This installment was originally supposed to be about something else. However, a veritable army of readers e-mailed me wanting to know where Jean disappeared to in the previous episode, so yeah.
Based on a comment made by Alessandro in Volume Six of the manga – in which he professes to Petrushka that he wears women's makeup on occasion – and Chapter Five of Sintendo's Lighter Side. Also, expressly dedicated to LoC978... for a reason that'll instantly hit him once he thoroughly digests this chapter. Enjoy.
incompreso
"Rough time at the workplace, Mr. Croce?" the silver-haired proprietor questioned Jean as the former carabinieri officer sat at the bar, leaning over the countertop and peering silently into the glass of whiskey that sat before him, which so happened to be his third. The expression Rico's handler wore was strained; his hair was tousled, his chin was covered with stubble and his sunglasses were firmly stuck to his face despite the fact that it was nine-fifteen p.m. and counting.
"You'll never know how rough, Paolo," was the muttered response. One could only tolerate so many listens to 'We Like to Party' by the Vengaboys, played at full blast on Creative ZEN portable media players hooked up to large speaker systems by raucously yelling cyborg children as they snake danced through the corridors of their dormitory. "Would you mind turning that radio off?" he requested semi-irritably, upon noting that the mournful strains of 'Bad Days' by the Flaming Lips were wafting from its direction. Initially hesitant, Paolo complied upon being handed a five-Euro tip.
Downing the beverage in one gulp, Jean wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and hiccupped slightly before roughly depositing the glass back where it formerly stood. Several silent seconds passed before a loud, long exhalation from his right prompted him to look sharply in that direction. To Jean's astonishment, sitting not too far off was Alessandro, looking extremely despondent – and thoroughly sloshed – as he held a glass of vodka up to his red-rimmed eyes and swirled the liquid around.
"I don't remember Petra taking part in any of the unseemly hullabaloos breaking out all over the Agency as of late," said Jean gruffly. "What's your excuse?"
"Being sorely misunderstood," replied Alessandro, fighting back a sob.
Jean squinted in puzzlement behind his shades. "About?"
"I'm really a woman trapped in a man's body," sniffled Alessandro.
There was another silence, largely maintained by Jean to gather his wits. "Well, that certainly explains why you're so handy with cosmetics and why you're somewhat... fond of them," the senior handler finally said, his speech slow and cautious. "What it doesn't explain, however, is all that talk about you and Petra that's been going around. If I recall correctly –"
"See what I mean when I say I'm misunderstood?" Alessandro howled suddenly, bursting into a geyser of hot tears and hurling his glass against the far wall, where it shattered into a million pieces with a loud crash. Numerous other patrons recoiled in fright, and more than a few started edging away from Alessandro, optically measuring the distance between themselves and the nearest exit. "Nobody – not even the supposedly analytical Jean Croce – can tell the bloody difference, because I also happen to be a lesbian!"
And with that, a maniacally-shrieking Alessandro flung himself through the others sitting at the bar and directly at Jean, who deftly twisted aside at the very last moment. The younger man careened over the counter and headlong into a rack of bottled wines, his ear-splitting imapact sending vintage port flying everywhere in great red splashes. Paolo the proprietor frantically hollered for assistance, and in the blink of an eye, the rabidly snarling and violently thrashing Alessandro found himself being unceremoniously hauled off the premises by three brawny bottle-washers.
"Jesus Christ... what was that all about?" said a shaken Paolo as he set about wiping the stained countertop clean, obviously not privy to the conversation that sparked off the fracas. The pub was now all but empty, a cloud of dust slowly settling and tables and chairs strewn all over the place by customers hurriedly scrambling over each other to escape. The only other patron left besides Jean was a luckless drinker lying out cold on the floor with a size ten shoeprint on his face.
"Just some weirdo letting his hormones get the better of him," said Jean, adjusting his sunglasses, collar and skewed tie. He wearily passed a hand over his face. "Two shots of tequila, please, Paolo.
"It's going to be a long night."