Scene change. Pan white linen-shrouded tables to find the loveliest woman in the room, seated, body-language indicating boredom. Her soft cloud of blonde hair cascading all over the shoulders of a snugly-fitted suit jacket, Sylvia Christel, folding her napkin after the meal when her cel rings. She must end the business dinner to take this call, it's important, sorry. No problem her date says, disappointed to hear her say just business like that, like he hadn't been trying to get close to her.
If he could only know how little he could compare to the man she's thinking of. Been thinking of all day. She looks a lot less bored seeing the number displayed on the phone. Not Travis's number, too bad. But this call will be regarding him- it's from the man Sylvia pays to tail Travis.
Doors are opened wide for her as she leaves the building and sits in her chauffeured-car, answering the little ring, "Oui?"
The city slides by the polarized windows. The tinny voice of her well-paid personal assistant slash private investigator conveys a lot of information quickly. It makes Sylvia frown right away, because he's telling her she'll have to wait.
She never has to wait.
She threatens, "If you have some problem doing your job--"
He cuts in breathlessly, "It's not that, Miss Christel. I been all over town -can't find him. Guy doesn't respond to fax because he's not home, apartment's dark, he's not in the bars, not at the gym, cycle's parked at the Santa Destroy Motel parking lot like he hasn't gone anywhere, miss, but he and the cat are gone. Looks like he'll be back, I mean he left his swords-"
"How do you know the cat is gone?"
"Uh, she is."
"Maybe she's hiding from you."
"No, Miss Christel, the cat likes me…she'll come right to the window when he's gone and meow at me. 'S a good kitty. -Even her little food bowl, too, yeah they're definitely gone."
Oh, damn it! She'll kill him. He's shacked up at some woman's place. Or skipped town like a coward. You're more foolish than you look if you think you can fool around on me, Travis Touchdown.
"Well, who's he been talking to?"
"Here's the interesting part, the last number he dialed was the UAA three days ago-"
Sylvia makes a confused face.
"-except I thought it was UAA's-- then I realized one of the numbers was different, a seven instead of a one, like that. It doesn't ring." Her guy waits a moment and says "Right? No that's weird-"
The call- her spy-secretary tells her- was a very short one. But not short enough to be a misdial, a few minutes at least.
Sylvia Christel mutters huh? in French. UAA doesn't have a second number.
Would that big dummy fail to notice a little thing like that? Sylvia's shaking her head. If a mysterious third party intercepted Touchdown and sent him on a false death-match, why take the cat?
One thing Travis has proven in the past is that he's not too perceptive to a con. So why is it she's the one feeling burned?
Her P.A. P.I. is telling her he's been trying to cold call Travis, but since 9:30 or so the phone doesn't even ring. Unless Travis made a call before he shut his phone off, she'll have to wait til he turns it back on and talks to someone -til then they can't triangulate his area by cel-tower. She's not paying attention to it all, mostly just thinking about the plot she's starting to sniff out.
"Did you find a fax, any letters-" She's says, her fine brows knitted together.
"No, all shredded. I'll call in a few with updated teletype, okay? Try not to worry too much, Miss Christel."
Not to worry? She shot-puts the phone at the black separating-glass between herself and the driver, and shouts at him to get to the airport, now! The cel bounces on the floor of the limo and she snarls at it, "While you're waiting for your fucking teletype you can tape those shredded faxes together and get me some fucking recognizance! If you can't find Travis Touchdown, no one will be able to find you." She hangs up with her stiletto heel. Wanting to crush the keypad, break it bad, but she has too much to do.
Like finding out just where in hell Travis took his sweet pussy, and why.
Where in hell Travis is: bolting down a lemon-bright Hotel corridor at top speed. Almost biffing it when he doesn't slow around a bend. Running, pumping those knees, rushing at blur frames per second.
just get there and get the sword --just get it, no prob
Last bend he turns Travis sees way way down there on the wall the rectangle of white cast from his wide-open door. no
"Jeane!" Travis hollers, flinging into the suite, huffing deep blasts and putting on the brakes in straight-legged bounds. "Jeane."
"Baby."
she ate you no oh no
"Hey! Kitten monkey, come here!!" Clap for her, pat your thighs. Come on, where--
oh shit don't cry
she's somewhere in a puddle of blood getting cold
"Jeane-genie!!"
Look at this. What's wrong with this scene…
god the katana's gone
!!!!!
"Oh fuuuuck no."
The charger-stand Dr. Naomi built when the cheap beam katana's manual charge-system failed is on the nightstand but his Blood Berry isn't on it.
Shut the door. Lock it now.
wouldn't trust my wallet to this chain lock
To Travis, the white door frames the Hotel map in a claustrophobic way.
No peephole. . .
He doesn't like the thought of her standing outside his room. She could be inches from him and he wouldn't even know, just waiting right there on the other side of this door.
leave it open
so when Bad Girl's here she can just come right in
"Jeane, tss-tss! come on, come on babe….come'ere honey" sing for her- convince that cat things are okay. If she can hear you she'll come out if you can call sweetly enough.
"Mew!" And here she comes at a trot, crying at him. "I know I know yeah." Holding the soft fur to himself tight with one arm, kissing her velvet-warm skull and checking around the nightstand again he feels a tiny bit better hugging his cat; she's purring.
Who comforts who, you know?
Circling the bed to the other cherry wood cabinet, he sees it's on it's side and blasted to splinters on one corner. That's where he had left another item on a charger because he was coming right back, and the floor is sparkly with shattered microchips and green circuit-board shards, the black plastic guts of his cel phone.
Travis opens his suitcase.
think if you brought anything else
Speed sorting, reaching for the bottom and side pockets, he knows he didn't bring shit. Dios mio… so unprepared.
Some yellow smear on the underside of a folded shirt in here. Grease on the zipper pulls. Very faint reek…Bad Girl pawed through my suitcase
gross
He realizes he's got his back to the door and snaps to attention.
Get out of this dead-end room, Travis- go get a weapon.
Move out.
He's still screwing around with his belongings that can't help him-- he should be breaking a leg of a chair for a club or cleaning this wound- don't want an infection or anything
He rebuffs the thought- get real-- a silly idea he refuses… infection, heh-
is there a pair of boxers missing?
No no, that's a mistake…
Travis even checks himself, nope not wearing em… The pair with the red and blue x like a flag?
-didn't bring that pair.
uh huh they must be here
you know she took em
why would she--?
gotta crush on you
Ugh…Travis swallows thick, hugging his kitty. "Man, I hope not." To his own ears his voice sounds watery, feels like his gut dropped trough a trapdoor. Bathroom break…
He places Jeane in the claw-foot tub, and lifts the toilet seat. He's leaning on the tank and the wall so he can keep his eyes on the door… dark-bright flowers flicker there, ultraviolet spots crowding the room.
"hoo" …just breathe man- puke if it'll help, but try not to waste time in here when Bad Girl's out there
with your shorts
dirty girl
He puts his hand on his chest, presses hard where the blood has almost stopped flowing. It clears his vision so he stuffs a washcloth in his back-pocket, snatches up his baby cat and boogies.
***
It's so easy to fool Travis Touchdown.
Right now, he's starting to understand that. He thought he could just kill to his heart's content and be rewarded for it?
Dense, dense, dense.
Carrying his cat down a headache-bright hallway, peering around corners very carefully, walking fast in the practiced-killers way that makes absolutely no noise, and he's thinking You thought it would be a ball. What a dope. Didn't just walk, you fucking skipped into the meat-grinder. Some point tonight I'm gonna start laughing my ass off.
Travis wants to flashback to the faxed-letter he received a few days ago about the trip. Hanging up some new shirts or something when the letter spat from the machine. Like all stark communication from the UAA, it's just black text on white paper, nondescript heading and faint stamp. Two small differences: no fee is mentioned and there's 'RSVP immediately' at the bottom. Like always he signed and read it simultaneously. The tight message said: the UAA wishes to inform you of a special, personalized vacation to celebrate your victorious return to the Ranks. That was about it, and when he called the number on the paper the bland voice that answered used some other enticing expletives like 5-star and all-amenities, scenic, romantic and inspiring. Did he have other business this weekend?
At the time, Travis had already decided to go and tried to press for what they meant by a personalized vacation.
"The Overlook Hotel in Colorado. Have you heard of it, Mr. Touchdown?"
f course Travis has heard of it. People don't call him nerd for nothing.
The hotel from The Shining. Released the year Travis was born, the iconic Kubrick film was always one of his favorites. And as a nerd he knows not to expect the hotel from the movie, that one's in England. They want to send him to the actual Overlook, and it's bloody history is purely non-fiction. Dignified mafiosos ruled the world from this isolated peak with Golden-age Hollywood nymphs on every arm, serial-killers and boot-leggers and winners all, a tommy gun under every table, all that jazz. The Association was positive it'd be right up his alley.
Travis thought then, if the UAA wants to give me a vacation, why pick a stodgy old hotel? Gotta be cold up there…
Maybe the UAA's planning a Grand Ball or something. A real heady soirée where he can watch women's backs instead of his own. Sylvia in an evening gown and long satin gloves.
Of course he assumed Sylvia would be there to greet him, acting as master of ceremonies- at very least his escort. Shrouded in the wintry mountain-peaks, on high tips of granite in the sky he could see Sylvia and himself waltzing like one body in a ballroom. Sandwiched close-together by masked dancers. Everybody holding their breath til midnight.
Sylvia's fingerprints are all over this one. If she's gonna give it up, so it's got to be fancy.
Finally, she wants to have a great big fucking ball with me :D
Ball all night, baby.
Yeah, I'll wear a tux and a fruity mask if it means wearing you afterward.
Hubris, man. She's got me priding before a falling all-fucking-over again!
Think about how you thought there would be people and butlers and girls and a party and there was nothing.
It was church quiet inside the frosted glass. It was early afternoon but silvery-twilight already with all the fat snow and tungsten clouds. The car drove away. No desk clerk. No bellhop.
Think how long it took you to realize there was no one at all. Lots of fresh food and liquor and stuff, but dim and empty. Walls of windows completely obscured by blue-white snowdrift dunes. Only one in every ten lightbulbs was lit. Jeane didn't leave his side at first, mewing loud like she did the whole trip. As he toured around she followed and raced ahead. It smelled like people and dust everywhere. The second and third floor corridors weren't lit at all. The kitchen: spotless steel expecting the health inspector. The only windows not obscured in the whole place are a few in the dining room, they showed blanketed firs and rocky peaks disappearing and then defining behind static-y veils of snow. So beautiful it looked false, a tv show. When they went up to the Presidential Suite, there's a fruit basket waiting. Jeane curled up on his suitcase so he went to the kitchen and made carne asada for their dinner. Caught a little lucha televiso. That first night.
He showered, got dressed and went downstairs. He turned some lights on-- the front drive, lobby, bar and ballroom. It was sort of eerie, waiting around. Couldn't do it in the ballroom.
He threw a couple darts and made virgin drinks. He expected someone to show up at any minute. He played a little pool, anticipating Sylvia to grab his ass as he leaned over for every long shot. Wind hooting high and low. Travis was back in the Presidential Suite at 11:52 the first night, all dressed up and nowhere to go. No one called.
"We're bored, huh Jeane?" "Mew."
The second day of vacation, today, he messed around in the aquifer-cool of the unlit third floor with his beam katana for a torch. With the neon-blue light he found all the beds in the rooms he checked turned down. Plush towels and mats in the echo-y cave bathrooms. Fresh flowers in vases in the gloom. He called the antique elevator up and decided to try it in pitch dark. The coffin-narrow box shuddered, bumping him against the walls a little in the clamor. Travis stopped the ride between the floors and bailed out, giggling. For a second there he thought he was gonna hit the ground floor in a hurry in that sketchy car.
After dos margaritas he brought up his previously dialed numbers. At the top of the pizza joints was the UAA. He called them and demanded, Where's Sylvia?
Buttholes weren't at liberty to say.
Just a short time ago when he was fine and almost having a good time- only a few hours earlier, Travis remembers without fondness, he was grinning into the phone and telling the UAA to send some chicks. He said, "Sylvia told me there's nothing the UAA can't do, so fuckin get on it. It's cold up here, man." Click.
There is another group that touts itself as incapable of nothing, but in the TVC's case, it's true.
The Trust Veterans of Capitalism are fifteen of the most powerful heads of government and drug cartels in the world. They're a skewed mini-United Nations, an alternate-reality Freemason's Club. They can play god, can get anything done because they can print the money and can create or destroy anyone. Like they can do to Travis, right now.
To them, the United Assassins Association and the millions it generates annually is a small venture. But that doesn't mean it's unimportant. For most of these power-greedy men the fights are all they've got.
Blood is all they can have.
And Travis is an artist when it comes to blood. They like how he nets lots of money, love he's adaptable and efficient and untouchable and that they can keep betting on him against greater juggernauts and keep winning big. Travis's die-hard fans hold the majority on the Veterans' floor and in an unprecedented move, green-light him for 'testing' after hours of riotous filibustering.
-So he can be considered for the big leagues, start making them real money.
Seven Trust Veterans of Capitalism trumpeted their outrage in their gilded courtroom, but they were the minority and would have to sit through Travis's trails, reckless as that may sound.
This near-middle-aged skinny punk with barely any muscle and they're wasting how much?
Okay, to make it interesting, a few on the Pro-Travis team even have an adversary in mind. One to really shake him up.
One thing all fifteen can agree on, Travis is far too cocky. They all want to cut him down to size, where some bet he'll grow, some bet he'll wither.
The anti-Travis team of the TVC, the fogies who don't root for Touchdown to win it, just call them the Downers-- they say, fine, take away his weapons and he won't be so impressive anymore.
Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Travis's gnarled groupies say, the sword doesn't make the warrior.
And that's all it's about. TVC one five just thought it would be fun to see what Travis does when he's face to face with a nightmare.
If you can rattle a good fighter to the point of error, he is not a good fighter.
So when Travis called them after a couple drinks with his snotty attitude, requesting female company, the Trust Veterans were happy to oblige.
Ironically, the call aids Travis in it's own way…
The UAA just picked up Touchdown's trail, pinning it to a cel-tower in Boulder, Colorado.
"What in hell is he doing in Colorado?!"
"Hoping you could guess, Miss Christel. There's nothing in Boulder. Must be freezing." He's covered with tape and fax confetti on Travis's floor. It's not coming together. "Probably great skiing up there right now--" but she's hung up.
***
***continue to Chapter 3: Lights, Chimera... ACTION!
