| Home for the Holiday |
[Dec. 26th, 2007|07:43 pm] |
'Twas the night of Christmas, and in the double-wide
A creature stirred at the stove, careful not to burn his hide.
His companion seated on a newly-bought chair,
While smells of vegetarian lasagna danced 'round her hair;
Rhiannon in her best, and Whislter in his hat,
Had just settled down for an untraditional meal (lean, not fat),
When from the fire detector, there arose such a clatter,
He sprang into action, to deal with the matter.
"Jesus!" Whistler grabbed the potholders and dove towards the gourmet offense. He threw open the oven door and retrieved the slightly burnt garlic bread.
Unceremoniously the metal pan clanged onto the stove top, and he spun ninety-degrees using his right foot to close the metal beast while frantically waving the holders in the air to disperse the smoke and silence the alarm.
"Give me those." Rhiannon scraped a chair under the smoke detector and climbed on it. Instead of fanning the pot holders, she ripped the cover off and pulled the battery out. The eruption of noise stopped. "What're you, expecting a visit from the fire marshall?" The battery thudded on the floor and rolled under the fridge, alongside untold numbers of dust bunnies and formerly frozen peas.
The air reeked. She got down and went to the front door, then made an effort to push some air out of the trailer by opening and closing it. "Christ... That's what you get for watching Wheel. You're making me feel 80."
"It was that or 'Pimp My Grandmother'," the Agent winked. Christmas fare on television was sparse at best and the idea of a fake yule log with muzak-muzzled holiday tunes ran shivers up his spine. Definitely a demon-spawned idea. Give people a sneak-peak of what awaits them in the afterlife.
The hatted man watched as the battery disappeared, made a mental note to retrieve it. Like he'd done when the first two spatulas were accidentally kicked under the stove, or the spilled change from the pizza he'd ordered last week. In the future, archeologists would puzzle over the time capsule contents in Whistler's kitchen.
If Gerald let them in.
He dug out the garlic bread from the pan and threw the edible pieces into a wicker basket laced with paper towels, and set it on the table. Most of his compensated check from Star went to refurbishing/renovating his trailer, with the main treat being an actual three-piece dining set. Whistler gave the contents a once-over: vegetarian lasagna (check), garlic bread (check), caesar salad (from a bag, check).
"Dinner is served. Can you make it back to the table," he asked with a smile, "or do I need a wheelchair for your geriatric ass?"
( Only Under the Car )
( Holiday Gifts ) |
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| What Are The Odds? |
[Dec. 12th, 2007|01:12 am] |
After more than eight years, getting hit still hurt.
Rhiannon wiped her lip.
She should've gone on a regular patrol, maybe hit a graveyard or two, and broken her body back in easily. But this whole 'vampires on wheels' thing had been bothering her for weeks. A half hour before sunset, the slayer walked to the industrialized area where railroad tracks intersected and trains dropped cargo or picked up new cars before heading out of town. It didn't take long to find a car giving shelter to a couple of vamps during the daylight hours.
Her plan was simple enough on paper. Give the metal door a tug, flood the car with sunlight, and go from there.
Sneaking up was utterly impossible. She did a tight-wire on the side of the car and found the handle. But as soon as she inched the door, it let out a scrape that practically turned her ears inside out. Sound amplification guaranteed that the occupants were feeling it, too. Hearing a chorus of angry snarls, Rhiannon grunted and yanked on the door as hard as she could.
At halfway, she heard the first demon explode in a cloud of dust. But then pulling got harder. Suddenly she was in a tug of war for control of the door. Then a vamp got ballsy. Sunlight or not, it reached around and grabbed the slayer's throat and tugged her inside. The door slammed shut behind her.
First everything was orange, light cast by the burning vampire. Then he was dust and the car went black. A fist hit her in the mouth. So much for simple on paper.
His idea, on paper, was perfect. Pound on the back door of the Chinese restaurant, flood the goon with his charm, and go from there.
Faking his way into the poker game was pretty much impossible. High stakes meant high security. You needed guts, you needed a password. You needed a bankroll (which he had, courtesy of the last paycheck cashed from the Witching Hour). One out of three.
Whistler walked the tightrope when the six-foot bruiser answered the door. He stuffed a few dollars into the breast pocket, hoping to impress, but the grunt from the front-line security indicated the hatted man was unwelcome.
It was either brass balls or a death wish that found Whistler's foot thrust into the entrance and then hands against the solid metal door where he engaged in a tug of war. The scrape of metal against concrete reverberated along the alley as the Whistler versus Goliath battle rode on.
He didn't see the extra pair of hands that grabbed him by the lapels, and lifted him six inches off the ground before yanking him inside. The door slammed shut behind him...
( Rail Car ) |
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| Voicemail for Rhiannon |
[Nov. 28th, 2007|01:12 pm] |
"Why do phones beep? Why don't they play... I dunno, the eighteen-twelve overture or something? Anyway, I'm letting you know I haven't disappeared. The Powers decided to dick me around again. Got me boning up on being a lawyer to help a Slayer stuck in jail who, when I showed up to argue for bail, had already made her escape. And if you think I'm gonna get into the middle of that. Fuck. Obviously they wanted me out of the way. No clue why.
"I'm running a search on Atia and whatever I find I'll let ya know. It's uh, it's almost December and I don't have plans for the actual day. Can you stomach my cooking?" |
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| Sleepless in Clark County |
[Nov. 9th, 2007|12:14 am] |
He couldn't understand why, but Whistler was utterly fascinated with his cell phone all night.
It never rang. |
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| Say It Ain't So |
[Oct. 23rd, 2007|11:32 pm] |
Memory one.
The phone rings low and quiet in Rhiannon’s ear. She chews the corner of her fingernail and paces. Each step is soft, a bare foot striking the wooden floor in no particular hurry. Despite this outward semblance of calm, there are nerves in the Slayer’s chest. She’s got a feeling like something’s not right... that what seems like a dream could be more.
She waits for him to answer and confirm the truth, just barely resisting the urge to cross her fingers. “Pick up.”
His phone vibrates on the night stand.
Whistler fiddles with the remote control, pausing the first court room scene from 'My Cousin Vinny'. He's seen this movie twelve times since checking in to Bally's and countless viewings earlier. He's even reciting Joe Pesci's dialogue a half-second before the actor speaks.
He could've had that part.
That was a curious thought.
The frame freezes on Pesci and Hermann Munster (the actor's name he never bothered to memorize) and checks the miniature screen on his cell. He quickly hits the green button.
"Can't sleep?" he asks, stifling his own yawn.
“I dunno.” Rhiannon puts her back to the kitchen sink. The apartment is a minor mess in front of her, complete with piled-up clothes and torn junk mail and soda cans. Diet Coke has become her replacement drink of champions, something innocuous to chug. Everything looks the way she remembers leaving it, but there’s a strange sense that time has elapsed.
Not to mention... “Did you ever wake up from a dream and it was so real, you walked around for a few hours convinced it actually happened?” The Slayer’s fingernail is jagged now. She leaves it alone.
Whistler bites his fingernail as the Slayer asks her question. A bad habit, letting them grow out and using teeth to trim them. Only as she waits for his answer, the hatted man stops chewing, mentally chiding himself that his manicurist will be pissed at having to do extra work.
Since when has this man, an Agent for the Powers That Be, accustomed to living out of his car, dressing from cast-offs from the local Goodwill, ever considered having his nails done?
"Like you were... somebody else?" he queried. "Same face, different memories. Like you were acting the part."
( Group Delusion? )
( The Rest of the News ) |
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| Too Close to Call |
[Oct. 12th, 2007|09:50 am] |
He wasn't the audience favorite. Not today.
Knees knocked together, fingers interlaced and figeting.
And finally.
"In the case of April Rose. August Whittacker," the somber man intoned. "You are not the father."
"Thank Christ for that." He let out a deep breath, thankful the suit covered his sweat stains.
"Now can yeh ask the harlot to stop dressing the poor child in a mini fedora? It's embarassing." |
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| Temper, Temper |
[Oct. 8th, 2007|06:28 pm] |
"Did ya see this? Did ya see?"
Moments earlier, the writing bullpen had been a place of quiet chaos. The stable were spitballing ideas about future plot arcs based on notes from Max Bickert, looking for novel ways of new pairings, the next 'big bad'. They only needed to wait two minutes.
August Whittaker stormed into the dank, smoky room and tossed several copies of the latest issue of GQ Magazine onto the table, not caring as one slid off and into a cup of coffee that upended into a laptop. Sparks flew in more ways than one.
"Best dressed! Damned right I am! It's all about presentation boys. Look the part, feel the part! Bloody fuckin' 'ell, you've got me as such a goddamned wanker for too long now! You promised changes. I figured that meant an upscale in wardrobe. But no, instead yeh turn me into a fuckin' lawyer consulting bad movies for reference!"
It probably didn't help that he'd lost the part to Joe Pesci. A joke at his expense, obviously.
"Did ya read? O' course yeh didn't, barely able to scratch your own arse! Here let me: 'Whittacker is the epitome of style, reflective of his former glory in London's West End. Sadly, Whistler remains the sow's ear culled from a silk purse. We'd be more invested in his performance in Birthright and his former relationship with Rhiannon Lee if they just let the man dress in something better than Goodwill rejects'."
"I won't fuckin' stand for this! You hear me!?"
With that, August Whittaker stormed away, grumbling at the secretary as he flashed a 'V' over his shoulder. |
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| Email |
[Sep. 26th, 2007|02:23 pm] |
From: rockingchair152@gmail.com
To: rgiles@cow.org
Subject: Ding Dong the Witch is Dead
I'm sure you've seen the reports on the news. No lives lost, that's the good news. Bad news, people got banged up. Writing this on a 'borrowed' laptop in a semi-private hospital room.
You'll get formal reports, I'm sure.
My suggestion: invest in some fuckin' healthcare benefits for your people if you haven't already. |
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| Firefight at Fang Noir (Pt. 1) |
[Sep. 21st, 2007|09:54 am] |
He checked his watch again. Three-fifty-six.
Fingers fidgeted in pockets, wrapped around the zippo lighter. Whistler needed to be careful or he'd light his pants on fire.
Liar, liar...
He'd be stone if he didn't admit he was nervous. Several players would momentarily converge on Fang Noir, storm the castle (so to speak) and take on a demon that killed him once already. Eight teflon drums of battery acid were interspersed at the four corners of the club, a ninth at the front door. He considered rigging them with a fireman's hose and a portable generator from Home Depot, but doubted the makeshift delivery system would hold up against the barrels' contents.
Whistler took one more lap around Fang Noir, and end up at the rear delivery doors. He leaned back against the raised deck, pushed his hat down over his eyes and lit up a smoke.
If he could narrow it down to one god for the occasion, he'd even consider saying a prayer.
[Thread open to Corbett, Connor, Rhiannon, Alexis, Purity, Tristan, Faith, Victoria and Deanna] |
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| Simple Words |
[Sep. 20th, 2007|10:38 pm] |
*Beeeep.... Beeeep... Beeep*
A thin cell phone lights up beside the mattress. Incoming call from Whistler.
“...Hello?” Rhiannon’s voice is sleep-smudged.
His voice catches. The pitch is slightly higher than practiced. "Hey. Is it too early?"
Rhiannon looks at a wall clock.
*Tick.... Tick.... Tick*
“It’s 9pm.” She rubs her eye. “No, I mean... I was just taking a nap. Before.” She fiddles with the strap of her tank top.
Whistler checks the rented digital clock next to the borrowed bed.
"Patrol." A rhetorical comment. He fidgets with the knotted shoestring. "I wanted to touch base."
Silence. What he doesn't say.
( Can Fill a Room ) |
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| A. Whistler, Attorney-at-Law |
[Sep. 12th, 2007|05:13 pm] |
Whistler awoke at the crack of dawn to incessant knocking on the door to his double-wide. He stumbled out of bed, not bothering to dress more than the deadhead t-shirt and boxer shorts he'd crashed in (how Gerald ended up wearing his hat as the gnome stood guard duty outside, Whistler would probably never know). The Agent was greeted by an overly cheerful UPS delivery man with a rectangular box.
He didn't tip.
Inside was a leather briefcase containing transcripts and degree from the University of Michigan Law School, as well as papers declaring that he'd passed the bar. After four attempts.
As well, there was a hotel room key emblazoned with the Bally's logo. Apparently the Powers felt it better if he was a hired gun brought in from out of town to handle Blanchard's case. This also indicated he was in for the haul (minus a side trip to Defiler-ville, no way the Agent was going to miss that fight).
He shook the box again. A credit card fell out. Embossed (as the other documents) was the name 'A. Whistler'. Great, he'd have to come up with a first name. Only two living people knew his real monicker and he preferred to keep it that way.
Whistler waited another thirty minutes to see if someone would deliver him some decent suits.
None came.
He grabbed a shower, packed a duffel (making sure to include his cell phone charger and DVD copy of 'My Cousin Vinny') and, one his way out the door, took back his hat from the ungrateful gnome. "If Rhiannon or Hannah drop by for a visit," he instructed the security system, "tell 'em I'm at Bally's. Everyone else gets the treatment. Okay?"
Gerald stood stoically.
"I'd take ya if I could. But I don't think the judge would accept ya as co-counsel."
Christ. A judge. The Agent had been in front of the law before, but usually to protest his innocence. He hoped the one hearing Samantha Blanchard's case wasn't one he'd met before. |
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| "Will you accept the charge(s)?" |
[Sep. 11th, 2007|09:48 pm] |
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( It's for you ) |
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| Stool Pigeons |
[Sep. 1st, 2007|08:16 pm] |
Star was ruined.
Sure, the results of the investigation into her club weren’t public yet. Not even the heiress knew what had been determined. But while she and the tabloids waited with baited breath, a bunch of bureaucrats took their sweet time. Tongues wagged, rumors got more and more twisted, and her reputation as a Vegas ‘It Girl’ was down the toilet.
Estella ‘Star’ Tomlin was now a ‘Has Been’.
In the meantime she lived off a meager allowance. After all, her fortune might get sued from underneath her. She joined the ranks of the unemployed. And she shacked up with Leah, trying not to notice that lately the place reeked of sex, and god only knew why. As far as Star could tell, no action ever went on there.
But penniless or not, she could still afford a fashion mag and a milkshake. Depression demanded chocolate and brain candy. It was like a rule or something.
In a bad mock-up of a 1950s diner, Star sat on a swivel stool and wiled away the afternoon. Her straw made rude noises. It dripped chocolate on the pages of Vogue. She mopped at the latest splotch with a napkin and balled it up.
"That girl."
In the 1950s and into the decade beyond, many a young woman parked themselves in the soda shops at Hollywood and Vine, drank sodas and pretended to read magazines. Charlie Chaplin's had an office nearby. Will Rogers too. Studios were within walking distance. So it was the hope of every starstruck girl that a movie producer would walk by, glance into the window, be mesmerized by their mere presence, and strike those fabled words.
Whistler far from fit that bill.
If anything, he walked along the less known path that the Los Angeles section was known for: Haunted Hollywood. If he concentrated, he could see not necessarily the ghosts of what came before, but where the living were headed. And as an Agent for the Powers That Be, sometimes he was instructed to do exactly that. Never was he allowed to examine his own path. That was a bone of contention; if he'd had a heads-up that The Witching Hour was to implode a few months back, he would've socked away more of his paychecks. He would've picked up more double-shifts to line what little of a nest-egg he had. And he sure as hell would've gone in earlier to get the last of the payroll.
Hands stuffed in (non-jean clad) pockets, he scuffed his way through the more brightly-lit areas of Las Vegas, occasionally peeking up to look for 'help wanted' signs. The worn notice at the 50s diner caught his attention.
The woman seated with her back to the window. "That girl."
( The reason for going inside ) |
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| Fade rto Black |
[Aug. 29th, 2007|12:55 am] |
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( Pages ) |
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| There's got to be a morning after |
[Aug. 19th, 2007|07:20 pm] |
Snow. Snow drifts five foot thick and more coming down every second as the wind howled in a full fledged blizzard. Julie shivered violently as she searched for her clothes. "I had to change back in the middle of a fucking blizzard!" she muttered between chattering teeth. "Could've really used that fur coat to stick around a while longer."
She was buck naked five miles outside the nearest town in the middle of a Montana blizzard. If she didn't find her clothes in the next few minutes she'd be dead, werewolf's stamina or no.
Julie stirred in her sleep, and pulled the jacket tightly around her as she shivered despite the heat of the Nevada morning sun pouring in through the broken door and windows of Whistler's trailer. The werewolf had changed back in her sleep moments before, and still in the grips of a dream that had begun in her wolf shape. That snowstorm had nearly killed her, the first winter she'd been changed and on the run from Brad, and she still had nightmares from it every now and again.
It used to be one of his favorite dreams. A white sandy beach, a row of palm trees set about fifty feet back from shore. Two beach towels spread out. Feet dug into the warmth of the dirt, creating little divots as he flicked it to the side. Inevitably some overdressed waiter named Jeeves would appear from the tree line with a pina colada. Rhiannon's head would bob up from the surf beyond, a smile across her face. He'd wave.
The sea was virulent now. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon and charged the beach with Rapturous fervor. Jeeves was an animated corpse, offering toxic sludge.
No one emerged from the churning mass of water to greet him.
And then pain crept in. A small sting at first, as if from a bee. But as the realization took hold, his tolerance for sleep waned. Whistler woke and attempted to move his arm, growled as nerve endings fired up and reminded him that just hours before, he'd been locked in a battle for his life.
He glanced over at his former opponent and quickly averted his eyes. Too much bare leg showed underneath his jacket. If Julie stretched, it was Atlantic City all over again.
"They've got to be around here somewhere," Julie chattered, searching frantically. She could feel the numbness starting to spread from her hands and feet toward her midsection as the wind driven snow continued to blast onto her and she trudged through what snow was already on the ground.
Something from outside the dream gradually got her attention. At first it was the scent of blood and sweat, but eventually the sounds of someone shifting around nearby dragged her out of the dream and into the real world.
She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of what looked to be a double wide trailer, a pretty trashed up one too. What was she doing here? The last thing Julie remembered was stalking out into the desert to be alone after not finding Whistler at home...
Suddenly it occured to her she was draped in a leather jacket and nothing else. "What the...?"
Whistler looked at the immediate probabilities. One of two things would happen next.
No, make that three.
One. Julie would drop the jacket, giving the Agent an unexpected eyeful, and run. Two. She would scream at the top of her lungs, jump to her feet and run out the door. His jacket would never be seen again.
Three. They could have a very uncomfortable situations about the night before.
Whistler was kind of hoping for number one two. "Morning."
( If we can hold on through the night ) |
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| Who's afraid of the big bad wolf |
[Aug. 12th, 2007|08:34 pm] |
The full moon was well above the horizon as the werewolf made her way down the ridge toward the trailer park. She'd waited for this moment, waited for the moon to be full and the chance to hunt a special kind of prey. Tonight she would avenge her slain packmate by tearing apart her killer.
It had taken time for Julie to work up to this. By nature the werewolf wasn't inclined to seek out civilization while in her four legged form, but the desire for vengance was strong. Julie's grief and anger at the loss of her friend combined with Elfleda's influence had kept her locked in a changed state ever since that night and the werewolf had been running wild.
Cattle had been killed, ranchers attacked, but it wasn't enough. The urge to hunt this more dangerous prey had always been there, but it had taken until the moon was full for it to become all consuming and drive the werewolf down from the hills. Julie could smell his scent grow stronger as she emerged from the shadows and out onto the ground in front of the killer's den.
'You have ... no ... new messages.'
Whistler slammed down the flip top of his cell phone, not bothering to even check for text messages. In the few weeks that passed since being cleansed by Hannah, new (Styggian) Agent for the Powers That Be, his dance card was virtually empty. No contact with Rhiannon. That was as much his decision as hers. When she shuffled away from his double-wide, away from the aftermath of being cleansed of Elfleda's influence at the cost of a friend's life, it wasn't good-bye. But he felt her need for space. The things he'd said cut deeper than the knife she'd stuck him with outside of their apartment, and he still didn't know how to make amends. That the words were false could be argued, but the intent was still there. To hurt.
That he did in spades. And now karma was returning the favor. He'd become something of a pariah since the blonde waitress at the Nugget went missing. There was an influx of patrons ordering pie, and a distinct drop in attendance at the Rock 'N Bowl where (thankfully) the manager still allowed him to work. "People come and go, not like Searchlight's a mecca to put down roots, Whistler," the old man justified. Still many of the lanes went dark for several days until someone made a 'helpful' suggestion and Cosmic Bowling became the newest fad to a town that had trouble staying up past ten on a school night.
He got looks wherever he went. The corner store stopped carrying his Lucky Sevens. And whenever the Agent stepped foot in the Lighthouse, it was last call.
Whistler jammed his fingers into pants pocket and retrieved the key to his trailer... which had been tagged with spraypaint again. At least this time someone used a dictionary. He bent over, patted Gerald on his gnomish head and slipped the rascal a Peter Jackson menthol.
( Off to grandmothers house we go )
( What big eyes you have... )
( What big ears you have... )
( What big teeth you have... )
( Enter the woodsman ) |
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| Return |
[Jul. 29th, 2007|11:43 pm] |
Gerald didn't want to leave. He was absolutely convinced that his new owner was coming back, and she needed his protection.
He'd rooted himself into the earth, gnomish arms crossed in defiance. (Well, they were always crossed. But that's not the point.) Whistler had to dig a two-foot trench around the defensive system and haul him back with a wheelbarrow.
Which probably wasn't a moment too soon. Someone (other than the police) had been tramping across his property just an hour earlier. Make that two someones. And one of them, no both he surmised, weren't entirely human.
The Agent dug up earth and replanted his friend. After laying the white stones again, he sat on the damp earth and they had a long talk. And a beer. (Gerald had three.)
While his trailer was a definite mess, and would take a month of Sundays to right again (not to mention skulking other neighborhoods for left-over furniture), he made sure of one thing: Whistler took what little funds he could afford and purchased a curio to sit in the corner of the living room, next to the window. Where Gerald could see.
Hannah's prized trolls would always have a home with him. |
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