Title: Readme.txt
Part: 8/9
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel
Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn.
Spoilers: Nada.
Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means Alternate Universe, for those who don't know.)
Notes: Yes, there's a pirate in this chapter. Just for Mor. *hugs the Morness* Also, Readme is drawing the a close...And, I wish I could say something more meaningful, but I have eight minutes to upload this before my internet connection craps out, so...>.>;
Additional Notes: Grateful thank-yous go to my faithful reviewers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, Olhado, Lyo, Sheena, Shawna (I love the picture you drew me!! *hearts*), N, S, Katreon of Team Socket, Laureate, Katherine, Ishida Kat, Periwinka, Doomkitty, BackstageMark, Nine Bucks, Edainme, Risty, and last but not least Mercuria. *HUGS YOU ALL*
I also just got back from seeing Mor (who is vacationing about twenty minutes from my home) and she wants me to give y'all a nice, hearty, "ARR!"
Additional-er Notes: Check out The Blind Fish Archive! The link is under the magical spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net. Feel free to submit your fics! In fact, I'm begging you to. ...Please?
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
After Chicago, it was off to Washington D.C. I'm not entirely sure why Antisthenes decided it was a good idea to have such a scattered tour plan, but I wasn't about to ask. I had a feeling that I might have to talk to Xavier if I did that, and that was something I planned on avoiding. Permanently.
Therefore, I settled for hypothesizing to myself about the tour schedule. Maybe it was seasonal? Cities were only visited when the weather was spot-on right and all that...? Hmm.
In the meantime, the band had a similar conversation regarding Washington D.C., which ended with Johnny waving it off and saying, "The White House is dead anyways." and Jubilee replying, "That's Elvis, you moron."
"Elvis is perfectly alive," Johnny argued. "He's just, y'know, chillin'...somewhere...out there."
"You know what's dead?" Lance drawled.
The three of them said almost simultaneously, "Punk." then laughed.
Ah, a music-insiders' joke. I think I'll just sit here and smile uneasily and pretend that I get it.
"Hey, Scott," Johnny said, still grinning a little wildly. I thought about cuckoo nests and aerial flight. "It's already Friday--aren't you headin' back to your boring desk job on Monday?"
"Why, yes, I believe I am," I said, trying not to sound too sarcastically surprised. And hey--I happen to like my 'boring desk job.'
"When's the article going to run?" Jubilee asked.
"Well," I said and did a few calculations. "Probably Tuesday or Wednesday. I have to see what my boss thinks of it."
Or doesn't think, really. With half the office gone and both Jean and Kurt AWOL--and I'm almost dead-on certain that they dragged Bobby out, too, with little to no coercion--Pietro was probably going out of his mind trying to run a newspaper. Of course, that could either be a good or bad thing, I suppose.
On one hand, a sane Pietro was an evil, smug bastard who enjoyed tormenting others and trying to seduce any eligible and ineligible women. On the other hand, an insane Pietro was probably an evil, smug bastard who enjoyed tormenting others and trying to seduce any eligible and ineligible women--who are still left at the office.
Okay, I'm not seeing much of a difference. Jesus.
"What if he fuckin' hates it?" Lance drawled.
"I--guess I'll have to rewrite it," I said. Rewrite it to fit Pietro's own little diabolic, gremlin purposes. The thought of it alone made me shudder.
Just then, I was struck with a mental image of Pietro as the little paperclip office assistant that popped up in Microsoft Word every so often. Except, unfortunately, we couldn't click the 'hide' option with Pietro. And instead of having to prompt him to 'animate' himself, Pietro animated himself.
And when I say 'animate,' I mean that he fired people, read the comments in the suggestion box and matched the handwriting, and other such things, of course.
"Or you could not," Lance suggested. "One less fuckin' article in the world, hey?"
"What?" I asked, confused.
"New idea," Johnny proclaimed, throwing his arms out wide. "How's about this, Scottbuster: skip the article and just put a huge spread of our asses!"
"You said 'spread' and 'ass' in the same sentence," Jubilee grinned.
Johnny blinked, then wondered with confusion, "Isn't that my line?"
"Well, you can't fuckin' answer yourself, can you?" Lance asked dryly.
"I thought that I was supposed to say 'skip the article,'" Jubilee said, looking equally puzzled.
"Christ, we suck ass at pitching ideas," Lance laughed.
"Use the drawing board for scrap wood," Jubilee suggested.
"Fire...!" Johnny shrieked gleefully.
"Don't worry," I said hesitantly, "I'll make sure I don't put anything strange in the article."
Comparatively 'strange,' of course, since I was traveling in the modern day version of the Mystery Machine or something close to it.
Johnny stared at me blankly, then asked, "We still get to burn the drawing board, yeah?"
"I'm diggin' the burning idea," Lance said. "We can have a fuckin' campfire and tell skanky stories."
"And roast marshmallow peeps!" Jubilee said delightedly, clapping her hands.
"Don't you mean 'scary stories'?" I asked.
"No," Lance said.
Why do I even bother?
"Man, oh, man," Johnny said then, draping an arm around my shoulders and drooping a little. "I gotta tell ya, Scoots: You're one of the funner reporters we've had!"
First of all, 'funner' is not a word, and second, it's journalist!
"Thanks?" I said uncertainly.
"It's going to be sad when you leave," Jubilee agreed. "You're gonna have to keep in touch, okay?"
"Sure," I said.
"Scott," Jubilee said, raising an eyebrow.
Jesus, who was she? Jean? "Okay, of course."
"Yay," said Lance's Buddha. I glared at it.
"Why did you have to give that to him?" I asked Jubilee.
"Hmm, I'm not sure," she said. "I think we may have to confiscate it soon, though."
The Buddha gasped. "The fuckin' world's against me! I hate you all!"
Johnny cackled. "I guess that means the Buddha's goin' into the campfire?"
"You'll never take me alive, you dipshits," Buddha said and randomly disappeared behind a lima-bean-shaped sofa cushion. I looked pointedly at Lance, who shrugged guilelessly and asked,
"Why the hell're you lookin' at me?"
Jubilee giggled and patted Lance's knee from where she was sitting cross-legged on a pillow on the floor.
"Lancers is being silly today," she said.
"Fuck you," Lance said.
"He's so cute when he's being sil-ly, idn't he, Scott?" Jubilee cooed and ducked down when Lance went and tried to smack her upside the head.
I grinned; "Yes, he really is, Ms. Lee."
"Shut up," Lance ordered.
"Aww," I said. "And now he's trying to be authoritative."
"Summers," he growled.
I pretended not to hear him.
"Is your article gonna include your sordid love affair with Lancers?" Johnny asked, snickering.
"Yes," I said.
Lance scowled and warned, "Don't fuckin' make me come over there...!"
I'm sorry, Mom. I won't play with matches anymore.
"It will have all the details that I can't say out loud," I said. Jesus, I can't believe I just said that.
"Summers, you bitch," Lance said while Jubilee and Johnny fell over, guffawing.
I grinned at him, feeling like I had the upper hand for once.
"I'm just joking," I said.
"Man," Johnny said, "don't actually say that you're joking."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because it's loser-ish," Johnny said.
What logical reasoning.
"It clarifies everything," I said.
"Oh, so you think that fuckin' communication is actually key in conversation?" Lance asked, seeming to have recovered from the shame and dread of having his private life smashed open. Or something.
"Generally, having a conversation," I said mildly, "involves communication."
"Smartass," Lance said.
"It avoids misunderstanding," I said defensively.
Lance snorted. "Where's the fun in that?"
You know, Mr. Alvers, maybe our thing should be stuff again.
"You wanna know what I think you two should do?" Jubilee asked without lifting her eyes from her doodling on a sketchpad.
No.
"I think that you should--"
"Get a fuckin' room?" Lance asked.
"Where I can't peek and giggle?" Jubilee glanced up and pouted.
"That's the point of doors and walls," Johnny said, dragging Jubilee over by pulling on the pillow. He pushed her bangs down over her eyes and she pouted even more.
"I hate doors and walls," she said.
"Yeah, yeah, you hate everything," Lance said. "Go write a fuckin' poem about it."
He looked at me and arched an eyebrow.
"You wanna?" he asked, smirking.
"How romantic," I said.
I followed him to the backroom anyways, feeling kind of warm and fuzzy from all the joking around, even though I also felt a little uncomfortable about it. It had also made me miss Jean and Kurt--at least, it did before I realized that Jean and Kurt were probably not missing me because they were...how should I say it?...sucking face.
Jesus, I think I'm going to be sick. Didn't we figure out in high school that the whole Jean-&-Kurt-4ever deal doesn't work? What was this? Or--rather--where was this? Through the looking glass? Do I have to start walking backwards to get to something three feet in front of me? And why have I asked so many questions in a row?
Lance, like some kind of emotive puppy or something, seemed to pick up my cognitive turmoil and pulled me forward by the hips and kissed me thoroughly.
Apparently, he had decided that sex was the solution to everything. Fabulous. I wonder if he thought that sex could cure cancer?
"So..." I said.
"So're we gonna screw or what?" Lance asked with sophistication.
"I was thinking--" I began awkwardly.
"Wow," he said. "We can't have any of that, now can we? C'mon, let's go before--"
"No, wait," I said. "I just--I meant, do you think I could, uh, maybe...have your phone number or e-mail address or something? So if I have any additional questions--you know?"
Lance paused and stared at me long and hard. Then, after a moment, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a business card.
"My e-mail's on there," he said, handing it to me.
I stared at it.
How cute--he's got a little guitar next to his name. This was completely unfair. I mean, what do rock stars need business cards for? I don't have a business card.
I want a business card, dammit!
"O-h," I said. "Um, what about your...?"
"Phone number?" he asked, sitting down on the bed and pulling his shoes off. "Welcome to the fuckin' digital age, buddy."
He tugged off his shirt. I cleared my throat and tucked the card into the breast pocket of my shirt before unbuttoning and shrugging said shirt off.
I fell into bed with him after kicking off my shoes and socks and lining them up next to the nightstand--yes, I lined them up. I plan on finding them later, you know--but I couldn't stop thinking about other things.
Lance had made his way down my chest and was approximately at my bellybutton when I abruptly asked him,
"Why wouldn't you have a phone number on there?"
He looked up and, with the most perplexed expression ever, asked, "Wha?"
"Phone numbers are standard," I said.
He rubbed a hand over his face and asked, "What the fuck are you talkin' about?"
"Your business card," I said. "Do you even check your e-mail when you're on tour?"
"Summers, shut the fuck up," he said, sounding rather disgruntled. He jerked my belt loose, unzipped my slacks, and pulled down to my knees all in a series of three quick movements.
"But I can't contact you via e-mail," I protested. "You won't see anything incoming for--Oh."
Lance glanced up at me and smirked.
"Outgoing?" he asked smugly.
I would've answered, but I was busy not thinking.
Bastard.
"That was dirty," I said.
"No, it wasn't," Lance replied around a cigarette. He leered. "I'll show you what dirty is, though..."
"That's not what I meant," I grumbled, batting off his hand that was creeping down my stomach. "I was trying to ask you a question."
"Oh, yeah," he said, tucking his rejected hand and arm behind his head and looking at the ceiling. "About cards and numbercrunchers?"
"Phone numbers," I said. I poked at a tattoo on his arm. "Any reason why you got this?"
"Thought it looked cool," he said. "What about phone numbers?"
"Huh," I said. "Well, do you have one?"
"Have what?" he asked.
"A phone number."
"Maybe," he said.
I hate you, Lance Alvers.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked then, drawing in a deep breath, then exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. I arched an eyebrow.
"Like I said, it'd be pretty hard to contact you," I said. "Through e-mail, I mean."
"I check my fuckin' e-mail," he said, affronted.
"When you're not getting drunk and getting into barfights, you mean," I said dryly.
"That was a fuckin' one-time deal," he said.
I stared at him. He cleared his throat and snickered,
"Okay, that was a lie."
I rolled my eyes.
"Why is it that I feel like I'm the only one investing in this relationship?" I asked aloud, half-joking.
"Hey, fuck you," Lance said.
I glanced up at him and frowned a little. I couldn't figure out if he was mad or not.
Jesus, this guy needed to get little signs that said what he was feeling. Then again, the three most-used signs would probably be, 'horny,' 'smug,' and 'assholeish.'
And dammit, I think I've just gone downhill from 'thinging.' 'Assholeish'?
I blinked, startled when Lance leaned across me--his cigarette inches from my face, too. Thanks--and grabbed my shirt from the chair I had flung it on. He withdrew the card from the front pocket, uncapped a pen and wrote something down on the business card.
"Happy?" he asked.
"Thrilled," I said.
He snorted, stuffed the card back in my shirt, and tossed it on the floor.
"Thanks," I said, when he lay back down beside me.
"Hmm," he said and kissed me. "Everythin' just got fucky, didn't it?"
"What do you mean?" I asked, bewildered.
"All serious-like," he said, smirking.
"So you think that being serious is...fucky?" I asked.
"What do you think it is?" He arched an eyebrow.
How about being serious is being serious?
"Well, I think that it's...productive," I said.
"Productivity is fucky," Lance said.
"Do you think that everything is fucky?" I asked wryly.
"Yes," he said.
"You're just saying that to mess with my mind," I said.
"Exactly." He grinned.
I stared at him. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Makin' sense is overrated," he said flippantly.
"That's what schmucks say," I said. "You know, the ones who can't make any sense at all on their good days."
He stared at me. "Did you just call me a schmuck?"
"Why, yes, I believe I did," I said, feeling strangely pleased with myself.
"Asswipe," he muttered.
I chuckled nervously and subsided into an uneasy silence. Lance seemed more disgruntled than usual, and conversation was a little more awkward than it generally was. I wondered if it was because he didn't want me to leave and grinned a little to myself. Then Lance stretched a little and mumbled,
"Crap cigarettes. How fuckin' much do I haveta pay for a decent pack?"
Okay, maybe Lance didn't have enough depth to realize that soon I would no longer be an integral part of his life.
Or maybe he just didn't care.
Bastard.
Behold the rare and ever-capricious rock star. A migratory species, most rock stars often live like platypuses, building a small nest underwater with a tunnel leading up to the ground for ventilation. Between concert seasons, the rock star rarely comes up for air and, instead, settles for nesting with its fellow bandmates while producing its next album.
During this state of limbo wherein the rock star makes strange noises and does absolutely nothing productive--a process called "creative brainstorming"--the rock star is extremely irritable. It demands that its craving for cancerous, addictive substances be fulfilled, and its copious libido makes itself known again and again. When nicotine and sex are not enough to satiate the rock star, it has been known to seek out leather garments. Conversely, the rock star ordinarily avoids barbershops.
This vague, aimless state is exactly when most experts dictate that hunters should stalk the rock star as prey. The suggested kinds of bait are edible underwear, acting aloof (and thus provoking the rock star to "mess" with your head), and talking about your cuddly youth in a hard-working yet loving Midwestern family.
Once contact has been made, the rock star will choose a choice expletive and relentlessly repeat it over and over to establish its dominance. When--
"Ow!" I said, rubbing my head.
He'd smacked me! Jackass.
"Chicken-shit," Lance said.
As an example, one particular subspecies of rock star--classified as 'Alverseditca Lanceneferia'--has demonstrated time and time again that its favored expletive is 'chicken-shit.'
"Jesus. What'd I do?" I grumbled.
"Pay attention to the tour guide, sweetheart," he said, mock-sweetly. I glared at him.
We were currently on a tour--what kind of tour, I'm not sure, but we passed the Lincoln Memorial a few stops back, so I'm assuming it's just a standard Washington D.C. tour--and this time it was completely not my fault.
It wasn't!
Tabitha had offered a day of fun, and I had been against accepting her alleged good-heartedness. And, naturally, since I'd been disturbed by the mere idea of it, Lance had graciously been enthusiastic about it.
Before he discovered that the Day of Fun had been a Day of Fun that Tabitha had been trying to avoid.
"So, if you didn't plan where to go," he'd asked, confused, "then who did?"
"Chuck," she had said, trying to hide it behind a cough.
"Jesus," I'd said at the same time Lance sighed, "Oh, fuck."
In the end, Lance still blamed me.
"It's not my fault," I hissed at him.
"You should know what reverse psychology does to me," he said, deliberately sounding slightly kinky.
"I wasn't trying to use reverse psychology," I said. "And how was I supposed to know that you're so neurotic, anyway?"
"Go to hell," Lance said around a mouthful of peanuts he'd stolen from the lobby of our hotel.
"I'd really prefer not to," I said mildly.
He grinned at me and elbowed me in the ribs.
"Let's blow this joint," he said out of the side of his mouth.
Well, that sounded wrong.
"Aren't we meeting Mr. Xavier for lunch after this?" I asked miserably.
"Yeah," Lance said. "So?"
I felt like I was dating James Dean.
"You know, I think you're trying just a little too hard to 'fight The Man,'" I said.
"Fuck off," he said. "Are you in or not?"
I thought about having lunch.
With Mr. Xavier.
Mr. Xavier, who would probably have a tossed salad for an appetizer and then size me up to cut.
I tried not to whimper.
"I'm in," I muttered. Jesus, this was no way to live. I was like some kind of delinquent.
With a press pass.
A press pass for the wrong side of the tracks?
"Bitchin'," Lance said.
"Again with the 'bitchin','" I said.
"Killer," he said.
"Like Shamu with a hangover?" I suggested.
He rolled his eyes. "We'll duck behind that giant dic--"
"That's the Washington Memorial," I hissed.
"Oh," he said. He glanced at it appraisingly. "Well, I guess we all know what the chicks remember him for."
"Jesus," I said. "That's no way to think about a man who had wooden teeth."
"If he had wooden teeth," Lance replied, "do you think that he had a wooden--?"
"No," I said. "I really don't."
"That makes you really wonder, doesn't it," he continued. "I mean, if Pinocchio--"
"Pinocchio?" I asked incredulously. "Why are you--?"
"If Pinocchio had a wooden--"
"Lance," I growled.
"And every time he lied, it--"
"Lance!"
"Gives a whole new meaning to 'sportin' a woody,' doesn't it?"
I glared at him.
"What?" He tried to look innocuous. Which really didn't work, on account of how he was practically smirking.
And old man with a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck shushed us and Lance made a cat noise. I sighed.
"I can't take you anywhere," I said.
"Reoowr," Lance said with a grin.
Oka-y, I'm going to pretend you didn't make that noise, Mr. Lance Alvers.
"So what's the plan, 007?" I asked.
"Oh, no," he said. "My codename is 006."
"What's mine?" I asked.
You're not going to say--
"009, of course," he said.
I rolled my eyes.
"Jesus," I said.
"Again with the 'Jesus,'" he said mockingly.
"Shut up," I said, grinning a little.
"Uh-huh," Lance said. "Anyways, you duck behind the woody and I'll jump into some fuckin' bushes or something."
"That's your brilliant plan?" I asked, annoyed.
"Well, do you have anythin' better?" he drawled, quirking an eyebrow.
"Fine, fine," I sighed. "I don't understand why we have to be all sneaky about it anyway, though."
"Where's the fun if we just fuckin' walk off?" he asked, grinning.
"I didn't know that fighting The Man took so much work," I muttered.
"Hey, man," Lance said, "The Man don't fool around."
"I think that The Man is rather playful," I said. "What with one of his more infamous running jokes: taxes."
"The Man is a turdminer," he replied. "He sucks ass."
"You're not going to start talking about the legalization of marijuana, are you--?" I asked.
"Hemp for everyone!" Lance declared, startling the tour guide, a nice-looking blonde girl who glanced at him with puzzlement before continuing in a bubbly voice about apple trees and other happy things.
"Jesus," I said.
"Jesus probably wore hemp," he told me.
"That's blasphemous," I said, hiding a smile.
"It ain't my fault that Jesus was a groovin' liberal," he said.
"Oh, Jesus," I said, rubbing my temples. "I just had the worst mental image."
Jesus with a halo for a hula-hoop--grooving to Elton John.
"What kind of mental image?" Lance asked, looking curious.
"It involves 'Crocodile Rock,'" I told him.
"Fuck," he said and recoiled. "Keep your crazy shit to yourself, Summers."
"Hey, I like that song," I protested defensively.
"You're here, you're queer, and you're fa-a-abulous, too, hey?" he said, snickering.
"Well," I said, sniffing airily, "I'll have you know that I never did support that saying."
"And why's that?" Lance asked, smirking.
"Obviously, 'fabulous' doesn't rhyme with 'here' or 'queer,'" I said, grinning a little.
He snorted. "What, do you want it to be, 'We're here, we're queer, let's do a cheer!'?"
"That might work," I agreed.
"Man, I just had a mental image of you in a fuckin' cheerleading outfit," Lance groaned.
I stared at him.
"And you said my mental image was strange?!" I asked, horrified.
"Aren't your people really 'in' with those fuckin' cheerleader types, anyways?" Lance asked, chuckling to himself.
"My 'people'?" I said, laughing. "You make it sound like you haven't been trying to get into bed with me for the better part of this week, Mr. Alvers."
"You misunderstood me," he said, arching an eyebrow with mock-seriousness. "I wasn't tryin' to get you in bed."
"No?" I grinned.
"No," he said. "I was tryin'...to...to..."
"Ye-s?" I said, grinning a little wider.
He scowled.
"I'll come up with somethin' later," he promised.
I laughed and an old couple turned around and shushed us very loudly.
"Go back to Florida and get your dentures stuck to a fuckin' bagel," Lance sneered at them.
"Jesus," I muttered and grabbed Lance's arm and hauled him behind a large, metal public mailbox.
"Stop mocking the elderly," I said.
"What's the elderly gonna do to stop me?" Lance replied, smirking.
"The elderly are going to...well," I said and was interrupted by Lance, who cackled,
"Are they gonna beat me with their fuckin' canes?"
I rolled my eyes.
"You're the most disrespectful person I've ever met," I said.
"And yet you love me," Lance said with a grin.
"Like one might grow fond of a rare type of fungus growing at the bottom of the refrigerator," I said, grinning back.
"Oh, fuck off," he said, snickering, and stood up. He dusted himself off and glanced around.
"Well, the good news is that we lost the Miami tour group from Hell," he said. "The bad news is that I'm fuckin' bored."
If it's the Miami tour group, then wouldn't they be from Florida and not from Hell?
"Hmm," I said. "I'm sure we can drum up something to do."
Anything was better than being Mr. Xavier's lunch--having lunch with Mr. Xavier, that is. I suddenly had a troubling mental image of myself trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then I'd be really stuffed up the ass with something a lot more festive than a pole, which is something which Lance accuses me of every so often. Something that is completely untrue, by the way. I'm not anal-retentive.
I'm meticulous.
Meticulous.
Which just means that I'm cautious. In a nonanal-retentive kind of way, dammit.
"Hey," Lance said, "let's go have sex somewhere public."
"No," I said, glaring at him. I could still remember the photobooth incident, wherein a certain part of my anatomy developed an acute fear of exposure to sunlight and-backslash-or cameras.
More acutely with cameras, to be accurate.
"What, are you chicken-shit?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.
"I'd rather be chicken-shit than have Mystique strangle me," I said pointedly.
"Idiot," he said. He grinned and threw an arm around my shoulders as we began to walk;
"Don't you know that I'll fuckin' protect you?"
I sighed and leaned my head against his shoulder.
"Lance," I said, "I wouldn't trust you to protect my goldfish."
"Well, fuck you," Lance said, snickering a little. He pushed me and I nearly fell into a...pirate?
I stared.
"Ow," said the pirate.
"Sorry," I said and handed him something that had fallen due to Lance being a dumbass and pushing me. "Here's your eyepatch."
'Sorry, here's your eyepatch'?
Four words I never thought I'd ever say.
"That's not an eyepatch," the pirate said, glaring at me and snatching the eyepatch back. "That's a wallet, you bloody git."
I've never been called a git before, much like I haven't been called 'chicken-shit.' However, 'git' sounded much friendlier, probably because it also sounded British.
"O-h," I said.
"Hey," Lance said, "there's a fuckin' souvenir shop across the street. T-shirts!"
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Feck you," the pirate said and pulled out what looked like a giant pixie stix from his back pocket. I stared at it.
"Did you get that from an--amusement park?" I asked, laughing nervously.
"My little sister bought it for me," the pirate said.
"O-oh," I said uneasily. "How nice."
"The wallet was a feckin' present from her." The pirate advanced on me.
"I'm sorry?" I tried.
"She 'as terminal cancer, you numbskull," the pirate said rather threateningly.
Jesus, this was a very mentally unbalanced pirate.
"I'm...sorry?" I repeated.
And then the wrath of a thousand gods fell upon me like a rainfall of torrid flame.
In the form of a giant, plastic tube filled with sugar, that is.
"You're choking me," I said, gagging. Jesus, I'd just inhaled at least three quarts of cherry-flavored powder.
"I hate you," the pirate said.
"I'm serious," I said. "I can't--breathe."
"That's too feckin' bad, idn't it?!" the pirate yelled.
This was a very mentally unbalanced, violent, disturbingly effective pirate.
"Could you please...stop...pouring sugar down my throat?" I asked weakly.
Jesus, couldn't he take out his anger on something else? Maybe take up hip-hop? Rap?
I suddenly had a mental image of Eminem dressed up like a pirate.
"Oh, Christ," I mumbled.
Finally, the pirate wandered off--having gotten bored with burying me in pink powder, apparently--and I lay on the sidewalk, trying to regain my breath. A few minutes later, Lance appeared directly over me.
"I got a new shirt," he said. He pointed at it.
'Privates Investigator.'
"I hate you," I said.
I quietly took refuge in the knowledge that all this sugar was going to work its way through my system eventually, and Lance would have to deal with it.
Unaware of his future agony, Lance just snickered at me and helped me up.
"You look like the tooth fairy took a shit on you, man," he said.
I glared at him.
"May ten thousand pirates with twenty thousand pixie stix attack you with the rage and fury of a million angry...pirates," I said.
"That was coherent," Lance said, looking rather smug.
"Shut up and walk, you Mick Jagger-wannabe," I muttered.
He gasped and tried to look offended. Then asked with amusement,
"Mick Jagger? You mean it?"
"Shut up," I said.
"Hey, you called me a wannabe," Lance said as we began walking. "Does that mean I get to go on Ricky Lake or Jerry Springer or some fuck like that?"
"No," I said. "They don't want you."
"Wow, you're pissy," Lance said, arching an eyebrow.
"And I wonder what could cause that," I said sarcastically. "Maybe getting assaulted by a circus escapee?"
"Nah," he said, smirking. "That can't be it."
Smirk all you want. I can already feel the sugar coursing through my body...
"So where are we going now?" I asked, dusting myself off and leaving a sprinkled trail of pink behind us.
Jesus, I was going to be hacking up pixie stix for the next three months of my life.
"Bar," Lance said.
"No-o-o," I said, glaring at him. "I've seen how you handle bars."
"Not good?" he asked, grinning.
"Not good," I said.
"Not bad, I think," he said.
"You think badly," I said.
"I think badly for thinking it's not bad?" he asked.
"It's bad to think it's not bad," I said.
"Do you play Scrabble much?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Why?" I asked suspiciously.
"Why not?" he said, quirking the other eyebrow.
"Have you always been able to do that?" I asked, gesturing toward his eyebrows.
"Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"What the hell are we doing?" I asked, starting to laugh.
"What do you think we're doing?" he shot back.
"A very one-sided press conference, maybe?" I suggested.
"Asshole," he said.
"You lose," I said, pointing at him.
"Asshole," he repeated and punched my shoulder.
"I think you're losing your touch, Mr. Alvers," I said triumphantly.
"Wanna find out?" he asked, smirking. "We could go find a fuckin' photobooth or somethin'."
"No," I said. "No."
"Ah, the sound of absolute rejection," he sighed with mock-melodrama.
"Something you must be familiar with," I said, smiling.
"I think that pirate back there beat some bitch into you," Lance said.
"I hate you," I said.
"No, you don't," he said, grinning.
"No," I agreed, "I don't. I loathe you."
"Ooh, breakin' out Mr. Webster, hey?" Lance snickered.
"I despise you," I said.
"You're startin' to really fuckin' wound me, Summers," he said.
"I think you suck eggs," I said.
Jesus, I can't believe I just said that. And neither could Lance, it seems, because he just started laughing.
"Jesus," I said. "Every time I talk to you, it's like I can actually hear my IQ points dropping."
"Do they make a fun sound?" he sneered.
"They make a very sad sound?" I suggested.
"Sad--like gothic poetry?" he asked, still snickering.
"Don't you have to go do...band-things?" I asked archly.
"Don't you have to go do reporter-things?" he retorted.
"It's journalist," I said.
"Ha--I win," he said.
Bastard!
I was feeling better than I'd ever felt in my entire life. That, and I'd successfully stolen Lance's Buddha from him and was now parading it around the hotel-room table. Across from me, Lance was slumped down in his chair, scowling.
"Eastern religions," I told him, "are a lot more enlightened than many Western religions. They're very focused, you see, and they really try to combine everyday life with, you know, religion-type things."
"You haven't stopped talking for fifty fuckin' minutes straight," he said.
"There's lots of things to talk about," I said. "Lots and lots of things.
"God!" he said. "Even sex isn't worth this!" He paused, then asked slyly, "Heyyy, wanna sex?"
"You can't use that as a verb," I said thoughtfully.
He snorted and tried to paw my lap. I wriggled away and sought refuge on the couch. Buddha came with me and started his own miniature, porcelain reign over the cushions.
"Hey," I said, affronted. "No sex while I'm under the influence."
"Influence of what?" Lance asked, exasperated.
"Lance is very silly," I told the Buddha. I was beginning to see why Lance was so attached to it.
"Summers," Lance growled.
"Sugar," I said. "Pixie stix? I had three tons forcibly shoveled down my throat, remember?"
"God," he said. "You're fucked-up."
"This is all your fault," I said placidly. "You could've helped out when I was being assaulted."
"You weren't assaulted," he said.
"Just like you aren't getting any," I said. "Isn't that funny?"
"Fuck you," he said.
"I've never understood that saying," I said. "Since when could we put a hanging verb in front of a random pronoun and say that it's insulting? It's only insulting through context, isn't it? I couldn't say, 'Run you.' or 'Read you,' and make any sense. Any insulting sense, at that. Could I?--"
"Summers," Lance groaned, and let his head fall to the table with a very audible thunk. I tried not that laugh.
"Shut. Up," Lance said, punctuating each word with a bang of his forehead on the table. "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!"
"That has to hurt," I commented.
"Fuck you," he said again very darkly.
"Do you know what I hate?" I said. "I hate it when people randomly make up words--"
"Thinging!" Lance yelled.
"Like Bennifer," I continued, ignoring him. "What is that? Bennifer. Is it too much trouble to say 'Ben and Jennifer'? Actually, I find the whole topic of celebrity relationships reprehensible," I added and turned on the television, continuing as I channel-surfed,
"Since when did proper journalism include the realm of tabloids? There are a ton of other things we could write about in the Arts & Entertainment section. I mean, I understand it's popular culture, but--you've been staring at me for the past twenty seconds trying to figure out if that's actually a term or not, haven't you?"
"Mm-hmm," Lance said rather dully, sounding like I had actually reached into him and devoured his soul by talking so much. I chortled to myself.
"It's a term," I said helpfully. "They ran a very long article about it in the Washington Post."
"Hmm," Lance said.
"Did you win the bet with yourself?" I asked politely.
"Yeah," he said, paused, then added, "I guess I woulda won anyway."
"Everyone's a winner when you make a bet with yourself," I said. "I wonder if we could find a way to rig the stock market like that. That'd give a whole different meaning to 'inside trading,' though, if you traded with yourself. I guess it wouldn't work, because it'd be like recirculating plasma when what you really need is an outside transfusion--"
"God, Summers," Lance said, staring at me with morbid fascination. "You talk like a chick."
"I do not," I said, not worrying myself incredibly since I knew I could just sic Jean on him for saying that. She'd probably tear his leg off and beat him with it, though, so I ought to probably first tell her that I wanted him intact.
"Yeah, you really do," he said. "I'll get Jubes for you, and you can have a fuckin' bonding session or some fuck."
"I don't want to have a bonding session with Ms. Lee," I said, proud of myself for remembering to call her 'Ms. Lee.' "I want to have a bonding session with you."
"God," Lance said again. "You're just trying to get back at me, aren't you?"
"Yes," I said smugly.
"You're evil," he said. "Fuckin' evil."
"Not so," I protested. "I'm wicked."
I giggled to myself. Lance stared at me blankly.
"Like a pun. It can be taken two ways, see," I explained, when it was obvious that the blatant amusement-factor of 'wicked' had rocketed over his poor, dense head like a hummingbird in frenzied flight. "Since it's slang?"
"That wasn't a wicked joke," Lance said bleakly.
"You look very down," I commented. "Peppermint?"
I offered him a small, plastic-wrapped peppermint. Out of spite, I'd secured several dozen in the lobby after the concierge accidentally trapped me in the turnstile. I'd had three so far, and they were fabulous. They melted in your mouth. Like M&Ms.
This particular train of thought prompted me to say thoughtfully, "They ought to have candy coating, you know."
"What?" Lance asked, watching the procured pile of peppermints with trepidation.
"These," I said, waving a particularly crumbly peppermint before offering it to Buddha. Perpetually cheerful (since his face is painted in a permanently rosy-cheeked smile), the Buddha graciously accepted my gift and watched it from his percy atop the couch's armrest.
"Why?" Lance scowled. "So you can fuckin' get hopped up even more?"
"No," I said, grinning. Lance was not very on top of it tonight, was he? --More puns for me! "So they can be marketed as 'M&Ms with a kick!'"
Lance made a rather anguished sound and buried his face in his arms, which were crossed on the table.
"When's your concert?" I asked. "Or are you planning on skipping this just like you skipped the autographing session and press conference?"
"Fuck off," he muttered. "We're leavin' in ten or fifteen minutes, says Tabby the Terrific--"
"Tablature?" I asked.
"What?" he asked with confusion.
"Tabby the Terrific Tablature," I said. "That would be a great Fischer Price toy. 'Tablets o' fun!'"
"Depends on what kind of fuckin' tablets are you talkin' about," Lance grumbled.
"Substance abuse is bad," I said. "I'm here as a live example. Just say no."
"You can't abuse sugar," Lance said.
"You can abuse anything," I said.
He paused, then agreed, "Yeah, but sugar is particularly hard to abuse."
"Not when it's being forced down your throat," I said. "Then it's very easy. You just lay back and--"
"Oh, suck it," Lance said, laughing a little, but still managing to sound incredibly disgruntled.
"No, you don't have to suck at all," I said. "It just comes down and pours into your throat. And it burns, too," I added. "Like throwing up backwards."
"Might I mention how fuckin' pornographic you sound right now?" he asked, his face still pillowed on his arms. He held up an arm as if he were in a classroom, waiting to be called on.
"No," I said, "because then I'll stop talking to go self-flagellate, and then who would be here to entertain you?"
"I think your definition and my definition of entertainment are so fuckin' different, it ain't even funny," Lance said glumly.
"That's okay," I said. "We can recalibrate your definition, since it's dirty and wrong."
He snorted. "Wrong?"
"Ah, but you don't deny the dirtiness," I said, turning slightly on the sofa so that I was facing him. I pointed at him and arched an eyebrow, "The court finds against you, Lance Alvers."
"On what grounds?" Lance said rather offhandedly.
"You wallpaper your apartment with leopard spots, don't you?" I accused.
"Actually, the walls in my apartment are a pleasant shade of fuckin' white," Lance replied.
"I don't think that shade is available at Home Depot," I remarked.
"What shade, 'fuckin' white'?" Lance snickered.
"Exactly that shade," I said.
"Hmm," Lance said then. He leered at me. "Does this mean that the court will be punishing me?"
"Yes," I said. "You have to carry my luggage to the bus."
"Is that a euphemism?" he asked hopefully.
"Sorry," I said.
"Dammit," he said.
"Well," I said then, quirking an eyebrow. I grinned and gestured toward my suitcase, all packed up and ready to go.
"Fuck you," Lance said without much malice. At first, I didn't think he'd do it, but then he did, grabbing it by the handle and swinging it over his shoulder.
"You ready to go, chicken-shit?" he asked almost cheerfully. I say 'almost,' because he perpetually seemed to be vaguely disgruntled.
"Just about," I said, and carefully gathered my mints, stored them in my jacket pockets, and grabbed the Buddha.
"Idiot," he muttered.
"And how do you spell that?" I asked jovially as I walked past him.
"Moron," he said.
"You know, there's an order these things go in," I said. "I think 'idiot' is the lowest, so you're out of order."
"Asshole," he said.
"Assholes can be intelligent, can't they?"
"Not if they're asscones with bullshitting on top," he replied.
"Hmm," I said, pushing the elevator button and crossing my arms. "That makes sense."
"Hey, Summers," he said. "Did you ever dream of goin' to fuckin' medical school?"
"I considered it once or twice, I think," I said.
"Hmm," he said, and I almost laughed, thinking that maybe he was parodying me after I was parodying him. "If you'd gone to medical school and dropped out to become a fuckin' dentist..."
He trailed off, and I frowned impatiently, feeling a little more jittery than I usually was.
"Then what?" I asked curiously.
"Oh, nothing," he said. "I'm just trying to imagine your name with a D.D.S after it."
"D.D.S," I repeated, trying it out for fit in my head.
"Yeah," Lance said. "Doctorate in Dipshitting."
"That's not very polite," I informed him.
"Go fuck yourself," he replied, then added, "And let me watch."
"Speaking of shit, though," I said. "I've been thinking about you and your shitade."
"Yeah?" he asked rather noncommittally.
The elevator doors slid open and we stepped inside.
"Hate elevators," he muttered when we did. "Do you know how many fuckin' horror movies started by somebody stepping into a fuckin' elevator?"
"Many, I'd imagine," I said. "I think that your shitade with the shit and things is rather cliché."
"How about this, then," Lance said. "When life gives you lemons, squirt them in someone else's fuckin' eye."
"That's horrible," I said, smiling. "Original, though. I think."
"Horrible and original," he said. "Like Colonel Sander's botched recipes?"
"We've just devolved into a conversation using many pop cultural references," I said.
"I saw a Simpsons episode about Colonel Sander's," he said in response. "God, I love the Simpsons."
"It's a political cartoon," I said.
"Whatever," he replied.
The doors opened on the lobby floor, and we trooped across. Well, I trooped. Lance dragged his feet like a derelict. Fortunately for him, though, I could already feel my sugar high waning.
It was slightly disappointing, as I had been enjoying messing with Lance's mind. However, I decided that maybe it was a good thing, since I had to be in top journalistic shape for the concert. Not that there would be much to report on.
"Lance," I said then, pausing just before the turnstiles. I stared outside. "Where's the bus?"
"Fuck," Lance said.
"They can't have left without you," I said. "Maybe--Forge and...?"
"No," he said, putting down my suitcase and scowling at the turnstile and empty curb beyond. "Forge isn't that fucky. Even if he were screwin' Weasel, he'd remember."
A disturbing mental image came to mind of Forge running up to the tour bus with nothing on except a lone shoe and a pair of boxer shorts. Yikes.
"That's what I figure," I said. "Where's Ms. Smith and the others, then?"
"I have no fuckin' clue," he replied.
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair.
"Fuck," Lance said again.
I tried to think logically about where the bus and the rest of the band could've gone, but all I could think of were scenarios where Mystique acted like Wile E. Coyote and pushed the bus down a hill, thinking that I was in it and acting out of vengeance. I also wondered if, maybe, the bus had actually imploded in on itself, attempting to end its miserably fruity existence. My final conclusion was very simple, though:
Holy cow, somebody took the Mystery Machine!
"Jesus," I said, feeling an overwhelming sadness for all eight-year-old Scooby Doo fans.
"Fuck," Lance said.
"Not that as much," I said, and all the eight-year-olds in my head concurred emphatically.
"Those flying fucks," he said.
The eight-year-olds recoiled in horror at such language, and I just shook my head and repeated,
"Jesus."
Not to be outdone, Lance said, "Jesus fuck."
And though I don't exactly know what that means, I have to say that I agree.
~tbc
