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| Back at the Hotel...; The plot chickens. They peck the plot. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 15 2005, 12:55 PM (56 Views) | |
| Minister Wighty | Jan 15 2005, 12:55 PM Post #1 |
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Opossum Queen of FIW
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The scene fades in on a fat German man wearing green lederhosen. He is playing a happy oom-pa-pa tune on a tuba, his bushy white moustache riding on his cheeks merrily as his closed eyes form little upside down smiles. He dances a merry jig and... wait, what the hell am I talking about? We're in a hotel room, actually, and Openweight Champion Sam Kinloch is exiting a bathroom. She's clad in a white hotel bathrobe, dragging about an inch on the ground. Her hair is slick with showery goodness, dripping soft, damp spots on the carpet. Sam doesn't care. Kevin, watching Steel Magnolias on the telly, certainly doesn't care. The fat German man cares a bit, but since he's not actually there, he says nothing. Sam looks about the room, to Kevin, shakes her head, and leaves, grabbing her keycard off the stand as she goes. The cameraman gets up off his camera-toting ass and follows her into the hall, down six doors, and watches as her hand knock-knock-knocks on the room to... who could it be? The fat German dandy? No, sadly, an ash-tan-skinned man opens the door, a curious eyebrow arched until he spies Sam. The eyebrows melt into an expression of simple pleasure, without the scent of burning hair. BK: Witch-babe. I... missed you. Bill blinks at his own words, but doesn't bother shaking his own confusion from his head. Confusion, when let sit, tends to turn into solutions, and solutions taste fine in a broth of cream of celery and chicken stock. Sam smiles. Sam: I missed you, too! Bill opens the door completely, revealing his track pants and soft shoes as he silently offers Sam make her way within. She complies, moving under his arm without ducking (tall peoples have high arms), stripping herself of the hotel-robe and seats herself at the foot of the bed, then scoots back, folding her legs under her. She's dressed in a long blue t-shirt adorned with a completely random and utterly unimportant faded Elk logo. Bill turns and closes the door, since staring into the empty hallway never did anyone any good, and looks to his flying monkey co-consipiritor. BK: You want something to drink? Sam: Mmm... just water. Thanks. Bill nods, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand and sets about the task of glass-fetching and water-filling. He returns to Sam with the refreshment and leans against the back of the hotel couch, for a change of pace. Sam takes a small drink and sets it down. Sam: I've... been thinking a lot. We need to talk. BK: Uh-oh... either my puppy died or you're breaking up with me. I don't have a puppy, and last I heard from your lips we aren't dating, so I'm actually kinda confused. Care to fill me in? Sam smiles and pats the bed beside her. Bill is fluent in the language of bed-patting, and accepts her request to sit. He pulls his left leg up onto the mattress with him and holds it with both hands. The hair tied in its ponytail drifts over his right shoulder as he turns his head to face her. Sam sighs deeply, the weight of all the things in her head pressing the breath from her lungs. Sam: I've just spent the last hour sitting in the shower trying to sort everything out in my head. Bill does not kill the levity of the situation by pointing out that that sounds like the opening line to one of those mournful female singer/songwriter tunes. Sam continues. Sam: I don't know what we're doing. It seems like we're dating... but... neither one of us seem to want to own up to it. Um... as much as I don't want it to... your past with women... worries me... a little. Bill double-blinks and pulls himself upright, folding his hands in his lap. His face is utterly expressionless. He doesn't speak, trusting Sam to anticipate the question on his mind and answer it. Sam blinks at Bill, her eyes flitting for just a moment to his hands, then back to his eyes. She presses her palms against the bedspread, pushing herself up and scooting closer to Bill. Sam: If we're gonna even try a relationship, we're both gonna have to be honest. And honestly? This is what I'm worried about right now. Words still don't leave Bill's lips. He's not even really sure why. He blinks slowly before letting emotion lower his eyes and a sigh escape his throat. BK: All right. Sam just looks at him, her telepathy clearly on the fritz today. BK: So... what? What is it you're asking me? She sighs again, balling up her hands around the blanket to hide their slight shaking. Sam: Just... promise me. That you won't... intentionally hurt me. I don't think I could take it. Bill watches her eyes, still not a hint of his thoughts on his face. He sits here now with not a character, or a conquest. Not a release, or a victim... but a person. Stripped of all pretense and social armor, and asking for his faith. His faith. Bill Kuriyama's. The "Sex Machine Gun". He blinks again. BK: What would I do to hurt you? His question is flat, devoid of ulterior motives. Simple. Sam: I don't know... uh... sleep with me and then never talk to me again? Things like that... Sam stumbles over her own words, a little surprised and disappointed that the past hour's worth of analysis revolve around one worry and one question. BK: You really didn't understand me yesterday, did you? Sam looks at him, waiting for him to continue, which is good, since he does. BK: I'm not the guy who asks the pretty Christian girl to prom, fucks her, then never talks to her again. I'm not the guy that spends months working a girl over just for a piece of ass. Bill Kuriyama HAS a sex drive, but he is not sex-driven. If that concept is clear to you, then you shouldn't even have to ask me to promise you that. Sam takes a deep breath and a drink, gripping her glass firmly as she does so, running her fingers through her own hair, untangling it as it dries. She sets the glass back down and pulls a lock in front of her eyes, working a million nonexistant tangles out of the mass. Bill does naught but watch her, waiting. Sam: I'm sorry. I didn't... ask enough questions to understand what you said last night. Probably should have been adressed last night... Sam peeks through the wet black curtains surrounding her face with a mixture of unease and embarassment. Bill's skull isn't so thick that he can't recognize this, and he scoots close to her, taking her small hands from her hair and holding them gently. BK: I'm not a dream. I'm not a fantasy. I'm not gonna promise you the moon and the stars, and I'm not gonna tell you all the bad things in your life are gone now. I'm just here. He half-shrugs his shoulders as well as his lips, a comforting look slowly seeping onto his face. Sam nods. Sam: I... I didn't expect a fantasy or a dream. I didn't expect to have the moon and the stars. I just... want to be sure... ... ... of something. She wiggles her fingers in his hands, disassociatively playful, but one of those irresistable compulsions to mask weakness. Bill breathes deeply, his mind as blank as hers... yet so full. The German man has the answers. Where are you, o German man? Play your tuba for these introspective souls. They need your guidance. A loooong silence fills the room, bringing that almost-ringing noise that silence has when it's pure. Good sound proofing in this hotel. New York is a fuckin' loud city. BK: You're thinking too much. Too hard, that is... this isn't algebra homework. This is... well, I don't know what it is. Despite the temptation, Bill does not finish that sentence with "But it just feels right." Bill does resist much temptation this night. The German man commends him. Sam: Yeah... I've been told that before. BK: Have you? Sam: Kevin tells me that... all the time. He usually deals with my breakdowns, but he was busy watching a movie that I've seen a million times, and it wouldn't have helped with my current mental state. BK: What do you want, Sam? Sam: Could we just... snuggle? For a little while? Tell me something... I don't have to think about. Bill's heart sheds that sheet of witty ice it wears during the day and he moves in close to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, the other keeping a soft hold on her hand. She runs the free one over his left bicep. Sam: What about this? There's gotta be a story there. Bill looks at his tattoo, remembering the night he got it finished. Remembering what's under it. BK: It hides scars that should have healed a long time ago. Bill's eyes sparkle with the epiphany of insight into oneself, then resume their usual glassiness. Sam: I saw your promo. He cracks a smile. Sam: Flying monkeys? BK: Hell yeah. Best part is, 'ol Toblerone believed me. Sam: Well he might not after he sees this. Sam looks at the cameraman. The cameraman does his best to hide the half-eaten Snickers he's sneaking off of Bill's counter. BK: Meh, it's Toby. They both smile and Bill places his chin on the crown of Sam's head. She laughs softly, and reaches up to pat the top of his head. Sam: So... aside from Toby and flying monkeys... what do we tell people when they ask about us? Mark was pestering me today... BK: *almost cutting her off* Did he steal your underwear? He does that, little bastard. Who the hell steals people's underwear? ... ... besides me, of course. Sam: No, I think I still have my underwear. She pulls away and pulls her shirt up, checking. Sam: Yeah, they're still there. She points, looking at Bill. Sam: See? Bill, of course, looks. Who wouldn't? Sam settles back into his arms, a soft smile playing on her lips. She says nothing, waiting for Bill to respond to her previous question. His synapses eventually spark and he replies. BK: What do you want to tell them, Sammie? It's not like I'm seeing anyone else or anything. He shrugs. BK: So, y'know. Where we go from here is pretty much open for discussion. Sam places her hand on his chest, rubbing it up and down slowly and softly, thoughts processing like so much data in a... data... processor. Sam: Soo... do you wanna just make this easy and say we're dating? Bill smiles. He puts forth the effort to play the gentleman and let her decide, and she keeps asking him to do it for her. It's cute. BK: As much as I was attatched to the whole flying monkeys thing, yeah. I think I'd like that. He smiles. Sam smiles, too. Somewhere, in far-off Berlin, the German man smiles as well. Then eats a bratwurst. BK: You're pretty special to Bill Kuriyama. And he still isn't quite sure why. Bill kisses the top of her head, drinking in the perfume of her pheremones. Sam: I know what you mean. She moves her hand to his cheek, pulling him down into a kiss. They part lips and stare at each other for a moment. Sam: Can I sleep here again tonight? BK: As far as I'm concerned, this room is ours. He smiles softly as our audience goes "aww!". Or at least the Tiffy does. Perhaps the German man. Have I mentioned him too much, yet? Has that ceased to be funny? Well too bad. I happen to like picturing the jolly, porcine Deutchmann, so THERE. Er... anyway. Sam looks at Bill. Bill looks at Sam. Let's go from there. Sam: Are you tired? BK: ... no. Sam: Me either. Silence. Sam: So... what do we do? BK: Parchesi? Sam: I don't even know what Parcheesy is. BK: I think it's a board game for Hindus. There's like a Taj Mahal on the box or something. I dunno. I've seen it in stores. Sam just laughs and shakes her head. As opposed to shaking her head and laughing, which goes on far too much if you ask me. Opposites are important. If they weren't, everyone would be gay. Sam: Have you seen Steel Magnolias? BK: ... nnnooo... ? Sam: I could go steal it from Kevin? BK: ... nnnnooo. She laughs, as does the Bill. Sam: Well, what do you normally do on Friday nights? BK: Since FIW? I usually train. But I just switched my training around so I'm working earlier in the day. You get some creepy folk in the gym at night. Plus, Jim O'Brien doesn't clean his fat sweat off the machines. Bill Kuriyama doesn't need to be workin' out in that. Sam: Eww. BK: What does the amazing Sam Kinloch do? Sam: Kevin and I usually go screw around somewhere. I just wasn't feeling it tonight. Thought about you most of the day... She's quick to clarify with a pointed finger. Sam: ... and it wasn't all worrying. BK: Hmmm. I thought about Quiznos most of the day. And food monsters. ... you hungry? Sam: Yeah, I could eat. BK: Bitchin'. Then we shall satisfy with the most important of all Qs. Sam looks down at herself. Sam: I don't have any pants. Or a bra. BK: Well if you'd like to satisfy the other two Qs, Bill Kuriyama isn't going to argue. He winks and smiles. She gives him one of those "is he serious?" looks, then gets a little dumbfounded thinking of it. Sam: I um... I... uh... m... BK: We will call room service. Not a Q, but still good. Bill reaches over and lifts the phone, doing whatever it is rich people who get room service do to summon said service. He speaks orders into the reciever which I am far too disinterested to extrapolate on, then hangs up. Sam: Good. Room service. She still looks a bit... pre-occupied by thought. Bill rises from the bed and smiles. BK: You entertain yourself with the show between your ears. Bill Kuriyama is gonna put on some real pants, and probably some underwear. Sam looks him from bottom to top... to bottom. Sam: You're not wearing underwear? BK: Usually don't when I work out. Sam: Isn't that... uncomfortable? Things... bouncing? Bill shakes his head. BK: Weight training. Not aerobics, not wrestling. Weights. Things don't bounce. Except the guns. Bill flexes everything from the pecs out to the forearms and grins. Sam shoos him away, off to put on manties, and the camera conveniently runs out of tape. We're treated to an "aw, shit!" from the Snickers thief before things get black, and then they do, so I stop describing stuff. |
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