffee gets the attention it deserves, before going cold. The files, alas, fail, and remain untouched while Scarlet glances at the man, two seconds whole to appraise him. Interesting.

She glances at the folder, pondering the worth of opening it versus the hassle of opening it.

The edge of his mouth twitches. The smile fades.

The worth versus the annoyance of it.

He ventures the former against the latters, and speaks. Casual. (Calculated.) Cool. "Bringing business into a bar? ...Isn't that a strike against you, miss? It's rude, really. Bad manners."

Scarlet raises a brow, sipping her coffee before answering. "Yes it is. Terribly rude, it would be, as rude as jumping to conclusions." And no, much strangely so, her tone or expression contain no trace of jest, sarcasm or irony; it is a perfectly natural tone, like someone commenting on the weather.

It isn't strange.

It's what he is familiar with.

"Oh, is that so?" Beat. He slides aside his empty glass, folding his arm across the table top. Fingers curled inward toward his palm. Unbothered, relaxed posture. "Care to enlighten me as to what it is in that file folder, if it isn't business...?"

"Yes." She looks down at the folder. "Family matters sir. Rather private issues that demand my attention, but in a very unpleasent way."

"That's adorable."

Lips twitch.

"She's trying to maintain her poise and dignity." He props his elbow up, and slouches to rest his chin in the flat of his upturned palm. Indeterminately dark eyes focused on her, watching her with a detached interest.

"What next? Are you going to cry?"

A bit of a pained expression shows, before she recomposes... "Not for your amusement, sir, rest assured."

Of course, internally, the devil is very much amused by this man. Deliciously cruel...

A wistful sigh. "That's a shame. It really would have been worth the price of admission." Clipped words tossed out with a vague shrug of his shoulders. Straightening in his seat once again.

Dismissed.

Directing his attention back toward the Window.

"Ah. Yes." She tilts head. "But then, sir..." And now, her tone is cold, causing an icy chill to spread and making skin crawl. "I must remind you, that you did not pay anything yet to be granted amusement."

The Devil can make a point with few words, just letting the feeling of dread radiate.

Ah, fuck.

An unwanted shiver, and the bile (burning acidity that tastes like over-brewed burnt coffee and fear.) rises in the back of his throat, and he flips back the lapel of his suit jacket to fetch a pressed (Irish linen, hand-embroidered with a swooping P and B on it in kelly green thread) handkerchief to his mouth.

His eyes (the fight-or-flight response triggered, a benefit of the sympathetic nervous system) narrow.

The look is less than pleasant, sliding out his seat. She is something other than human, and if he wasn't so frightened by the prospect he would be seething. It's time to leave.

"Stupid cunt."

"Sit!" The voice is a whsiper, but full of her authority over the Things That Feed The Darkness. "I am not done yet, sir. I believe we have much to discuss."

Good-fucking-Christ.

He's been through this before.

A prompt drop right back into his seat, one foot beginning to tap impatiently on the wooden floorboards beneath him. Fingers, restless, begin to pick at the fine work of that handkerchief until it is destroyed. His voice, utterly emotionless,

"If you were a Deity, you would have understood the little concept known as," With quotation fingers, "'free will'. Since you're that kind of cocksucking bitch that's making a demand..." He leers. "...I assume you are the complete lack of one. A devil, right? Or, oh-- sorry! You think you are the Devil. Include the capital letter in there. Such a honor. Really. I didn't have enough outside forces toying with me in this bar. Add another--"

With an unexpected laugh, "--my sanity can handle it."

She actually laughs, shaking head; and the next moment, she is just a normal woman again. "Oh no, my dear, I have met the others. I am myself an agent of higher beings, serving a purpose. A harsh one."

She leans to the table, resting a chin on hand. "I like you. I really like you, dear, tell me, do you care about anything but yourself? Sincerely? Because, you see, real egocentric people are amazingly rare, most stop short of completing the circle for some weird reason." Fascinating.

"Would you like something to drink?" And from creepy, demonic, to the sweetest person he ever met. "Amuse me, and I may make it worth your time."

Composed. "No."

"No."

"And, fuck no. The only way it would be worth my time, baby, is if you were a gutted hooker hanging from a meathook in my cellar."

A pause to offer a thin-lipped smile.

"Consider that the best compliment that I can give you."

"I can provide that. Really. You like the hunt, as well? The thrill or capture, or you simply cheat them into following you to their final resting places?" Now she is curious about his methods too. "I doubt you have any wishes I could not provide, if it were of my interest to do so."

"Don't need a single thing, baby." In utter distaste for the woman that has shown to have more power over him. "Except for you. Letting me go. Now."

He hates feeling belittled.

He hates being demeaned.

So, he hates her. Utterly, completely. The surface of his mind boils with the hate and the unending array of images and ideas of what he would do if she were anything less. Something simple. Easy to dispatch and hide the remains of.

She isn't.

"Oh, my... you are so..." She leans closer. "Delicious."

She sits back, sipping her coffee and opening the folder. "Granted. farewell, and good luck in your, hmm, hobby, mister..." Scarlet flips a page "...Bateman. For what it is worth, you have my blessings."

The last bit is somewhat mocking, but also, Scarlet DOES release him. "It was an incredible pleasure to meet you."

Released, he leaves.

In a hurry.

Thom kicks out a chair, wine in hand. He looks happy.

"Guess what."

"...You want to go to Bolivia so that you can meet Cuban leader Fidel Castro's body double and president Evo Morales?" He asks with a slightly wicked smile, ignoring the view and the coffee in order to study the new person to annoy him.

He flips a hand out, a few fingers extended (Wait a minute, I'm still trying to guess here) in a gesture. Eventually his eyes narrow and he his fingers tap against his bottom lip, "You're..."

He settles back into his chair, bemused.

"...well, fuck. You have color in your cheeks, Thommy-boy. What's the secret?"

"Don't call me that," says Thom automatically, wondering what 'Cuban' means. He sits down. "Keep guessing."

"...Getting married? Running away to join Cirque du Soleil as an acrobat? Discovered a new source of fuel in the Mojave desert? Are you..."

It takes a moment to consider the array of possibilities, studying the young man's features a little longer. He believes that he finds the answer in the (--a dark violet which is equivalent to pigment violet, i.e., the color violet as it would typically be reproduced by artist's paints, colored pencils, or crayons as opposed to the brighter "electric") eyes. He laughs lightly, perhaps surprised. Or ready to be laughed at for the suggestion he makes:

"...living?"

Thom looks at first put out, then pleased that he's guessed it.

Grinning, "Yes -- completely."

Patrick (as if testing the ripe possibilities of produce, the same way he picks out firm hierloom tomatoes) picks at the back of Thom's hand. The one that holds the wine glass.

Pinching the pale skin between the knuckles.

Following the blue river of a vein with the manicured edge of a nail.

"What are you doing at the end of the universe when you haven't seen the world, Thom?"

He pulls his hand back slightly: that hurt.

"Waiting for someone."

"...You're fragile now, Thom."

A beat.

"Unless you're waiting for Godot..."

"...wait somewhere else."

Eyes shining, Thom is deeply amused.

"Is that a warning? Who's Godot?"

"Sweetheart!"

Mary Anne pulls up a chair across from him, one hand wrapped around a cocktail glass. "Darling, whatever have you been up to?"

In a low drone, he echoes the endearment, the suggestion of a smirk at the edges of eyes (if absent in the crescent moon smile). "...Oh, sweetheart, this and that. A little this with China. A little that with India. Booming economic powers need to be watched, baby."

A flick of wrist, a glint of onyx cufflink.

"What have you been occupying your time with...?"

"Nothing as interesting as you," she replies.

"A little war, a few travel plans, watching the world go by...Nothing special."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only