Chapter 4.
In which Miles hopes of getting laid in the near future are crushed. Instead; Hugo gets his groove on in the boathouse with a certain someone. Oh, and someone is getting sloshed beyond reason.
I am veering a bit off the theme in this chapter but I just figured that if Miles get to have a love interest than Hugo probably deserves getting shagged in cramped confinement. He hasn't had much fun since Libby. Hope you enjoy this one!
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Boathouse
Miles takes a roundabout route circling all the barracks and down towards the boathouse. Just to waste some time. This specific location holds some dear memories to him. Ah, the fun and games of the old days of yore. Hand grenades clinched between teeth and Kate helping him blackmail that slimy freak-show. What fun was had!
As he nears, the unmistakable sounds of people in the throws of passion, escapes from within the little shack. It isn't surprising. Privacy can be a hard-found commodity in Dharmaville. It isn't exactly teeming with great make-out spots if you don't want to risk getting shot in the ass by the hostiles. There sure is some sort of hullabaloo going on in the boathouse this fine evening. He briefly wonders who. A lot of oh-ing and ah-ing. Miles isn't a prude but this is, well frankly, a bit too much.
Someone is certainly getting' it on. And very loudly too.
He hesitates, not knowing exactly why. A flighty feeling of unease, a waft of suspicion wells over him. He has to see who it is. At that very moment the door blasts open and two mismatched figures stumbles out, guffawing in unison.
What the freaking frickety fuck?!
There, plump and shiny as a Thanksgiving turkey, is Hugo. Don Juan of the boathouse is revealed in his half naked glory. Large flowery shirt in hand and belt flapping in the wind. A shocking sight of its very own merit but what is truly sickening is the appearance of a flushed and giggling Mrs. Chang in tow, tucking in her clothes.
There's no holding back. No way. A shade of vermillion flushes over his vision, colouring the horrendous, incomprehensible scene in red. If Miles had had a gun handy, he would surely have used it. That is the only thing he knows.
Hurley must die. Die!
" You!"
Amuck, berserk – call it what you want. Miles mind is blanketed by a deranged fury that explodes from deep within. Vehemently, murderously demented.His fist springs back on its own accord, releases in a fist across Hurley's happy unsuspecting puss. But, for being a large guy, Hugo is amazingly deft and quick. He hits back, probably instinctively, without a clue of his target. Acting on impulse and intuition and Miles is floored like a drunken sailor. He feels the world disappearing in a black haze of fury.
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Must kill Hurley.
The thought wakes him up. He comes too in such a drastically different setting that he thinks for a moment that he surely must have dreamt it all. Then his head falls sideways and his eyes lock on Hurley.
Vile gargantuan potbellied Lothario!
" I'll get you yet – you, you lecherous jumbo sized-Casanova!!!"
He scrambles to get off the bench, noticing that he is one somebody's porch. Looks familiar. His head swims with hot angry fluid and he falls backwards, back into semi darkness, having time to think only that those words came out pretty well for someone who can't even keep his eyes open.
Miles pries his eyes open by sheer will force. He doesn't know how long he has been out of it but when he comes around again Hugo is sitting by his side, looking absolutely fucking miserable. As he should! Miles can't even sit up yet. Fat boy packs a hell of a punch. In lack of better options, Miles surrenders to trying to shoot lasers out of his eyes. Wishing his mere thoughts were enough to kill that pudgy lover-boy.
" You giant rotten cheese-ball of a gigolo!" he sneers. Doing his best to drill into Hugo's brain using his evillest look.
" What's it to you?" Hugo's timid voice pisses him off to the brink of another black-out.
" She's a married woman, you daft sleaze-lump!" he wheezes with as much venom as he can muster. His hands flinches across trying to encircle Hugo's thick neck in one swift move. Hugo hardly notices as he absentmindedly but forcefully grabs both of Miles hands with one large paw and gently returns them to Miles chest. Miles feels like a stubbed child.
" You need to rest. Sorry about the, ehum,…the, yeah you know." He points towards his own eye, indicating that this is where he punched out Miles lights. Miles is to hissed up to even make the connection.
" You fucking idiot!"
He merely shakes his fist feebly in Hurley's face like an irate grandpa. His head pounds and he has run out of all the good name-calling. Can't think of anything better.
Hurley looks slightly embarrassed but not guilty. Not guilty at all.
" We're in love." He blushes beetroot red from neck to hair. Astonishing. Miles is left speechless. Mouth agape as he takes in his potential stepfather. Sick. Absolutely, fucking sick. This can't be happening. Mom, Hurley….oh yeah, this is so on. Bloody time-travel fucked up universe. Not enough with the talking-with-dead balooba!
" Sorry buddy, got real a shiner going on there."
Hugo points a thick finger in the middle of his face. Miles slaps it away as he suddenly realizes. Time, oh crap. Date. Kate. 8 o'clock.
" Great. This is just great too! Freaking' fan-fucking-tastic. Just in time for my date."
Argh. Ugh. Crap. The secret that must not be spoken. He blames it on his emotionally fragile state and the present turbulence.
Hugo's ears peak up reaching the pinnacle of his head. Like two fucking parabola's sticking out from his ridiculously shiny hair.
Uhu.., danger.
"Date? Oh the clothes…Yeah, I was just wondering what the deal is… So hot date huh, so who is…."
Miles decides to leg it. He doesn't know from where he finds the strength but he manages to heave himself off from the bench and then runs for dear life. Legs like propellers across the lawn. Dizzy and dry-mouthed with an eye that is swelling shut as he runs.
That elephantine philanderer!
See, he had one more in him.
He is three hours late. For a moment he considers not going at all. She will be pissed off. But hot. She's pretty hot when she gets all angry and flustered. With that image in his mind, he takes three long leaps up on her porch and knocks slightly too boisterously.
No answer. He knocks harder. He feels like a ginormous wack-head in his suit, a' la mode' 1975, wide lapels and burgundy velour, blood stains on his beige shirt. And the fugly-ass tie that he suddenly realizes clashes quite violently with the burgundy. But goes quite well with the blood.
Fuck! Too late.
She is probably asleep by now.
Not that he cares or anything. Not like he has a bunch of hysterically wild moths flapping around in his belly or anything. Like bats in the belfry.
The door isn't locked. Unable to stop himself he lets himself in.
And there she is.
He finds her boozed up. Curled up on her sofa. Still dressed in her oily work overalls, dirty and smelly. Completely and totally out of this world. Her hair would put Medusa to shame. She stinks, literally stinks of motor-oil and gasoline. If he lights a cigarette now she will surely say 'poof' and pulverize into a dark cloud.
He leans down, touches her shoulder gingerly. Ugh. What the fuck was he thinking, asking her out? She is such a screw-up. And she has obviously downed an entire bottle of vodka. She sleeps peacefully with the empty evidence of her binging clasped lovingly against her chest. A beautiful sight.
Great. Really fucking fantastic.
Not like he has looked forward to this or anything.
Zero. Null, exertion to look (or smell) presentable on her part. Not even a shower!
He feels humiliated and offended beyond reason and convention. Nullified. A feeling amplified into mammoth proportion by the fact that he has made an effort.
He has even shaved. And he is wearing a fucking tie, the size of Argentina.
" You must really have the hots for me to get this dolled up" he mutters while trying to decide whether to turn around or stay with her.
She is obviously far too sloshed to even register who he is. Even less able to answer back.
Funky smelling babe. Extraordinarily inebriated. Reeking like a five day old shrimp soaked up in an oil spill. Not so much sugar and vanilla. She moans like a dying whale and he estimates that the risk of hurling is considerable and realistic. He rummages around in the pantry and the only thing he comes up with is a large frying pan. Well, that's gotta' do for now.
He puts it down beside her. Hoping she will actually manage to hit it if she has to puke.
She is pretty cute though.
Oh, ugh, he can't believe the crap his mind comes up with but still, as he looks at her. He can't help it. Lips pouting like a little sullen kid. Cheeks flushed from the alcohol.
She throws one of her arms above her head in a violent jerky movement that has him fearing for the safety of the Vodka bottle. Wouldn't want glass splinters on the floor on top of the existing disaster he argues as he leans forward to take it from her other hand. Her foul-smelling overalls are zipped down low at the chest and falls open as he sneaks the bottle out of her grip. An expanse of light smooth skin is suddenly visible in the gapping opening. Sweet Jeezus. No bra. Well, couldn't really ask for more in a hot date. Might actually make it to second base without passing first. Excellent opportunity.
Question is, how much of a sleaze-bag can one be?
As Miles ponders the virtue of chivalry he fails to notice the door opening behind him.
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