Ok guys. I didn't have a clue about doing italics and stuff, so I haven't included them.
Because Mort's head is a really confusing place to be sometimes, I'm gonna try and help you out a bit. The writing written inbetween the :::'s is what the person inside Mort's body says to the person who is Mort. Confused? Ok, Shooter starts off in the :::'s but later on when Shooter appears to Clementine and Mort's inside him Mort is in the :::'s. And the ()'s are what the outside charcter says replying to them. So, none of the ::: or () speech is heard by anyone other than Mort and Shooter. That better? I hope so.
Disclaimer (I love these, but I'm not gonna put one for every chapter): I do not own Secret Window, or any of the characters, although I do own Clementine, yadda yadda yadda, I do not own Johnny Depp and I don't wish I did, although I'm sure he's a lovely person. Enjoy.
Chapter One: Bouncing
Knock knock.
I roll over.
Knock knock.
I groan.
Knock knock.
"FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!"
I open the door, there stands a beautiful woman, of about twenty three, short, straight black hair with blue tips and blue roots, in a black pinstripe suit, holding a book and wearing flattering unrimmed glasses.
I'm clad in a very unflattering pair of black jogging pants, grey polo and an old dressing gown that's seen better days. Hello sex god.
"Um, hello?" I say, a little sleepily as I've been in Z-land for about 18 hours now.
"Mr. Rainey?" she inquires.
"Yes, that would be me," I reply.
"I'm from the literary agency, we haven't received your cheque," she says, very business-like. Just to show I'm a nice person, and because she is very pretty I let her in. She stands by the door.
"I was gonna post it," I say, scrabbling around to find the bloody cheque. Table, nope, not there, I take the stairs two at a time, desk, nope, not there either. Where the fuck did I put it? I jump back down the stairs, looking in the kitchen.
:::Why would it be in the kitchen?:::
"I don't know," I whine, frustrated.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rainey?" she asks.
"Um, nothing. Don't worry about it. This might take me a minute, do you want a beer, or a drink?"
"Do you have mineral water?" she asks. I open the fridge. Mineral water.
:::Why would she want a beer? Look at what she's wearing, Mr. Rainey.:::
"Don't judge a book by it's cover," I mumble. She sits down on the couch and I look for a glass. There's four or five in the sink, but they're all dirty. Just my luck, the day a smouldering sex goddess turns up at my door I haven't got any fucking clean glasses. I quickly wipe one of them clean and pour her a drink. I hand it to her. After a minute or two looking for the cheque, I locate my cheque book.
"I'll write you another one," I say, now looking for a pen. Pocket? Nope, but why would I put a pen in a useful place like that? Oh look, there's one in the trash. But what's she gonna think if she sees me digging around in the trash? Nope, I don't care. I get the pen and hurriedly write out another cheque. Bloody literary agency, cost more than they're damn worth. But they do have very attractive employees. I hand her the cheque.
"What's your name?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Clementine," she replies.
"Clementine," I repeat.
"No, Clementine, the e makes it a hard vowel, I," she says, smiling a little.
How many ways can there be so pronounce Clementine?
:::Two, dumbass.:::
(Piss off.)
"Thank you Mr. Rainey," she says, politely. I show her out. She gets into her very posh Dodge and drives away.
Now I can get back to doing what I do best.
:::And that's not writing, Mr. Rainey.:::
(Sure it is, I'm just a good sleeper too.) I lay down on the couch.
Knock knock.
Piss off.
Knock knock.
I open the door.
Clementine. Two days and she's back for more.
"Clementine," I say.
"Mr. Rainey," she says politely. "Can I come in?" Of course you can come in, you're gorgeous. Oh yeah, and it's pissing it down outside. She comes in.
"So, why're you back so soon?" I ask, I don't mind you being back, in fact, I like it when you're here. I wonder why?
:::Because you want to. . .:::
(I know that.)
"Your cheque bounced," she states. I'm a little taken aback.
"Bounced?"
"Yes, Mr. Rainey, bounced."
What do you want me to do about it?
"You'll be withdrawn from the agency's books if a feasible cheque is not received within three days," she says.
"Thank you for outlining my legal status," I say, why the fuck am I being sarcastic? I'll never get her in bed if I'm sarcastic. Great, this means I gotta spend half an hour looking for the other cheque book.
"Listen, Clementine," I say. "I'm coming into town tomorrow, so why don't I save us a lot of time looking for a cheque book that's probably at the bottom of the lake, and I'll drop your cheque off tomorrow?"
"Alright, Mr. Rainey," she agrees, turning to leave. God, I'm sending her away again, what's wrong with me?
:::Where do you want me to start?:::
(Shut up, Shooter.) She leaves, getting into her car. Nope, she doesn't leave, wonder why she does that. She's back at my door.
"Couldn't get enough eh?" I ask. Oh, my, God.
"I'm out of gas," she says, "Have you got any spare in your truck?"
Yes, I have. But I'm gonna get fucking soaked if I go out there, and try to fill up that bloody huge Dodge. She'll probably only get a mile outta here before it conks out again and then she'll really be stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere.
"Yeah, I got some, but it won't be enough to get you back into town," I say.
"Shit."
"Ok, I'll get dressed," I'm still wearing unflattering black joggers and grey polo, old stripy dressing gown two days later, now with even bigger rip in the shoulder due to bloody cat. "And I'll drive you into town to get some more, then we'll come back and fill the Dodge up." She doesn't have a choice. It's either that, or stay here with me. Actually, that won't help her either, but I wouldn't mind. Nope, not in the least.
Anyway, I try and find some jeans, and try and look respectable, which is a bloody hard thing to try and do. But I find jeans, a black button up shirt with a collar, and some unrimmed glasses. Wow I look stuck up. We could almost have been a married couple. Except today she's wearing a white suit. With a skirt, showing me her adorably soft looking legs. God, she can't shave them, they're too nice, she doesn't look like a wax girl either, probably gets them threaded somewhere in the city. Suddenly the literacy agency fees are alright, if I'm paying for her to get her legs threaded then it's not that bad.
We run out and get in my truck. She seems a little put off by the amounts of cigarette ends and empty bottles, machete and the other assortments of crap in the truck. Anyway, it's her only choice. I start it up, and turn around, headed into town.
"So," I begin. If she's this cute, she's worth talking to. "What possessed you to work at the literacy agency?"
"It's just a job. I want to be an author, poet, journalist, something that involves writing and creativity. Literacy agency just seemed like a good place to get some cash to start out with. Budding authors have a lot of rejects, and they don't pay anything."
Don't I know it.
"So I write at the weekends, and work during the week, I wanna get some little place, secluded, where I can write, and not be disturbed. You've got the perfect place, I can understand why you moved here."
You could always stay with me.
"I know, I love it. Loads of peace and quiet. Except when the literacy agency keeps banging on your door wanting money," I say, joking.
"Hey, I'm just doing my job, Mr. Rainey," she says.
"I know." We're at the gas station. I fill up the spare tanks in the back of the truck with gas and get back in the front. Fucking drenched.
"Mr. Rainey, you're wet," she says.
:::I know that you bitch.:::
(Piss off, Shooter. It's not her fault.)
:::She could have filled up the tank herself, she's the reason we're all the way out here, Mr. Rainey. It was fine just the two of us.:::
(Shooter, she's from the literacy agency, she's not moving in, ok?)
:::You want her to though.:::
(Just, go away.)
"I know I'm wet. Is your suit dry clean only?"
"No." I flick her with water and she squeals. Serves you right.
Back at the house she totters over to her car, her red stilettos sinking into the now muddy ground, and I fill up her tank.
"Thanks for all the help, Mr. Rainey," she says out of the window. "I'll see you tomorrow with the cheque." And she's gone. Ah yes, the unavoidable cheque. Better start looking for cheque book, I've got to find it before tomorrow.
A/N: Like? Then review! Didn't like? Review anyway! Next chapter up very soon.
Because Mort's head is a really confusing place to be sometimes, I'm gonna try and help you out a bit. The writing written inbetween the :::'s is what the person inside Mort's body says to the person who is Mort. Confused? Ok, Shooter starts off in the :::'s but later on when Shooter appears to Clementine and Mort's inside him Mort is in the :::'s. And the ()'s are what the outside charcter says replying to them. So, none of the ::: or () speech is heard by anyone other than Mort and Shooter. That better? I hope so.
Disclaimer (I love these, but I'm not gonna put one for every chapter): I do not own Secret Window, or any of the characters, although I do own Clementine, yadda yadda yadda, I do not own Johnny Depp and I don't wish I did, although I'm sure he's a lovely person. Enjoy.
Chapter One: Bouncing
Knock knock.
I roll over.
Knock knock.
I groan.
Knock knock.
"FOR FUCKS SAKE!!!"
I open the door, there stands a beautiful woman, of about twenty three, short, straight black hair with blue tips and blue roots, in a black pinstripe suit, holding a book and wearing flattering unrimmed glasses.
I'm clad in a very unflattering pair of black jogging pants, grey polo and an old dressing gown that's seen better days. Hello sex god.
"Um, hello?" I say, a little sleepily as I've been in Z-land for about 18 hours now.
"Mr. Rainey?" she inquires.
"Yes, that would be me," I reply.
"I'm from the literary agency, we haven't received your cheque," she says, very business-like. Just to show I'm a nice person, and because she is very pretty I let her in. She stands by the door.
"I was gonna post it," I say, scrabbling around to find the bloody cheque. Table, nope, not there, I take the stairs two at a time, desk, nope, not there either. Where the fuck did I put it? I jump back down the stairs, looking in the kitchen.
:::Why would it be in the kitchen?:::
"I don't know," I whine, frustrated.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rainey?" she asks.
"Um, nothing. Don't worry about it. This might take me a minute, do you want a beer, or a drink?"
"Do you have mineral water?" she asks. I open the fridge. Mineral water.
:::Why would she want a beer? Look at what she's wearing, Mr. Rainey.:::
"Don't judge a book by it's cover," I mumble. She sits down on the couch and I look for a glass. There's four or five in the sink, but they're all dirty. Just my luck, the day a smouldering sex goddess turns up at my door I haven't got any fucking clean glasses. I quickly wipe one of them clean and pour her a drink. I hand it to her. After a minute or two looking for the cheque, I locate my cheque book.
"I'll write you another one," I say, now looking for a pen. Pocket? Nope, but why would I put a pen in a useful place like that? Oh look, there's one in the trash. But what's she gonna think if she sees me digging around in the trash? Nope, I don't care. I get the pen and hurriedly write out another cheque. Bloody literary agency, cost more than they're damn worth. But they do have very attractive employees. I hand her the cheque.
"What's your name?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Clementine," she replies.
"Clementine," I repeat.
"No, Clementine, the e makes it a hard vowel, I," she says, smiling a little.
How many ways can there be so pronounce Clementine?
:::Two, dumbass.:::
(Piss off.)
"Thank you Mr. Rainey," she says, politely. I show her out. She gets into her very posh Dodge and drives away.
Now I can get back to doing what I do best.
:::And that's not writing, Mr. Rainey.:::
(Sure it is, I'm just a good sleeper too.) I lay down on the couch.
Knock knock.
Piss off.
Knock knock.
I open the door.
Clementine. Two days and she's back for more.
"Clementine," I say.
"Mr. Rainey," she says politely. "Can I come in?" Of course you can come in, you're gorgeous. Oh yeah, and it's pissing it down outside. She comes in.
"So, why're you back so soon?" I ask, I don't mind you being back, in fact, I like it when you're here. I wonder why?
:::Because you want to. . .:::
(I know that.)
"Your cheque bounced," she states. I'm a little taken aback.
"Bounced?"
"Yes, Mr. Rainey, bounced."
What do you want me to do about it?
"You'll be withdrawn from the agency's books if a feasible cheque is not received within three days," she says.
"Thank you for outlining my legal status," I say, why the fuck am I being sarcastic? I'll never get her in bed if I'm sarcastic. Great, this means I gotta spend half an hour looking for the other cheque book.
"Listen, Clementine," I say. "I'm coming into town tomorrow, so why don't I save us a lot of time looking for a cheque book that's probably at the bottom of the lake, and I'll drop your cheque off tomorrow?"
"Alright, Mr. Rainey," she agrees, turning to leave. God, I'm sending her away again, what's wrong with me?
:::Where do you want me to start?:::
(Shut up, Shooter.) She leaves, getting into her car. Nope, she doesn't leave, wonder why she does that. She's back at my door.
"Couldn't get enough eh?" I ask. Oh, my, God.
"I'm out of gas," she says, "Have you got any spare in your truck?"
Yes, I have. But I'm gonna get fucking soaked if I go out there, and try to fill up that bloody huge Dodge. She'll probably only get a mile outta here before it conks out again and then she'll really be stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere.
"Yeah, I got some, but it won't be enough to get you back into town," I say.
"Shit."
"Ok, I'll get dressed," I'm still wearing unflattering black joggers and grey polo, old stripy dressing gown two days later, now with even bigger rip in the shoulder due to bloody cat. "And I'll drive you into town to get some more, then we'll come back and fill the Dodge up." She doesn't have a choice. It's either that, or stay here with me. Actually, that won't help her either, but I wouldn't mind. Nope, not in the least.
Anyway, I try and find some jeans, and try and look respectable, which is a bloody hard thing to try and do. But I find jeans, a black button up shirt with a collar, and some unrimmed glasses. Wow I look stuck up. We could almost have been a married couple. Except today she's wearing a white suit. With a skirt, showing me her adorably soft looking legs. God, she can't shave them, they're too nice, she doesn't look like a wax girl either, probably gets them threaded somewhere in the city. Suddenly the literacy agency fees are alright, if I'm paying for her to get her legs threaded then it's not that bad.
We run out and get in my truck. She seems a little put off by the amounts of cigarette ends and empty bottles, machete and the other assortments of crap in the truck. Anyway, it's her only choice. I start it up, and turn around, headed into town.
"So," I begin. If she's this cute, she's worth talking to. "What possessed you to work at the literacy agency?"
"It's just a job. I want to be an author, poet, journalist, something that involves writing and creativity. Literacy agency just seemed like a good place to get some cash to start out with. Budding authors have a lot of rejects, and they don't pay anything."
Don't I know it.
"So I write at the weekends, and work during the week, I wanna get some little place, secluded, where I can write, and not be disturbed. You've got the perfect place, I can understand why you moved here."
You could always stay with me.
"I know, I love it. Loads of peace and quiet. Except when the literacy agency keeps banging on your door wanting money," I say, joking.
"Hey, I'm just doing my job, Mr. Rainey," she says.
"I know." We're at the gas station. I fill up the spare tanks in the back of the truck with gas and get back in the front. Fucking drenched.
"Mr. Rainey, you're wet," she says.
:::I know that you bitch.:::
(Piss off, Shooter. It's not her fault.)
:::She could have filled up the tank herself, she's the reason we're all the way out here, Mr. Rainey. It was fine just the two of us.:::
(Shooter, she's from the literacy agency, she's not moving in, ok?)
:::You want her to though.:::
(Just, go away.)
"I know I'm wet. Is your suit dry clean only?"
"No." I flick her with water and she squeals. Serves you right.
Back at the house she totters over to her car, her red stilettos sinking into the now muddy ground, and I fill up her tank.
"Thanks for all the help, Mr. Rainey," she says out of the window. "I'll see you tomorrow with the cheque." And she's gone. Ah yes, the unavoidable cheque. Better start looking for cheque book, I've got to find it before tomorrow.
A/N: Like? Then review! Didn't like? Review anyway! Next chapter up very soon.