| 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. |
|
|
