Christian slammed his car door. He thought he heard a chunk of paint fall
off of it somewhere, but he didn't care. His eyes looked up, and up, and
up, until he almost fell over. Okay, so maybe the building wasn't that
tall, but it was pretty damn tall. He straightened his tie. The sign out
front had said, "Writers Wanted," so he took advantage. He clutched his
portfolio tighter as he climbed up onto the curb . . . and tripped and fell
flat on his face. Shit. Was anyone looking? No. Was he bleeding? A
quick inspection told him no to that one, too. Okay, breathe, look at
ground while walking, wet mouth with spittle, he told himself as he walked
toward the building.
The revolving doors were a bit sticky, like a can of WD-40 wouldn't hurt, but he pushed his way through without much trouble. He walked right up to the desk and said, "I'm Christian Londen. I'm here to apply for the writing postition." The man at the desk looked at him strangely. After getting no response, he just shrugged and punched in a number on the telephone.
"Yes, Mister Zibler," he said with a Spanish accent, "I have a young Mister Londen here to apply for the job . . . yes, I'll send him up." He hung up the phone and pointed to a stairwell.
"Forty-second floor, turn left, six doors down on the left. It'll say Zibler." Christian gaped at him.
"There's no elevator?" he asked. The Argentinean laughed.
"Sure, if you trust it. It's just around the cor- . . ." He never finished his sentence. His eyes crossed, rolled back into his head, and he collapsed forward onto his desk. Christian looked around. Geez, he thought, did I kill him? He picked up his wrist and let it slam on the desk. There seemed to be a pulse. He whispered, "Sorry," then continued on his way to the elevator.
"Does anybody use this thing?" he asked out loud as it clicked and creaked its way to the forty-second floor. He straightened his tie again and switched his portfolio to the other hand, so it wouldn't be wet with sweat when he showed it to this Zibler person. He checked his watch. It was about six o'clock in the evening. Not that he had anywhere to be, he just liked to know what time it was.
The elevator dinged, then took a few seconds to open when he at last reached the forty-second floor. He turned left, walked a few doors down, then saw it. A door labeled, "Harold M. Zibler, Producer." He knocked lightly, and a voice barked from within.
"Londen?"
"Yes, sir," Christian said, a little shaken.
"Come in."
Christian opened the door, stepped inside, then closed it behind him. He turned to face the producer, when he saw a small man sitting in the chair in front of the desk.
"Just a minute, Londen," Zibler said, "Anyway, Henri, there's not much I can do. Audition with the rest of them, or help me produce. I can't really let you do both - not on our budget."
Henri nodded and answered with a thick lisp, "I thuppothe you'w wight. I can't vewy weww do two jobth, can I? Thank you fow theeing me about it, though."
"Don't mention it. Now get out of my sight."
Henri stood and hurried past Christian and out of the office. Christian turned to Zibler. Zibler was staring at him.
"So you're a writer, huh?" he said. He gestured to the chair the midget had just vacated. Christian sat. Zibler offered him a mint, and Christian accepted gratefully. All the moisture from his mouth seemed to have gone into his hands. He nodded, and held out his portfolio. Zibler took it and thumbed through it.
"Sounds intriguing," he said, throwing the portfolio onto his desk as if it were a dirty tissue. He leaned onto his desk and looked hard at Christian. "Look," he said, "I'm sure you've got lots of comedy, tragedy, film, stage, whatever shit in that thing. I could spend days reading it and come back to you with an answer in a week. But, hell, Chris, I'm not that kind of guy. I'm a balls-not-brains guy. So, here's the story. I've been through eight damned writers in the past three months, and two and a half complete casts in that span of time. I'm not going to waste my time on another fucker who thinks he's gonna make it with the same sappy shit that I see all the time. You got balls? Show it."
Christian looked shocked. Was he listening to this from a big-time producer? He decided to stick it out and see what this guy was really all about. "How? How do I show it?"
Zibler smiled. "Satine," he said, "The star, the 'Sparkling Diamond,' if you will. You go to her with your style, and have a little bit of an audition."
Christian gulped. He was more nervous than ever.
"When do I do this?" he asked thickly.
"Tonight. Come to the Club Rouge tonight. She performs there. I'll arrange a meeting after her number so you can discuss this with her. Oh, another thing. There's this millionaire coming to see if he'll fund our show. Don't interfere. Have a good day."
Christian stood up and left. He headed back to the elevator and pressed the down button. When it arrived, he got on, but was delayed by a lisp, "Pweese, hold the doow!" Henri stepped onto the elevator and Christian pressed the button for the ground floor.
As the elevator clicked its way down, Henri turned to Christian and smiled. "So you'w the new witew? I'm Henwi Mawie Waymond Toulouse-Lautwec Monfaw, but it's just Henwi, if you pweese." The midget extended a hand. Christian shook it. "I'm Christian Londen. You can call me Chris, Christian, Londen, whatever. I don't care."
"So you'w going to Club Wouge tonight? Have you evew been?"
Christian shook his head.
"You need to come with me. You'll need a little, bweefing."
An hour later Christian was standing in Henri's apartment, looking at himself in a mirror. He was wearing a dark blue suit with tails, shiny black shoes, and even a silk top hat. He was a bit confused, but he went along.
"Twutht me," Henri said, "I go aww the time. You wook pewfect."
The next thing he new, Christian was standing in the middle of a dance floor made to look exactly like a 19th century dance hall. He could have sworn it matched the drawings of the Moulin Rouge in Paris he'd seen once in an art museum. He hurried across the floor filled with women scantily clad and men in top hats and tails just like him dancing in the errotic style . . . of the 1800s?
Just as Christian had sat down in the balcony, Harold Zibler appeared above the curtain-covered stage. He yelled into his microphone, "Can you cancan?"
The people on the floor replied "Yes we can cancan!"
"Can you can?"
"Yes we can!"
"Can you can?!"
"Yes we can!"
"Then it's . . . the cancan!"
The dancers cleared the floor as the female dancers picked up their skirts, and "Because we Can" by Fatboy Slim blasted from the speakers.
"What is this place?" Christian asked Henri.
"A wecweational . . . club. Based entiwely on the Moulin Wouge. Intewesting, isn't it?"
Interesting wasn't exactly the word Christian would have chosen. More like . . . permiscuous?
Just then, the pulsing music stopped, and the audience fell silent. A swing had dropped from the ceiling, and sitting in it was the most beautiful woman Christian had ever seen.
She was Satine.
**************************************************************************** ******
I don't own the characters. Sniff, tear. I wish I owned Christian, but I don't. The story, however, is mine. Anyway, this is my first present-day Moulin fic, so I hope you've liked it so far. Please review it, you don't know just how much I love those things! If you review it, I'll do the same for you, so please, review this little thing! Thanks! Chapter two . . . Christian and Satine meet . . . . *gasp* Sparks may fly!
The revolving doors were a bit sticky, like a can of WD-40 wouldn't hurt, but he pushed his way through without much trouble. He walked right up to the desk and said, "I'm Christian Londen. I'm here to apply for the writing postition." The man at the desk looked at him strangely. After getting no response, he just shrugged and punched in a number on the telephone.
"Yes, Mister Zibler," he said with a Spanish accent, "I have a young Mister Londen here to apply for the job . . . yes, I'll send him up." He hung up the phone and pointed to a stairwell.
"Forty-second floor, turn left, six doors down on the left. It'll say Zibler." Christian gaped at him.
"There's no elevator?" he asked. The Argentinean laughed.
"Sure, if you trust it. It's just around the cor- . . ." He never finished his sentence. His eyes crossed, rolled back into his head, and he collapsed forward onto his desk. Christian looked around. Geez, he thought, did I kill him? He picked up his wrist and let it slam on the desk. There seemed to be a pulse. He whispered, "Sorry," then continued on his way to the elevator.
"Does anybody use this thing?" he asked out loud as it clicked and creaked its way to the forty-second floor. He straightened his tie again and switched his portfolio to the other hand, so it wouldn't be wet with sweat when he showed it to this Zibler person. He checked his watch. It was about six o'clock in the evening. Not that he had anywhere to be, he just liked to know what time it was.
The elevator dinged, then took a few seconds to open when he at last reached the forty-second floor. He turned left, walked a few doors down, then saw it. A door labeled, "Harold M. Zibler, Producer." He knocked lightly, and a voice barked from within.
"Londen?"
"Yes, sir," Christian said, a little shaken.
"Come in."
Christian opened the door, stepped inside, then closed it behind him. He turned to face the producer, when he saw a small man sitting in the chair in front of the desk.
"Just a minute, Londen," Zibler said, "Anyway, Henri, there's not much I can do. Audition with the rest of them, or help me produce. I can't really let you do both - not on our budget."
Henri nodded and answered with a thick lisp, "I thuppothe you'w wight. I can't vewy weww do two jobth, can I? Thank you fow theeing me about it, though."
"Don't mention it. Now get out of my sight."
Henri stood and hurried past Christian and out of the office. Christian turned to Zibler. Zibler was staring at him.
"So you're a writer, huh?" he said. He gestured to the chair the midget had just vacated. Christian sat. Zibler offered him a mint, and Christian accepted gratefully. All the moisture from his mouth seemed to have gone into his hands. He nodded, and held out his portfolio. Zibler took it and thumbed through it.
"Sounds intriguing," he said, throwing the portfolio onto his desk as if it were a dirty tissue. He leaned onto his desk and looked hard at Christian. "Look," he said, "I'm sure you've got lots of comedy, tragedy, film, stage, whatever shit in that thing. I could spend days reading it and come back to you with an answer in a week. But, hell, Chris, I'm not that kind of guy. I'm a balls-not-brains guy. So, here's the story. I've been through eight damned writers in the past three months, and two and a half complete casts in that span of time. I'm not going to waste my time on another fucker who thinks he's gonna make it with the same sappy shit that I see all the time. You got balls? Show it."
Christian looked shocked. Was he listening to this from a big-time producer? He decided to stick it out and see what this guy was really all about. "How? How do I show it?"
Zibler smiled. "Satine," he said, "The star, the 'Sparkling Diamond,' if you will. You go to her with your style, and have a little bit of an audition."
Christian gulped. He was more nervous than ever.
"When do I do this?" he asked thickly.
"Tonight. Come to the Club Rouge tonight. She performs there. I'll arrange a meeting after her number so you can discuss this with her. Oh, another thing. There's this millionaire coming to see if he'll fund our show. Don't interfere. Have a good day."
Christian stood up and left. He headed back to the elevator and pressed the down button. When it arrived, he got on, but was delayed by a lisp, "Pweese, hold the doow!" Henri stepped onto the elevator and Christian pressed the button for the ground floor.
As the elevator clicked its way down, Henri turned to Christian and smiled. "So you'w the new witew? I'm Henwi Mawie Waymond Toulouse-Lautwec Monfaw, but it's just Henwi, if you pweese." The midget extended a hand. Christian shook it. "I'm Christian Londen. You can call me Chris, Christian, Londen, whatever. I don't care."
"So you'w going to Club Wouge tonight? Have you evew been?"
Christian shook his head.
"You need to come with me. You'll need a little, bweefing."
An hour later Christian was standing in Henri's apartment, looking at himself in a mirror. He was wearing a dark blue suit with tails, shiny black shoes, and even a silk top hat. He was a bit confused, but he went along.
"Twutht me," Henri said, "I go aww the time. You wook pewfect."
The next thing he new, Christian was standing in the middle of a dance floor made to look exactly like a 19th century dance hall. He could have sworn it matched the drawings of the Moulin Rouge in Paris he'd seen once in an art museum. He hurried across the floor filled with women scantily clad and men in top hats and tails just like him dancing in the errotic style . . . of the 1800s?
Just as Christian had sat down in the balcony, Harold Zibler appeared above the curtain-covered stage. He yelled into his microphone, "Can you cancan?"
The people on the floor replied "Yes we can cancan!"
"Can you can?"
"Yes we can!"
"Can you can?!"
"Yes we can!"
"Then it's . . . the cancan!"
The dancers cleared the floor as the female dancers picked up their skirts, and "Because we Can" by Fatboy Slim blasted from the speakers.
"What is this place?" Christian asked Henri.
"A wecweational . . . club. Based entiwely on the Moulin Wouge. Intewesting, isn't it?"
Interesting wasn't exactly the word Christian would have chosen. More like . . . permiscuous?
Just then, the pulsing music stopped, and the audience fell silent. A swing had dropped from the ceiling, and sitting in it was the most beautiful woman Christian had ever seen.
She was Satine.
**************************************************************************** ******
I don't own the characters. Sniff, tear. I wish I owned Christian, but I don't. The story, however, is mine. Anyway, this is my first present-day Moulin fic, so I hope you've liked it so far. Please review it, you don't know just how much I love those things! If you review it, I'll do the same for you, so please, review this little thing! Thanks! Chapter two . . . Christian and Satine meet . . . . *gasp* Sparks may fly!
