| Information on strange frequencies. |
[12 Jul 2006|08:23pm] |
By trade, of course, I usually end up finding out the strangest things by way of song, rather than by way of television or radio. Who needs to even read a newspaper when you can gather the entire day's news from a small handful of over eager karaoke performers? They saunter up to my stage, belt me out a pathetic rendition of their favorite top forty hit, and I end up piecing together every bit of information that happens to float through the atmosphere in any given day.
Sometimes it's good stuff, client dependent of course; I catch glimpses of celebrity gossip, glyphs of people's personal lives (infront of and in behind bedroom doors, if you know what I'm saying), tidbits of things no one even really needs to know about, and even rarely, I catch bits of some sort of hairbrained government conspiracy.
But tonight, as I was minding my own business, some schlub ambles up onto my stage and chooses to grace my eardrums with what he thinks is his best Tom Petty. Now, everything I've ever heard of Tom Petty was not a complete and total violation of my eardrums, because honey, I can at least deal with the real thing. But this? I've heard more musical banshees. But I digress.
Apparently, there's some big fourth of July bash going down in Searchlight. Which, granted, not entirely suprising seeing as there'd been patriotic people running in and out of my bar all day, and i've heard more versions of the Star Spangled Banner on my stage tonight than in a whole season of hockey games. But as vocally challenged here belted out his own style of American Girl, I was unpleasantly informed though way of psychic reading of the outcome of tonight's festivities. Worrisome, to say the least.
Especially so since Elian let it slip that Mere-kins had headed down there in search of GW this evening. Now that thought is drunk-worthy to me in it's own right, but the thought of her safety had come to mind, first and foremost. The girl can take care of herself, I knew this much. But still, I couldn't help but fret. Her cellphone was out of range, and the numerous attempts to phone her ended up with squat.
So what now? I was afraid to go down there myself. After the last visit I had? I definately didn't even want to think about the attempts to filet demonigon myself. I could send Elian, but I wouldn't know what I would do if something happened to him.
I suppose all I could do was sit and wait, and have faith in Meredith's ability to keep herself safe.
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| What are friends for? |
[30 Jun 2006|05:25pm] |
"Heard about your night last night, Champ," Meredith chuckled as she gave a rather hung-over Lorne a hearty slap on the back and grinned at him widely. Clearly, she found the opportunity to rib him about his night of binge drinking worth fully exploiting to the farthest extent.
The demon groaned loudly and hunched over in a chair in his kitchen, elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped firmly on the back of his head. If only the room would stop spinning.
"The next time you decide to sexually harass one of your customers, please let me know because I want to be there for the show," the brunette went on as she hoisted herself up to sit on his kitchen counter. Her feet dangled off and she continued to grin at him.
Lorne raised his head and glared at her. "That's not what happened, and you know it."
Meredith shrugged. "It's my interpretation of Elian's rather detailed and colourful play-by-play."
The demon lowered his head back into his lap. "The both of you can go to hell," he mumbled. He obviously didn't fully prepare himself for the onslaught of the after-effects of the copious amounts of Absinthe he had consumed the night before. For a demon who could never get drunk, he certainly wasn't expecting a hang-over to feel like this.
"Yeah, I love you too," Meredith replied rather wryly, then hopped back off his counter. She gently squeezed him on the shoulder. "Anyways, you have fun trying not to puke, and I will see you tomorrow."
The demon raised his head. "You're not coming to work tonight?" he asked her.
"No," she replied, "I have a date."
Lorne gaped at her, suddenly feeling the need to resume his drinking binge.
The brunette laughed. "With Grace, you git," she told him, "Man, you shoulda seen the look on your face."
The demon fell back into his own lap and groaned. "You're too much, Mere. Way too much."
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| Honey, I just can't fight this feelin' no more. |
[17 Apr 2006|11:48pm] |
thud thud thud thud thud thud..
There was something about a disgusting amount of bass that drunk and dancing nightclub patrons enjoyed so much. The harder the better, enough to cause your intestines to vibrate and your vision to become blurry. Lorne wasn't a fan of it, but the soundsystem had been cranked up in full in his absence, so no karaoke would be performed while he was stuck in bed.
But the reverberation had jostled the sleeping demon from his slumber, the noise of the framed picture of Patti LaBelle hitting against his bedroom wall rhymically to the muffled beat joined the rattle of his loose pocket change vibrating on the mahogany of his bedside table.
Meredith had left hours before, and Lorne had fallen asleep the second his friend had closed his bedroom door behind her. His dreams were troubled, and he tossed and turned with the visions of his horrific deeds still fresh in his mind. It was almost a relief to be awoken, and with his red eyes wide yet tired, the demon sat up in bed and ran a weary hand through his touseled and pillow-flattened hair.
Without much thought, the comforter was thrown from overtop of him, and bare feet swung out and over the bed, then planted firmly on the hardwood floor beside it. He stood, walked across the room, ending up infront of his full length mirror. He looked like hell. Infact, Lorne couldn't possibly remember a time where he looked worse than he did now, even back in Pylea when he wore ragged leather pants and had spent the entire day shovelling manure in his father's stable.
His red pyjama bottoms sat low on his hips, bare chest still proudly displaying the rough and incredibly vicious laceration that ran diagonally across it from nipple to waist. Idly, his hand reached up and touched the cut, as he cast a somewhat disgusted yet curious gaze in the mirror. He lowered his hand and turned his arm upward, taking another look at the jagged slice up the underside of his forearm. Red eyes then moved to his forehead, white bandages lying flat against the bone. He snarled slightly, then reached up and pulled at the tape.
Underneathe, two reddend holes bore deep into green flesh, white bone still visible among healing tissue. The bandages were removed and thrown into the waste basket, and Lorne looked back at his reflection. Atrocious.
He no longer felt dizzy. He no longer felt scared, and he no longer felt as though what he had done was a huge mistake. He had done this for a reason. He had done this for a purpose. Whatever he had done, he certainly wasn't finished.
( You got my back or you got the knife? )
Something had to be done.
Whatever it was that was causing Lorne to behave this way had to be stopped.
Preferably, before anymore blood was shed.
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