[doomey swivels in the pilot's chair, left to right, left to right. he sucks some smoke from his fingered pall mall. he grabs up the bottle of amber and fills the three empty tumblers sat upon the cherrywood]
s'fuck you mean talking about some doctor shit, DeP? please don't tell me ted has hired a new Floorite. i mean, you know?
[he grabs up his tumbler, nods at his Floorites, and he knocks the liquor back. he slams the empty tumbler to the desktop, awfully close to the girl's resting head. he gazes at the girl's angelic face, and then he shakes his head]
you guys have any bottled water? pure stuff? from the alps? our girl needs a well of mountain water, cousin. does anyone have any trail mix?
[Jesus steps up to the cherrywood, looks the girl north and south. Watches her chest rise and fall. He has the current capital rolled up in his fist]
She's looks fit. I can see she's going to pull through this, no worries.
[He raises his fist, capital gripped]
This, however, did not fare well.
[Jesus rolls the capital into a tube. He upends the capital on the desktop, his palm wavering topmost. And then he lowers his hand, his palm, and the capital shrinks as his hand lowers. Magic. The capital shrinks, disappears into the cherrywood's desktop. Okay, weird]
It's gone sour.
[Jesus steps back from the desk]
Joshua Storrs's The Ones Who Come To Watch has been Portholed, people.
[doomey stands and he pushes jesus away from the desk gently, he busies himself with tapping out a pall mall and giving it flame. he sucks in some sweet smoke as he gazes down upon the girl. he twists his lips, brushes some mud from his shirt sleeve]
her name is Carol. she talks to the dead. give the girl some room.
[doomey plops his ass back into the pilot's chair, and he scoots the chair up close to the desk, defending the girl]
let's just let her sleep. see what tomorrow brings. jesus, find some more blankets, make a nest. the cherrywood makes a nasty bed, believe me. i'm just gonna-
[doomey leans back in the pilot's chair, he closes his eyes]
i'm just gonna take a quick snooze, brother. it's been a fucking real long day's night.
[the pall mall held betwixt his fingers falls to the tiles and rolls a few inches]
[Jesus mashes the smoking pall mall with his shoe toe. He grabs up Boligard's suit coat and places it over Boligard. He moves to the front of the desk, gets the girl in his arms, and then he transfers her over to the wardrobe, kicking open the doors. He lays her within the closet, on the forgotten, lost coats and dresses and animal furs and sweatshirts and scarves and russian hats that have fallen off their hangers and hooks. He adjusts her just so, and then he closes the wardrope doors. He turns, looks over at DePlancher. He raises his eyebrows]
[DeP eyes Jesus and his moves with the weak but powerful one, Carol. Doesn't seem right, him carrying her off into the closet like that...and is that an electric guitar she hears tuning up somewhere. What to do. Her mind is restless. She glances at Doomey, who snores and drools on some loose pages strewn across the cherrywood. She pulls her mitts on. Heads for the closed closet door. Whispers in....]
Jesus? Qu'est-ce...I mean, what's happening?
[Of course, no answer. She thinks she hears a blender. Maybe smells something cooking. She raps lightly on the door...]
I know you hear me knocking... DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[Jesus stands beside DePlancher, who stands close to the cleaning closet door, rapping her knuckles lightly on the wood. Jesus swipes his fingers through his producted hair, and he smiles]
Ms. DePlancher, I'm right here. Carol is in the wardrobe, sleeping, resting and getting better, one hopes.
[Jesus wanders over to the cherrywood. He plucks up the latest capital, looks it over]
Hat Trick by Norbert Kovacs. Hm.
[Jesus lowers his head and giggles]
I must share, most times I examine these capitals and see the name of the crafter, I can't help but laugh, wondering and edging on certain that these agents are faking their names. Norbert Kovacs? I'm I being punked right now?
[Jesus flips through the pages of capital]
I'll give it a look, but, seriously, Norbert Kovacs?
[Jesus giggles. He looks over at the sleeping Boligard. He frowns]
Too many peas in this pod.
[He glances DePlancher's way]
We need to get him to some hotel out there in the deluge. He's some rest due. But I sure as heck am not going to try and wrestle him from that pilot's chair. He might go mercenary on my throat, right, DePLancher? Or he might stab my eyes out with whatever he finds at hand. I am not touching the Doomster. Guess I'll just...
[Jesus moves to the middle of the glass tiles, the colors vibing his weight and flashing their ambers and their moss greens and their mauves and their dark purples. He plops his ass down on the tiles, and he spreads the current capital out before him, the blinking colors making the pages a work of fucking art. Jesus gazes down upon the capital, each page a different, marvelous color. He blinks]
[DeP jumps a little. Did he just walk through the wall? She sniffs the air, shrugs. Maybe she was wrong about something cooking. But the idea's made her hungry. She turns to Jesus who's already walked away and engaged himself in something vaguely reminiscent of a...probably a dream. Yes, it was a dream where all the landscape undulated like an ocean in technicolor. Where a chorus line of angel faced people dressed in white linen flapped their arms like giant birds with many hands...uh, that was weird.]
Jesus? Would you like some pillows to recline upon? Those tiles are more for leaping and dancing and on-guarding upon...not so great for vetting cap.
And hey. You weren't cooking something just now, were you? Not that cooking's a problem...
[She glances toward the closet, then to Doomey snoring on his desk.] We need a better arrangement. No, I'm not waking him either. Man needs rest. Child needs rest.
[She yanks two giant paisley patterned pillows from the dark and apparently spacious area beneath her desk, tosses them toward the occupied Jesus who mostly ignores her so involved is he in either the cap he's currently reading or the flashing tiles, she can't decipher. And it doesn't matter.]
I need some pumpkin soup. I have to get started on the next cap...it might be stunning. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[Jesus grabs up the big pillows, shoves one under his butt, places the other on his lap and leans forward on it, gazes at the multi-colored capital spread out before him on the tiles]
Thanks, DePlancher. You are a peach.
[He examines the capital, a smile on his lips. He taps a fingertip on one of the pages]
Norbert, you crafted a nice dective landscape, but you use the word carding, which I've googled two sides to Tuesday and can't figure out what the heck you're talking about. And you crafted the line Trent mentioned going to a party at a mutual friend, Ron, his coming vacation. Using a term my friend Boligard likes to use, I must say I'm stumbling through the first couple pages. Our clients do not like to stumble, Norbert. Norbert.
[Jesus giggles. He sits up and shoves the pillows away. He digs in the front pocket of his black jeans and pulls out a bic, and he flicks it hot, and he lights up the capital laying before him. It flares up good, smoking, and it burns, curling in on itself, fetal. He stands, pockets the bic, watches the capital burn]
Norbert Kovacs's Hat Trick did not get out of the gates. It's legs broke before the gates opened. Someone else won the race.