i_17bingo: (Default)

"Mr. Murphy!" shouted the jaywalker behind me.

Crap. I knew that voice. It belonged to a reporter with a leather pea coat, a rumpled shirt, pointless tie, dusty-colored skin, dark and squinting eyes, bedroom hair, a nose scarred from some long-ago, violent injury, and the kind of smirk that made me want to straighten that nose out with my fist.

I replied, "I said I'm not taking questions."

"The public demands answers!" he informed me.

"No they don't."

He massaged his forehead and lobbed a journalistic Hail Mary: "Gary demands an introduction entry for this season of LJ Idol*."

My shoulders sagged, my eyes rolled, and I sighed. "Fine. Take a seat in that chair."

"Why is there a chair here?"

"Because I want you to be comfortable."

He frowned. "But we're in the middle of the street."

"Look again," I replied.

His eyes squinted around the surroundings. "I'll be damned. How?"

"This place is a product of my imagination," I explained. "And that makes me God."

"You're a little full of yourself, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I am." I sat down in a chair that was far more comfortable than his. "Was that your first question?"

He scribbled in his small notebook. "It is now."

"Why aren't you using a digital recorder or some shit to take notes?"

"Because," he replied, "thirteen years ago you were a sort of intern at The New York Post, and that being the twentieth century, reporters carried pads like this."

"Was that going to be part of one of your questions?" I asked.

He flipped a few pages and crossed something out. "Not anymore." He added a smirk. "Thirteen years, huh? That makes you old."

"Hey! Thirty-five is not old!"

"It means you've aged out of the eighteen-to-thirty-four-year-old advertising demographic."

"Fuck."

"And that brings me to question seventeen," he told me. "Why the potty mouth?"

"There's seventeen questions?"

"Thirty-eight."

"I'm not answering thirty-eight questions."

"Then why did you put thirty-eight questions in my notebook, God?"

"Because," I replied, "I thought thirty-eight was a nice, daunting amount for me to object to."

"Fuck this metaphysical bullshit!" he announced, tossing the notebook over his shoulder. "What is the point of this?"

I snickered. "I thought you just said you had enough of this metaphysical bullshit."

"I've had enough of you too, but here I am."

I turned my attention to you, dear reader. "Since the first week of LJ Idol is devoted to introductions** I figured this would be a good opportunity to introduce my fellow contestants to some of my literary strengths, such as clever banter..."

The reporter muttered, "It's banter anyway."

"Watch it, you!"

"Just clearing my throat," he said.

I growled for a moment before continuing, "I also like cranky sarcasm..."

"Yeah, right. Whatever."

"And a little bit of vulgarity..."

"A little bit of vulgarity?"

"And a lot of vulgarity." I gestured to the reporter. "I'm also a big fan of this guy."

The reporter sat up and grinned. "Who isn't?"

"This is Max Fuentes, a twenty-seven-year-old entertainment journalist in New York City. He's clever..."

"It's true."

"Smooth..."

"Also true."

"A little bit sleazy..."

"But only a little bit, ladies."

"And morally deficient."

"I have morals," he told me. "They're just--"

"Missing?"

"Complicated."

"He's my most frequent writing subject, mostly because he captures not only the randomness that dominated my life in my mid-twenties but most especially the 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' side of my personality, which, you have to admit, is really fun."

"Except for the hangovers," he said, adding, "functional hangovers, but hangovers nonetheless."

"And that's something else that comes up. Even though most of the stories center around navigating the sex-crazed, booze-soaked, drug-addled, rock-n-roll lifestyle with no money..."

"Mama, Papa," Max said, "I want to assure you that the drugs and alcohol and sex talk is all exaggerated, unsubstantiated rumors."

"Max," I told him, "your parents are figments of my imagination."

"You only say that because your mother has never given you the mal de ojo.

I sighed. "Moving on... the strange web of Max's even stranger friends(sometimes even seen through their eyes), as well as his past also opens a different, more complex aspect of my life that I explore in my fiction, likemy bad luck, my even worse luck, growing up surrounded by poverty, heartbreak, and, most importantly, my struggles with

mental illness.

"I do write about other things, mind you, but really, I am at my best and most relaxed with this guy and his world, and so count on more of it."

"That it?" Max asked.

"I don't have anything else."

"Cool," he said. "

Let's go get a falafel."

"Lead the way, chico."

"I'm not that short, asshole."

"Yeah, you are."



__________

* Not this time.
** LIES!

i_17bingo: (Default)

This ties directly into a piece by tamaraland, "Pass the Ammunition." It's tied even more directly into superhappytime's piece, "Darkside." You should probably read them both first, because this makes only a marginal amount of sense without them.

* * * * *

"We better get down there," he said. "People will start to miss us and get suspicious."

She giggled and told him, "Speaking of suspicious, I forgot to call and say good night to my kids."

"I wouldn't worry about them. What are you going to tell your husband?" he asked.

After a few seconds and a sigh, she finally said, "I'll worry about that later. Mind if I join you in the shower?"

Underneath the bed, Frank Nacht rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth to hold back a roar of frustration. He mouthed, "You just said you were going back down there!"

Her feet swung onto the carpet and stayed there for a few moments so she could balance herself. Nacht reluctantly had to sympathize with her wobbliness; that was one hell of an orgasm she'd just had. He craned his neck to watch her go, because, hey, naked woman. When her partner followed, he averted his eyes, because, hey, naked man. After much more giggling, the shower began to run. He waited twenty seconds before rolling out from the bed and rushing to the laptop on a nearby desk.

Immediately upon his opening it, Skype logged on with its telltale electronic whoosh blaring through the speakers. Nacht stabbed the mute button until it shut up. He then clicked the appropriate icon, and filling the screen was the logo of independent weapons contractor, Allen Vanguard.

"Jesus on a pogo stick!" Nacht groaned quietly. "Nobody told me I'd have to log in!" He took a deep breath and thought back to the "Hacking 101" seminar he'd been required to take during basic training. On the first day, Professor Babbage handed out a memo featuring the four most used passwords: love, sex, secret, and god. Nacht ruled those out immediately, because Babbage was a cock.

It was a good thing Nacht had memorized every detail in the Allen Vanguard man's folder. He tapped in his mother's maiden name.

"Incorrect login," the laptop replied. "Two more tries."

It couldn't possibly be his wife's maiden name or birthday, because he clearly didn't think a lot about her when he wasn't home. He tried the name of the man's first pet: "Bandit." It was a very detailed folder.

"Incorrect login," the laptop replied. "One more try."

A loud moan echoed out of the bathroom. "You got stamina, I'll give you that," Nacht whispered. To the computer, he said, "If this works, I'm going to punch that guy in the face." He typed in "password."

All of Allen Vanguard's secrets scrolled out before him. With a grin, he pulled out a thumb drive and looked for a place to plug it in. There was none--not on the front, not either of the sides, nor in the back.

The shower stopped pouring.

"Fuck," he grunted, "this." Nacht left the room with the folded-up laptop under his arm. In no time at all, he found himself on the fourteenth floor of the hotel, slipping a keycard into his lock.

"You have got to be kidding me!" he shouted as soon as he could see into the room.

A woman squealed, and he slammed the door.

"Okay, now what?" He couldn't hang out in the hallway; people might get suspicious of a kid in a turtleneck, leather gloves, and a fanny pack at an arms expo in Abu Dhabi. He ducked into the emergency stairwell and took a seat. "You have nobody to blame for this but yourself, Frank," he reminded himself. "You didn't have to take that apprenticeship. There were tons of other career options there."

The door to the fire escape slammed open behind him. He didn't even have to look up to know this would be bad. "Translator," he said. "I would have made a great translator."

The two men brandishing matching Hawaiian shirts and silenced pistols said nothing.

"Let me guess:" Nacht sighed; "MILF." Despite the fact that MILF, which stood for Moro Islamic Liberation Front, was a pretty threatening organization, he had to choke back a giggle.

"You will give us the Hawk Protection computer!" demanded the meanest-looking one.

"Uh," Nacht replied, "this one is Allen Vanguard."

The mean one held up a finger; you didn't need a translator to tell you that this meant, "Hold on a moment." To his partner, he said in Farsi, "Don't we already have the Vanguard data?"

"We have a man on the inside, so I'm guessing yes."

"Shoot this guy anyway?"

"Of course."

"I would have made a great analyst," Nacht mumbled.

Suddenly, a man in a tuxedo swung down from the railing of the flight above them. "Going down?" he asked as he grabbed the mean one and tossed him over the edge.

While that one screamed for the duration of his fourteen-story plunge, his partner raised his gun, only to drop it when his windpipe was crushed by a well-timed karate chop. "And you, my friend," the tuxedo man purred, "are a pain in the neck."

The MILF soldier gurgled to death, and Nacht took a deep breath and leaned against the closest wall.

Vince Cazzone, superspy, told him with a breezy grin, "You almost blew my cover out there, Francis, old chap."

"That wasn't the only thing of yours getting blown," Nacht replied.

"Undercover work," Cazzone said with a grin. "Well, it would have been undercover in a minute if you hadn't interrupted."

He handed over the laptop. "Here's your goddamned MacGuffin."

"You hold onto that. I hear there's baccarat downstairs."

"Baccarat?" Nacht asked. "At an arms show?"

"All the gros legumes will be there."

"'Big vegetables'? Seriously?"

"You have a lot to learn about the lingo out in the field, old boy." He straightened out his jacket and smoothed out his hair. "Loads of important intel slips out at these under-the-table gatherings. Besides, I love baccarat."

Nacht shrugged. "I'll run upstairs, change into something less conspicuous, and join you."

"Nonsense, dear boy," Cazzone told him. "You're not on the guest list. Why don't you go to back to the room and order up some room service. I can send up a lady-in-waiting if you like."

"Yeah, what the hell."

i_17bingo: (Default)

This is a prequel to a really hot piece from by lilyinchains.

* * * * *

"What are the odds that I can get it even rarer?"

"How rare do you mean?" asked the greasy man behind the counter.

"I don't know. Super rare. Like, just breath on it."

"Come on, Dave," he replied, "you know I legally can't serve it like that."

"Come on, Al," David replied, "you know I can't stand it when you call me Dave."

"Medium rare's the best I can do," Al said. "Besides, you ordered it just plain medium last week."

"That was last week."

"I don't get you, Dave." Al turned back to the kitchen. "Burger, medium rare, heavy on the rare!"

"I'll take it," David told him. A few minutes later, he sat on a bench in the park, soaking in the sunshine and peeling an anemic tomato off of his lunch.

The moon was waning something fierce, and in a few days it would be full. He didn't need his meticulously updated calendar to know this either. The dramatic part of his condition would kick in then, but before that, his teeth and fingernails would sharpen, making it hard to type. His senses had already sharpened, which is how he heard the air being sliced in half by a flat, round object spinning toward his head.

Unfortunately, his reflexes weren't as sharp as his hearing, and that flat, round object bounced off of the side of his skull and spilled lunch. A growl rumbled from deep inside, and he roared, "What the fuck was that?"

The girl, probably a college student, her glorious breasts straining against a heavily reinforced sports bra, skipped over to him and squealed, "Oh-my-God-I'm-so-sorry-mister!"

He realized as she leaned over to retrieve the Frisbee that his libido had also sharpened. He probably shouldn't stand right now.

She straightened out, shrugged, and blushed. "You want to, maybe, I don't know..." Sheepishly, she showed him the toy in her hand. "... play fetch?"

Right then, the only one thing pissing him off more than her inadvertently mocking his condition was the fact that he really did want to fetch that damned Frisbee. If he had a tail, he would have wagged it. Instead, he gulped and nodded.

"Good boy," she cooed and flung it with a snap of her wrist. Her technique was flawless, but her aim could use a lot of work. As he reflexively gave chase, he watched it clip a tree, sail all the way out of the park, ricochet off of a bus and a minivan, narrowly miss a pedestrian, and disappear down a side street.

"Oh-my-god-I'm-so-sorry!" she squealed.

He trotted after it with a sigh, but as soon as he rounded the corner, his hair stood on end. Something was setting him off, but he couldn't figure out what. Every instinct told him to leave, but that sports bra and the time of the month wouldn't let him. Besides, the midday sun revealed every corner of the block, and it was empty, save for a sedan parked against a nearby curb.

He crouched beside the car and reached beneath it for the lost Frisbee, stopping suddenly when a number of details clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. First off, there was an irregular shadow that didn't belong to the undercarriage. It carried with it the faint scent of vanilla covering up a deeper scent of rotting soil, along with the rustle of something alive without a heartbeat. He stood, backed away, and announced, "If I knew how to hotwire a car, I'd drive it out of here and let you roast."

"No, you wouldn't, puppy."

Closing his eyes, he replied, "What makes you say that, angel face?"

"I think you know what I'm talking about."

He reminded her after a moment, "I had a little too much to drink that night."

"So did I."

"No," he said, "you drank someone who had too much to drink."

"Same thing."

"Not for us regular people."

"Puppy," she said, "when have you ever been 'regular people'?"

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing down there?"

"It's kind of a long story."

"It would have to be." He sat down on the sidewalk with a sigh. "Arianna," he said, "I thought we talked about you and your people coming back to town."

"You really believe you could stop us?" It was an honest question, not a threat.

"I do."

Silence filled the block until she told him, "You know, I wasn't there when it happened."

He replied, "I don't think it makes a difference where you were when my family was murdered."

"Yeah, you do."

He jumped to his feet and dusted his pants off. "Anyway," he growled, "I need to go fuck a coed, so why don't you go ahead and stay here until the sun goes down." Because if he didn't fuck something today, he was going to combust. But he couldn't bring himself to follow through on that--not with Ariana so close by.

A dozen hours later, after he failed to talk himself out of it, David returned to the sedan, muttering, "What are the odds that she's even still here?" Sure enough, a quick sniff and glance under the car revealed that she wasn't. This was both a relief and a disappointment.

Suddenly, she appeared out of nowhere, poked his shoulder, and laughed a low, flirty laugh. "You're it," she told him before slipping back into nowhere.

"I never liked you," he whispered and gave chase.

Profile

i_17bingo: (Default)
Jeremiah

January 2013

S M T W T F S
  1 2345
6 789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 24th, 2017 11:30 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios