Current Interaction: Harold and Trent
Trent strummed a chord on his guitar, singing to himself.
"Oh, baby,
You're so awesome, baby,
So, uh—how about, maybe
You and I go get some, uh—rabies?
Or—take care of a baby?
Or go and find a—laybee—aw crap, that's not even a word!"
Trent stopped playing and slapping his guitar angrily, dropping his head down to his chest. "Man, I really do suck at this," he mumbled. He had been trying to come up with some new lyrics for the last three hours now, but to no avail—if anything, his ideas were becoming worse the harder and harder he tried.
He sighed, dropping his guitar to the floor and rising from the couch. "Maybe I'll go for a walk," he murmured to himself. "My creative juices are tapped out, a little break will help me clear my head..."
Unfortunately there wasn't much of a place to go without leaving the resort; a TDA Playa des Losers was smack in middle of Toronto, which made it naturally less expansive than one on a practically-deserted island. The best he could do was drag his feet around the first floor, which basically consisted of the pool area, the sound studio where they did the Aftermaths and the dining room. The latter was empty except for Harold, who sat hunched over a table and writing furiously as usual, with about a hundred crumpled paper balls littering the table and floor around him.
Seeing no one else around to talk to and nothing else to do, Trent slid into the seat across from him. "Hey, Harold."
"Hey," the lanky geek said, not even looking up from his work.
Trent looked at the upside-down writing Harold was working on. "Still working on those love poems?"
"Yeah."
"Hmm." Trent kicked idly under the table, scattering several paper balls in the process. "And you...don't think you're going a little overboard, dude?"
"No way, man. I'm this close to getting Leshawna to like me again, I just gotta find the right words to do it! Hmm..." He muttered something quietly to himself, then looked up. "Do you think 'ebony' rhymes with 'Aphrodite?'"
"Uh—close enough, I guess?"
"Cool." He went back to writing, tongue sticking out between his teeth in concentration. After a moment he asked, "How are things with you, by the way? Bridgette said something about how you're about to sign with some big-name record producer or something."
"Yeah, after the first season I started getting a ton of offers from people," Trent said, nervously scratching the back of his head. "I'm just having sort of a problem."
"What?"
"Well, apparently everyone down at the record label think my lyrics...well, stink."
"Hmm." Trent noticed Harold did nothing to contradict that opinion.
"I'm supposed to write some new songs and submit them as a demo, but everything I write lately just turns out cruddier and cruddier."
"Hmm. I'm sorry, man."
"Yeah."
Trent put his face in his hand and slumped down over the table, as Harold gave a last flourish to his writing and picked up his latest poem, reading it softly under his breath. Suddenly he grimaced, growled and crumpled it up, throwing it to the ground with the others and starting again.
Trent frowned, then, out of curiosity, bent down and picked one of the paper balls off the floor, uncrumpling it softly and reading it silently to himself. Harold didn't notice as his companion's eyebrows shot up slightly, nor as Trent bent down and retrieved more of his trash, whispering the words as he read.
"Harold!"
"Gah!" He jumped, dropping his pencil and clutching his chest in surprise. "What, man?"
"These poems, they're—they're—"
"I know, Leshawna already turned most of those down."
"Amazing, dude!"
Harold blinked. "Huh?"
"Yeah!" Trent was smoothing out several of them, placing them on the table. "This one—oh, if I just edit one or two lines a little, it could be perfect for that new tune I came up with the other night! And this one—I mean, I wouldn't use Leshawna's name, but if I replaced it something with the same number of syllables...can I have these, man?"
Harold just stared. "But—Leshawna didn't like any of those—"
"I'll pay you twenty bucks."
Harold's eyes shot open. "Deal!"
Trent whipped out his wallet and shoved a bill into Harold's hand, then bent down and collected an armful of failed poems. "Thanks, dude!" he said, before rushing out of the room.
Harold stared down at his notepad, then held up the twenty, admiring the Queen's visage with a crafty grin. "Harold McGrady, professional songwriter. AWEsome."
Author's Note: Is this one too predictable? Anyway, I actually came up with this before the TDA special, but maybe this is how the Total Drama Brothers began to come together or something. ;-) I hope you enjoyed, and please leave reviews!
Next Interaction: Ezekiel and Izzy. (Probably not romance, though, sorry.)