| Did That Just Happen? |
[03 Oct 2007|12:10pm] |
Of all the no-name bars, he had to pick this one.
That’s what Darian was thinking. It seemed an unfortunate turn of fate for a number of reasons. One, his client was late, and if things were going to run late, the Dealmaker’s impatient waiting could at least be done in style and not with peanuts grinding into oblivion underfoot. Two, there was a high-definition sports channel on the widescreen television, a fact he noticed very quickly upon getting there. Darian could’ve done without that, along with the raucous cheering in his ear. When an elbow jostled him in celebration of a touchdown, Darian almost choked the man. In all seriousness.
He was on edge, annoyed to almost pre-Nevada levels. Tardiness from clients wasn’t something he was used to or would tolerate. Apparently he’d been too easygoing lately and word was spreading that Darian could be flexible. Mr. Maloney needed to come up with a very valid excuse before he arrived for their appointment. Something like, “I got hit by a car on the way.”
Darian ordered a bourbon and stared at the high-definition close-up of a linebacker’s backside. Why, why would straight men pay for that kind of clarity?
"Oh-h-h-h...!"
It was a schoolgirl's giggle, flirtatious and full of drunken squiffle. The source of it being pushed against him, one palm spreading across his chest for balance.
"Why, it's lovvvellllly Misssttttter Daaaarian!"
And a girl it was, just not one who would have qualified for being of any legitimate school age. The usual link of spiritual shadows between them was gone, but there was no mistaking who that vision of white and black could be.
Ellfeda... And she was as pissed as a newt.
"Hhhhhave you met my wonderfluu... Wondfluffer... Wondlerfluff... My hhhappy new friend, Misssterrr Darrrina... Dariannn... Mmm, yes, that's your names... Name," she corrected herself, using a point of wavering finger to emphasis her point, "Isn't it, darrrling...?"
Despite the smallish stature of the drunken demoness, ‘Mister Darrina’ was almost bowled over by the collision, and that was a feat considering his height. But the sudden weight slamming into him was only half the surprise, because the woman manhandling him was none other than Elfleda.
Bride of Leviathan. Corruptress of Champions. Emissary to the Darkness.
Yet she smelled (and felt) like a bar fly.
“Yeh-gg-ugh!“ No, not an ancient demon language, but a noise of total astonishment from the Dealmaker. He recoiled and pushed her off, only to give his surroundings a suspicious look, as if searching for a hidden camera. In all the hundreds of years he had known her, there had always been a ‘look and get touched but don’t touch’ policy in place with ‘mother’, and discovering her breasts smashed up against his shoulder was a little like falling hands-first on a stove eye. No matter how tempting it was to cop a long-anticipated feel, there was also a mad scramble to put his hands anywhere but.
He kept her at arm’s length. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He tugged on his coat to straighten up and kept looking around, pretending to be scandalized in case the big L was watching/listening.
Moreover, what the hell was ‘wonder fluff‘?
( Drunken Exploits )
FWASH!
Oh, indeed.
With the arrival of Elfleda’s shapely backside upon his lap, Darian got completely sidetracked from his devilish plans.
He opted instead to rub his hands up and down her sides and then squeeze her hips, imagining exactly what it would be like to lift up a few of those black, fluffy layers of dress and show Leviathan a thing or two about-- “Oh for crying out loud!“
In a moment of pure melodrama, he threw his hands in the air and proclaimed, “I can’t do this! This is completely inane. Who wrote this?” He nudged the brunette off his lap and got up. “I mean, c’monnnn.... I’m supposed to be the Dealmaker! I’m not desperate, I wouldn’t just... rolllllll over and thank my lucky stars.” Turning to the brunette, “I can have any woman I want, right?”
Whirling on a particular face across the room, he ranted on, “And from the looks of the script I read the other day, possibly two at a time!”
From a folding chair in the shadows, a frustrated voice groaned and called out, “CUT!”
Darick Delmacher, Harvard graduate, former documentary film maker turned small-screen actor, flung his arms in the air in a weak ‘V’ as if for victory.
“Thank you. It’s about damn time.”
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dorky