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itsjustagamerp2012-11-24 10:00 am
itsjustthemads) wrote in itsjustagamerp2012-11-24 10:00 am
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Experiment #32 - Atlanta Nights - Chapters 9 and 10
Atlanta Nights - Chapters 9 and 10
By Travis Tea
Namine: So we’re doing this book today.
Sam: *does not look happy at all* There better not be anything unwholesome in this story! The past few have not filled me with much confidence!
Aqua: I think most of them haven’t filled anyone with confidence.
Namine: *nods* Well, I guess the sooner we start, the sooner we finish?
Aqua: *also nods* Right.
Sam: *just sighs*
Penelope Urbain let out the clutch as she sped around the curve. She felt a thrill -- partly from the roaring engine, from the speed of the car (she was moving fast, too fast, on a suburban street, and she liked the speed too much).
Sam: Reckless driving! No, this story is already unwholesome.
Aqua: It could be worse?
Namine: She could be flying a Gummi Ship instead.
Partly, no, mostly — mostly it was the thrill of anticipation.
Sam: Of a fiery and terrible crash.
Namine: Of getting a speeding ticket.
She was going to meet Bruce Lucent, and she was eager to see him.
Aqua: Ah... I hope he’s worth the risk?
She could not have said why she wanted him so badly, but she did. Wanted to see him! That was all it was, she was curious, maybe more than curious. Eager, but — not too eager.
Sam: Oh, could you be a little more vague, please?
Namine: I think the author likes repetition too much.
Aqua: I think I agree.
Sam: I think I agree we should all repeat our agreements.
There. That was his home. That was where she meant to be. She hit the brakes hard, skidded to a stop in front of his home.
Aqua: The lawn would never be the same.
Namine: Those poor roses.
He was in the doorway, waiting for her.
“Penny,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Sam: Is that so? We never would have guessed.
There was a hint of suggestion in his smile, something that whispered to her dreams.
She embraced him, whispering his name. “Bruce,” she whispered, and felt a chill at the turgid warmth of his body.
Sam: Did she whisper his name loudly, too?
Aqua: Maybe they’re practicing a play.
Namine: Wouldn’t that make the story actually interesting?
He kissed her, so lightly. He wanted her, she could feel it in his lips. She wanted him, too, but not so easily — not here, not now. (She thrilled at that thought. Here! Now! — No!)
Aqua: I don’t think she’s made her mind up, yet.
Sam: *narrows his eyes* I do not like where any of this is heading.
“Dinner,” she said. “Where will we go?”
“I’ve got reservations for us at Le Moulin de la Gallette,” Bruce said.
Penelope Urbain knew the place — it was French, continental, lit by candles, elegant and intimate; she’d gone there once, alone, and eaten Saucisses de Francfort by a window in the back that looked over the moonlit garden...
Sam: At least something in this story has a bit of class.
“That’d be nice,” she said. “I like the way you think, Bruce Lucent.”
Bruce took a remote control from his pocket, pointed it at the garage. An engine roared to life as the door began to shudder open; in a moment a car emerged, its doors opening gently as a suggestion.
Sam: I suggest you start making sense, story.
“It’s ready when we are,” said Bruce. He smiled. “I’m always ready. If you are...” He was already in, on the driver’s side; no one had to ask Penelope twice.
Aqua: Wasn’t he just standing next to her?
Namine: I think so. Maybe he knows magic?
Sam: Maybe his remote control can teleport him places, too. It seems capable of doing everything else!
Aqua: I’m not sure the magic would actually work like that.
# # #
Sam: Dial M for mundane.
There are moments when life, like a bad movie, gives us theme music. The good stuff is quiet — maybe Rachmaninoff, played softly in the background; Bach or Beethoven — in the classy films, it’s one of those, or maybe Mozart. Bruce Lucent’s life wasn’t like that.
Sam: It was more like that dreck that 90s Kid listens to.
Namine: So the people listed here are good musicians?
Aqua: I suppose so?
Sam: Yes! Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are all classical artists that children should be exposed to.
Namine: That means we won’t find their music here on the satellite, then.
Sam: Sadly...no.
More like, oh, more like “Popcorn”
Sam: Easy to make, and bad for you.
— the electronic pop version, quick, zippy, headed straight toward a climax. In the end, well, it’s a little flat — too much air, too little substance;
Sam: Oh look, an apt description of this story.
Namine: At least real popcorn tastes good.
it just ain’t Beethoven, you know what I mean? But it’s something, and we can’t all be Beethoven, there isn’t talent enough in all the world for that.
Penelope nestled into the crook of Bruce’s arm. It didn’t matter to her that the music was “Popcorn”; for her it was Wagner and Valkyries, all the way.
“I love your lustrous hair,” he whispered. “I love red hair, real red, it’s so beautiful.”
Namine: I didn’t know there was a fake red.
Sam: Sometimes people are foolish and dye their hair.
Namine: Oh! Well, if they like the color...
Only her hairdresser knew for sure, and it’d been years since he’d confided in Penelope. She didn’t know what color she’d have without him, and shuddered at the thought.
Aqua: How do you not know that?
Namine: If she’s changing the color because he likes red better, then if he wasn’t there wouldn’t she just have her normal color?
Sam: And this is why dying your hair is a bad idea!
Aqua: There’s nothing wrong with it in moderation, I’m sure.
Sam: It’s not moderation if she cannot decide on her own hair color without his assistance.
“You’re a sweet man,” she said. “I love your passion.”
Bruce grinned. “You make me rapturously happy,” he said.
Aqua: I... think it might be more interesting to be shown that.
Namine: Maybe, but I’m not sure how they would.
Penelope Urbain felt a chill that thrilled her. “Me too,” she said. He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you make me feel — so happy, too. Rapturously happy. Yeah, that’s the word for it — rapturous.”
Sam: This isn’t like that terrible ‘Left Behind,’ book, is it?
She could feel his firm studly body under her left hand.
Namine: That makes it sound like he has studs in him, which would hurt.
Sam: Body piercing! Also a terrible idea.
He was smiling at her. He looked hungry.
Sam: *gasps* Don’t eat her!
Namine: I hope this isn’t a zombie story.
Aqua: Or a vampire one.
Namine: Don’t we have ‘Twilight’ for that?
Sam: ...Unfortunately.
“I was in an auto accident, once,” he said. “The doctors told me I’d never walk again. But they were wrong.”
She smiled, nestling into the crook of his arm. “Of course they were,” she said. “How did you recover?”
Aqua: Why are we being told this?
“I lived my dream,” he said. “And didn’t let their nay-saying dissuade me.”
Sam: Because it is just that simple. Of. Course.
Namine: Of course.
She pressed her voluptuous body against him. He was pulling into the restaurant's garage, turning, downshifting, jamming the brake — they were there, parked.
Sam: That does not seem like a safe way to drive.
Aqua: It probably isn’t.
Sam: Then I guess these two are made for each other.
Namine: Sharing hobbies is always good.
The valet came to her door, helped her from her seat. Bruce gave the man his keys and a twenty; the man smiled knowingly.
Bruce took her arm and led her to the door, where they waited a long moment for the maitre d'.
"You're in software?" she said.
Bruce smiled. "I'm a software developer," he said. "Well-to-do — about 20. I have a studly body, don't you think?"
Aqua: She... does know this already, doesn’t she?
Sam: And modest, too.
She looked him up and down. It was indeed the finest body that money could buy.
Namine: So he’s a robot now? I thought he was a zombie.
Sam: Unless he was a... *gasp* Robot. Zombie!
Aqua: How does that even work?
Sam: I don’t know. But it would be bad!
She smiled. "If I tell you you have a sexy body," she said, "would you hold it against me?"
He put an arm around her, pulled her close. "You know I would," he said.
She purred. "I like that," she said. "I like Atlanta. It's such a cosmopolitan city."
Sam: At least this story is taking place in America.
Bruce whispered in her ear. "It is."
"Atlanta is a great place for an enthusiastic would-be novelist to write about. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution is a first-rate paper, and CNN is headquartered right here in Atlanta!"
"Oh, Penelope!"
"Oh Brad!"
Sam: ...Oh, dear.
"I'm Bruce. My name is Bruce, beautiful."
Namine: If she likes him that much, I think she should remember his name, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Sam: Bruce Beautiful? I thought it was Bruce Lucent.
"O Bruce!"
Dinner was amazing — Brad or Bruce or whatever the studmuffin's name was ordered the eponymous specialty of the house, les moulins de las gallettes, they call it the food that sings, and it sang for them before it was prepared.
Sam: ...What. I don’t understand the implications here.
Namine: I think the food is supposed to be singing to them.
Sam: So the Swedish Chef is cooking for them?
Aqua: The who?
Sam: The Swedish Chef. He seems to have a whole cadre of singing food.
Namine: How does he get it to sing?
Sam: I believe they just do it when he asks them to.
Aqua: ...They?
Sam: Yes. Lettuce, carrots, apples, oranges, tomatoes, celery. The usual fruits and vegetables.
They drank before dinner — Bruce ordered, quietly speaking to the waiter. "Deux ouragans, si vous plait. Double fort."
Namine: Because two forts are better than one.
Aqua: I think it’s French, actually.
Namine: Oh! But it looked like English.
Aqua: It does.
Sam: It should be in English!
With dinner there was a magnum of champagne, and after dinner there was coffee and brandy. Penelope felt her head swim as she rested it into the crook of Bruce's arm
Namine: That’s usually a bad sign.
— it was an amazing meal, an experience she would always treasure. She wanted him so bad, and there, in the quiet that was the candle-lit restaurant, he touched her. She didn't resist. He wanted her, and she wanted him, too.
Sam: Well. This accomplished a whole lot.
Aqua: Maybe the next one will be better?
Namine: Maybe. But what’s the big deal about touching?
Sam: *grumbles* Never mind!
Chapter 10
The elegant Polo Club walls were adorned with a great plentitude of exquisite paintings, depicting a tremendous multitude of beautiful scenes, with still lives
Namine: Still lifes. Paintings aren’t made of lives.
of flowers, horses, sailing boats, and landscapes.
Sam: If you are doing a still life of a horse or sailing boat, then something is dreadfully wrong.
Namine: *nods, frowning at the art terminology fail* A landscape is its own kind of painting, too.
They are from all sorts of great painters and they had one every few feet. Their frames are gold gilt and filled with curlicues and fancy carving. The floors were polished white marble, with veins of luminous color running through them,
Aqua: Please stick to a single tense.
and you can see your countenance in them because they polished every morning.
Sam: They polished what every morning?!
Aqua: Ah... the morning I guess. I didn’t think you could polish mornings, though.
A commodious, confident cloak room was standing discretely behind the double door, for coats, but was empty on this lovely, gorgeous, beautiful morning. There was an elegant, gracious, wide stairway
Namine: The cloak room is confident and the stairway is gracious? Are they in Beast’s Castle now?
Sam: This glut of adjectives is making me feel ill.
Aqua: It’s not very interesting either.
to the second floor that had gilt on the black iron railing. It was orthogonal and it curved around it. The carpet was bright, vivid, glorious
red. The French windows in the vestibule were open to the patio, and the sound of tennis games came in, and the scintillating, witty,
Sam: Stop this sentence.
sparkling chatter from the black wrought iron tables and chairs with all their twisting twining
Sam: I said stop already!
cingulated vines in their arms and legs there, where lunch was being served and the smell of the food came in, too.
Sam: THANK you!
There was a guest book on a table in the center of the vestibule, open to hold the disguised names. There was a flower pot of Wedgewood china, blue and white, sat behind it, filled with a colorful, fragment, teeming profusion and arrangement of sweet-scented, multicolored flowers. Their vivid color contrasted with the stark, plain, severe starkness of the unadorned walls.
Sam: See? This is what happens when you deregulate adjectives.
Namine: Give them an inch, they take a mile.
Aqua: A very well-described mile.
The Atlanta Polo Club was an old and respected and very venereal
Aqua: I think you mean “venerable”.
Sam: *sloooooow facepalm*
Namine: Probably.
institution. It had been founded more than two centuries ago and was members from all the most respectable, notable and antique families in the area.
Sam: It’s like this whole chapter was written by a disgruntled thesaurus, desperate for work.
Namine: With no dictionary to help it. I don’t think a family can be antique.
When Sherman came marching through Georgia they had saved a few things from the old Polo Club, and the noble and distinguishable members were very proud of their traction. They gads been very poor after the war, but no presumptuous, odious, vial carpetbagger
Namine: The carpetbaggers came in test tubes?
Aqua: Maybe they were researching plaid crossbreeds?
Namine: Maybe, because they’d already researched all the polka-dot crossbreeds they could.
or scallywags had been permitted too scornfully, contemptuously darken the doors of the Polo Club. They had carefully rebuilt it of dark oak paneling and the lead-framed windows that were there now. They had spared no expense.
Sam: They had spared. No. Adjectives!
Namine: Or adverbs.
They had played polo whit cavalry horse brought carefully back from the war, by young, handsome, honorable Calvary officers of immemorial memory from the war.
Sam: Honorable? From people who tried to secede from the Union?! That! Is unlikely!
They were very very proud of their disgusted memory and extended ancestry. They had antique cavalry swords crossed over every marble fireplace. Many people tried to join it and couldn't. It was very exclusive. Some of the aged members don't want anyone at all from the north to join, but there were other members who were retrogressive and onward-thinking and they managed to ease folks about those members, as long they stood docility and listed resentfully when the members talked prolixly about the novel war.
Sam: *is just continuously facepalming in his chair, muttering things under his breath*
Some of their new members were very good polo players and they had industriously managed too won many difficult games.
Aqua: Is this important?
Sam: It’s miserable is what it is!
Namine: Les Miserables would be a better book to read.
Irene Stevens
Aqua: A new character already?
Sam: Oh, terrific. More people to be terrible examples.
starts to pertly walk into the Polo Club. She had long blonde hair and a voluptuous body. She was about 20. She was dressing in an expensive designer cerulean gown and not a bit of jewelry; her beauty needed no jewelry. She tried and signed the guest book.
Aqua: I don’t think that’s actually very hard.
Namine: But the club is exclusive, maybe they wouldn’t let her.
She had come there from her hotel, where she had checked out that morning. She had driven here down the tortuous roads by all the Civil War monuments and past the pastures where they get the polo horses. They were all thoroughbreds and very beautiful. There had been flowers all along the way: roses and tulips and asters and crocuses and lilies and magnolias. She had managed to park her vehicle in the newest parking lot but she had been compiled
Namine: That sounds uncomfortable.
Sam: Even dangerous.
to park it where the ferocious sunlight would infernally heat it up while she was leisurely enjoining the Polo Club. The soaring oak trees and maple trees had gloomily, dismally shaded the parking lot.
Sam: Are they going to go back and describe how she dressed herself and brushed her teeth that morning, too?! STOP. With this ceaseless describing!
Elegantly, She walked up the stairs. The gown swished mysteriously about her legs. The sparkling mirror in the stairway considerately let her prudentially endeavor to carefully check her hair and jewelry. The artificial, incandescent light did not become her. It unflatteringly made her verdant dress and gold necklace look ghastly unbecoming.
Namine: I thought she wasn’t wearing jewelry.
Aqua: She teleported some on.
Sam: Or a gold necklace made of -ly’s just formed on top of her!
But nothing could, in its worst efforts, made her look less than marvelously stunning, could really detract from her gorgeous beauty and loveliness and she hurriedly took arctic comfort
Namine: That’s one way to say it was a cold comfort.
and consolation in that.
She urgently meandered
Aqua: I’d like to see that.
down the marmoreal hallway to the opulent, exotic, expansive bar. It was very, very crowded and odorously noisy. All the men instantly stopped and ardently looked at her. She wearisomely sighs.
Sam: *sighs wearisomely*
Aqua: Too many adjectives?
Sam: Far too many.
She was getting very tired of the way all the men instantly stopped and ardently looked at her voluptuous body and long blonde hair and her vermilion dress
Namine: I thought her dress was green.
Sam: A thousand and one descriptions, and none of them consistent.
and her gold watch with the diamonds. Especially when they were such tiresome stuffy old business men and none of them could adequately, competently, sufficiently
Aqua: One descriptor is fine.
Namine: The thesaurus isn’t always a good friend.
play tennis let alone anything more private. And all the women cattily looked at her with sniffy expressions, when they were foolish wearing too much makeup and revolting, unsightly jewelry. She can be already heard the snide gossip began too perambulated its gossipy peregrinations about the ostentatiously crowded bar.
Sam: I. What is this? This isn’t English. They are English words, but they are coming out as gibberish!
Namine: I’m not really following it either.
Swiftly, she sveltely walks up to the bar and smoothly orders a Bloody Mary. The bartender sagaciously nods. He competently takes a crystal glass.
Sam: *just shakes his head, his wings over his eyes* This is torturous. We are being bombarded with adjectives and adverbs and have no shield against them!
Aqua: They... aren’t really what shield spells are designed for.
Namine: More verbs and nouns wouldn’t seem to work, either.
Sam: See?! There is no defense we can use! This is the absolute worst!
He swiftly gets the cold ice and put it in the empty glass. Consequently, he gets the imported, foreign vodka and put it in the glass with the red, opaque tomato juice. He sticks a fair wedge of easy lemon
Aqua: Instead of hard lemon?
Namine: How would you tell the difference?
on the edge of it and promptly gives her it.
She comfortably sat back in her opulent, luxurious chair and leisurely sighed.
This was the right thing, after a long, wearisome, odious burdens and troubles of an appalling day like that.
She toyed with her pearls.
Sam: A moment ago she had gold, and...oh, why do I bother!
Namine: Because otherwise we would just have to read the story?
Sam: ...That is the worse option.
The comfortable chair was brown leather and very nice. She liked it.
And she was here in the bar.
Alone.
It was nice.
Aqua: We established that.
No one would talk here. She carefully tried and soothed out the skirt of her sallow dress.
Namine: Changing color so much upset it. It wasn’t supposed to be a magic dress.
She fortuitously remembered Henry Archer.
She managed too shivered in memory. No wonder no one was looking attentive anymore, next to him.
Sam: Nonsense! How does one possibly take English words and turn them into such nonsense?!
She sips her martini.
That was when Steven Suffern saw her.
Steven was a well-built and well-hung young masseuse at the Polo Club. He has an eye for the ladies, but bats for both teams.
Sam: THAT. Was not appropriate!
Namine: Switching teams in the middle of the game usually isn’t.
Aqua: Again, could we please stick to one tense.
His eyes narrowed when he saw her.
Irene Stevens.
Hear.
Alone.
There was no one around.
No one would come to the Polo Club on such a dreary, wet day, especially so entirely early in the morning.
Sam: And now the day has changed, too!
Thunder cracked thunderously overhead. There was a loud, voluminous drumming and thumping of precipitous and abundant rain.
Aqua: Let me guess. It was rainy?
He walked toward her. Slowly. Took each step in leisure. Contemplating Irena with gimlet eyes.
Sam: Now who is Irena?!
Aqua: Her twin sister?
Namine: Her Nobody?
Taking in that voracious figure and the elongated blond hair. The carroty dress.
Sam: We’ve covered nearly every color of the rainbow by this point.
The ruby band. He wanted to linger, to savor the moment, to pounce at once.
She leisurely drank from her gin and tonic again.
Namine: That’s the third time her drink has changed.
"Irena," he pontificates. "You are the daughter of Isaac Stevens. I will reveal your dark secret to your father unless you allow me to have my way with you."
Sam: *gasps, horrified* And this story is now officially not appropriate for anyone and children especially!
Namine: Maybe he just wants to draw on her face?
"No," exclaimed she, horror stuck.
Sam: Is this that strange comic on the internet about trolls in space that seems to be so popular nowadays?
Namine: You mean they’re trolls now? But wait, then wouldn’t their words be written with different colors and fonts?
Aqua: Maybe. But I don’t think they talk in colors.
Sam: Perhaps they make up for it with thousands of pointless adjectives and adverbs.
"Yes," grated he, harshly.
"You will not!" expostulated she.
"I will reveal your dark secret!" exclaimed he.
"I will not allow you to have you way with me!" she avowed.
"You will!" he averted.
"No, you won't reveal my dark secret," threatened she, numbly. "My father will never believe you."
"I will, and he will," exerted her.
"You won't and he won't," claimed he.
Sam: This is a Looney Tunes sketch!
Aqua: It’s like listening to children.
"I will, and he will," remonstrated he.
"You won't," explained she, in an explanatory tone of voice. "My father will be very, very, very furious with you. He will certainly blame you."
Sam: I blame all of you for this!
Namine: Well, the characters can’t always help having a bad author.
"I will and he won't," demonstrated he, contemptuously.
"You won't and he will," proclaimed her, definitely.
"I will and he won't," declared he, defiantly.
"You won't," denounced her, angrily. "I already told him last Tuesday."
Namine: I think I liked it better when there were too many adjectives.
Sam: Why didn’t you tell us this half a page ago and save us all the trouble?!
Namine: I didn’t know.
It was as if a copious galleon of wintry water had been surreptitiously poured over his hansom head. He sat stonily and goggled explicitly and gaped impassively as if he were a fish precipitously extracted from its appropriately aqueous environment. He boisterously, wordlessly, softly sputtered like a boiling tea kettle.
Namine: I think some of those are opposites.
Aqua: They are.
He stolidly sat like an ancient, moss-overgrown statue from the radiantly fragrant gardens
Namine: Now they’re in Radiant Garden?
Aqua: I don’t remember it being any more fragrant than other worlds.
that the noble city was plenteously, bountifully endowed with.
Sam: *head in his wings, just groaning*
She contentiously got up and stylishly walked away, her amethystine dress swirling about her ankles, fondly remembering his exquisite, superb physique and form of his well-proportionate, muscled body. She dazedly walked down the polished wood of the stairway and out of the Polo Club and up the hill and under the oaks and over to her vehicle.
Aqua: Did we even get anywhere?
Sam: No! That accomplished even less than the previous chapter! We accomplished nothing and then we accomplished less than nothing!
Namine: But we finished the part of the story we had to read.
Sam: And I feel worse off for it.
Aqua: Mmm. But at least it’s over now.
Sam: None too soon.
By Travis Tea
Namine: So we’re doing this book today.
Sam: *does not look happy at all* There better not be anything unwholesome in this story! The past few have not filled me with much confidence!
Aqua: I think most of them haven’t filled anyone with confidence.
Namine: *nods* Well, I guess the sooner we start, the sooner we finish?
Aqua: *also nods* Right.
Sam: *just sighs*
Penelope Urbain let out the clutch as she sped around the curve. She felt a thrill -- partly from the roaring engine, from the speed of the car (she was moving fast, too fast, on a suburban street, and she liked the speed too much).
Sam: Reckless driving! No, this story is already unwholesome.
Aqua: It could be worse?
Namine: She could be flying a Gummi Ship instead.
Partly, no, mostly — mostly it was the thrill of anticipation.
Sam: Of a fiery and terrible crash.
Namine: Of getting a speeding ticket.
She was going to meet Bruce Lucent, and she was eager to see him.
Aqua: Ah... I hope he’s worth the risk?
She could not have said why she wanted him so badly, but she did. Wanted to see him! That was all it was, she was curious, maybe more than curious. Eager, but — not too eager.
Sam: Oh, could you be a little more vague, please?
Namine: I think the author likes repetition too much.
Aqua: I think I agree.
Sam: I think I agree we should all repeat our agreements.
There. That was his home. That was where she meant to be. She hit the brakes hard, skidded to a stop in front of his home.
Aqua: The lawn would never be the same.
Namine: Those poor roses.
He was in the doorway, waiting for her.
“Penny,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Sam: Is that so? We never would have guessed.
There was a hint of suggestion in his smile, something that whispered to her dreams.
She embraced him, whispering his name. “Bruce,” she whispered, and felt a chill at the turgid warmth of his body.
Sam: Did she whisper his name loudly, too?
Aqua: Maybe they’re practicing a play.
Namine: Wouldn’t that make the story actually interesting?
He kissed her, so lightly. He wanted her, she could feel it in his lips. She wanted him, too, but not so easily — not here, not now. (She thrilled at that thought. Here! Now! — No!)
Aqua: I don’t think she’s made her mind up, yet.
Sam: *narrows his eyes* I do not like where any of this is heading.
“Dinner,” she said. “Where will we go?”
“I’ve got reservations for us at Le Moulin de la Gallette,” Bruce said.
Penelope Urbain knew the place — it was French, continental, lit by candles, elegant and intimate; she’d gone there once, alone, and eaten Saucisses de Francfort by a window in the back that looked over the moonlit garden...
Sam: At least something in this story has a bit of class.
“That’d be nice,” she said. “I like the way you think, Bruce Lucent.”
Bruce took a remote control from his pocket, pointed it at the garage. An engine roared to life as the door began to shudder open; in a moment a car emerged, its doors opening gently as a suggestion.
Sam: I suggest you start making sense, story.
“It’s ready when we are,” said Bruce. He smiled. “I’m always ready. If you are...” He was already in, on the driver’s side; no one had to ask Penelope twice.
Aqua: Wasn’t he just standing next to her?
Namine: I think so. Maybe he knows magic?
Sam: Maybe his remote control can teleport him places, too. It seems capable of doing everything else!
Aqua: I’m not sure the magic would actually work like that.
# # #
Sam: Dial M for mundane.
There are moments when life, like a bad movie, gives us theme music. The good stuff is quiet — maybe Rachmaninoff, played softly in the background; Bach or Beethoven — in the classy films, it’s one of those, or maybe Mozart. Bruce Lucent’s life wasn’t like that.
Sam: It was more like that dreck that 90s Kid listens to.
Namine: So the people listed here are good musicians?
Aqua: I suppose so?
Sam: Yes! Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are all classical artists that children should be exposed to.
Namine: That means we won’t find their music here on the satellite, then.
Sam: Sadly...no.
More like, oh, more like “Popcorn”
Sam: Easy to make, and bad for you.
— the electronic pop version, quick, zippy, headed straight toward a climax. In the end, well, it’s a little flat — too much air, too little substance;
Sam: Oh look, an apt description of this story.
Namine: At least real popcorn tastes good.
it just ain’t Beethoven, you know what I mean? But it’s something, and we can’t all be Beethoven, there isn’t talent enough in all the world for that.
Penelope nestled into the crook of Bruce’s arm. It didn’t matter to her that the music was “Popcorn”; for her it was Wagner and Valkyries, all the way.
“I love your lustrous hair,” he whispered. “I love red hair, real red, it’s so beautiful.”
Namine: I didn’t know there was a fake red.
Sam: Sometimes people are foolish and dye their hair.
Namine: Oh! Well, if they like the color...
Only her hairdresser knew for sure, and it’d been years since he’d confided in Penelope. She didn’t know what color she’d have without him, and shuddered at the thought.
Aqua: How do you not know that?
Namine: If she’s changing the color because he likes red better, then if he wasn’t there wouldn’t she just have her normal color?
Sam: And this is why dying your hair is a bad idea!
Aqua: There’s nothing wrong with it in moderation, I’m sure.
Sam: It’s not moderation if she cannot decide on her own hair color without his assistance.
“You’re a sweet man,” she said. “I love your passion.”
Bruce grinned. “You make me rapturously happy,” he said.
Aqua: I... think it might be more interesting to be shown that.
Namine: Maybe, but I’m not sure how they would.
Penelope Urbain felt a chill that thrilled her. “Me too,” she said. He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, you make me feel — so happy, too. Rapturously happy. Yeah, that’s the word for it — rapturous.”
Sam: This isn’t like that terrible ‘Left Behind,’ book, is it?
She could feel his firm studly body under her left hand.
Namine: That makes it sound like he has studs in him, which would hurt.
Sam: Body piercing! Also a terrible idea.
He was smiling at her. He looked hungry.
Sam: *gasps* Don’t eat her!
Namine: I hope this isn’t a zombie story.
Aqua: Or a vampire one.
Namine: Don’t we have ‘Twilight’ for that?
Sam: ...Unfortunately.
“I was in an auto accident, once,” he said. “The doctors told me I’d never walk again. But they were wrong.”
She smiled, nestling into the crook of his arm. “Of course they were,” she said. “How did you recover?”
Aqua: Why are we being told this?
“I lived my dream,” he said. “And didn’t let their nay-saying dissuade me.”
Sam: Because it is just that simple. Of. Course.
Namine: Of course.
She pressed her voluptuous body against him. He was pulling into the restaurant's garage, turning, downshifting, jamming the brake — they were there, parked.
Sam: That does not seem like a safe way to drive.
Aqua: It probably isn’t.
Sam: Then I guess these two are made for each other.
Namine: Sharing hobbies is always good.
The valet came to her door, helped her from her seat. Bruce gave the man his keys and a twenty; the man smiled knowingly.
Bruce took her arm and led her to the door, where they waited a long moment for the maitre d'.
"You're in software?" she said.
Bruce smiled. "I'm a software developer," he said. "Well-to-do — about 20. I have a studly body, don't you think?"
Aqua: She... does know this already, doesn’t she?
Sam: And modest, too.
She looked him up and down. It was indeed the finest body that money could buy.
Namine: So he’s a robot now? I thought he was a zombie.
Sam: Unless he was a... *gasp* Robot. Zombie!
Aqua: How does that even work?
Sam: I don’t know. But it would be bad!
She smiled. "If I tell you you have a sexy body," she said, "would you hold it against me?"
He put an arm around her, pulled her close. "You know I would," he said.
She purred. "I like that," she said. "I like Atlanta. It's such a cosmopolitan city."
Sam: At least this story is taking place in America.
Bruce whispered in her ear. "It is."
"Atlanta is a great place for an enthusiastic would-be novelist to write about. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution is a first-rate paper, and CNN is headquartered right here in Atlanta!"
"Oh, Penelope!"
"Oh Brad!"
Sam: ...Oh, dear.
"I'm Bruce. My name is Bruce, beautiful."
Namine: If she likes him that much, I think she should remember his name, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
Sam: Bruce Beautiful? I thought it was Bruce Lucent.
"O Bruce!"
Dinner was amazing — Brad or Bruce or whatever the studmuffin's name was ordered the eponymous specialty of the house, les moulins de las gallettes, they call it the food that sings, and it sang for them before it was prepared.
Sam: ...What. I don’t understand the implications here.
Namine: I think the food is supposed to be singing to them.
Sam: So the Swedish Chef is cooking for them?
Aqua: The who?
Sam: The Swedish Chef. He seems to have a whole cadre of singing food.
Namine: How does he get it to sing?
Sam: I believe they just do it when he asks them to.
Aqua: ...They?
Sam: Yes. Lettuce, carrots, apples, oranges, tomatoes, celery. The usual fruits and vegetables.
They drank before dinner — Bruce ordered, quietly speaking to the waiter. "Deux ouragans, si vous plait. Double fort."
Namine: Because two forts are better than one.
Aqua: I think it’s French, actually.
Namine: Oh! But it looked like English.
Aqua: It does.
Sam: It should be in English!
With dinner there was a magnum of champagne, and after dinner there was coffee and brandy. Penelope felt her head swim as she rested it into the crook of Bruce's arm
Namine: That’s usually a bad sign.
— it was an amazing meal, an experience she would always treasure. She wanted him so bad, and there, in the quiet that was the candle-lit restaurant, he touched her. She didn't resist. He wanted her, and she wanted him, too.
Sam: Well. This accomplished a whole lot.
Aqua: Maybe the next one will be better?
Namine: Maybe. But what’s the big deal about touching?
Sam: *grumbles* Never mind!
Chapter 10
The elegant Polo Club walls were adorned with a great plentitude of exquisite paintings, depicting a tremendous multitude of beautiful scenes, with still lives
Namine: Still lifes. Paintings aren’t made of lives.
of flowers, horses, sailing boats, and landscapes.
Sam: If you are doing a still life of a horse or sailing boat, then something is dreadfully wrong.
Namine: *nods, frowning at the art terminology fail* A landscape is its own kind of painting, too.
They are from all sorts of great painters and they had one every few feet. Their frames are gold gilt and filled with curlicues and fancy carving. The floors were polished white marble, with veins of luminous color running through them,
Aqua: Please stick to a single tense.
and you can see your countenance in them because they polished every morning.
Sam: They polished what every morning?!
Aqua: Ah... the morning I guess. I didn’t think you could polish mornings, though.
A commodious, confident cloak room was standing discretely behind the double door, for coats, but was empty on this lovely, gorgeous, beautiful morning. There was an elegant, gracious, wide stairway
Namine: The cloak room is confident and the stairway is gracious? Are they in Beast’s Castle now?
Sam: This glut of adjectives is making me feel ill.
Aqua: It’s not very interesting either.
to the second floor that had gilt on the black iron railing. It was orthogonal and it curved around it. The carpet was bright, vivid, glorious
red. The French windows in the vestibule were open to the patio, and the sound of tennis games came in, and the scintillating, witty,
Sam: Stop this sentence.
sparkling chatter from the black wrought iron tables and chairs with all their twisting twining
Sam: I said stop already!
cingulated vines in their arms and legs there, where lunch was being served and the smell of the food came in, too.
Sam: THANK you!
There was a guest book on a table in the center of the vestibule, open to hold the disguised names. There was a flower pot of Wedgewood china, blue and white, sat behind it, filled with a colorful, fragment, teeming profusion and arrangement of sweet-scented, multicolored flowers. Their vivid color contrasted with the stark, plain, severe starkness of the unadorned walls.
Sam: See? This is what happens when you deregulate adjectives.
Namine: Give them an inch, they take a mile.
Aqua: A very well-described mile.
The Atlanta Polo Club was an old and respected and very venereal
Aqua: I think you mean “venerable”.
Sam: *sloooooow facepalm*
Namine: Probably.
institution. It had been founded more than two centuries ago and was members from all the most respectable, notable and antique families in the area.
Sam: It’s like this whole chapter was written by a disgruntled thesaurus, desperate for work.
Namine: With no dictionary to help it. I don’t think a family can be antique.
When Sherman came marching through Georgia they had saved a few things from the old Polo Club, and the noble and distinguishable members were very proud of their traction. They gads been very poor after the war, but no presumptuous, odious, vial carpetbagger
Namine: The carpetbaggers came in test tubes?
Aqua: Maybe they were researching plaid crossbreeds?
Namine: Maybe, because they’d already researched all the polka-dot crossbreeds they could.
or scallywags had been permitted too scornfully, contemptuously darken the doors of the Polo Club. They had carefully rebuilt it of dark oak paneling and the lead-framed windows that were there now. They had spared no expense.
Sam: They had spared. No. Adjectives!
Namine: Or adverbs.
They had played polo whit cavalry horse brought carefully back from the war, by young, handsome, honorable Calvary officers of immemorial memory from the war.
Sam: Honorable? From people who tried to secede from the Union?! That! Is unlikely!
They were very very proud of their disgusted memory and extended ancestry. They had antique cavalry swords crossed over every marble fireplace. Many people tried to join it and couldn't. It was very exclusive. Some of the aged members don't want anyone at all from the north to join, but there were other members who were retrogressive and onward-thinking and they managed to ease folks about those members, as long they stood docility and listed resentfully when the members talked prolixly about the novel war.
Sam: *is just continuously facepalming in his chair, muttering things under his breath*
Some of their new members were very good polo players and they had industriously managed too won many difficult games.
Aqua: Is this important?
Sam: It’s miserable is what it is!
Namine: Les Miserables would be a better book to read.
Irene Stevens
Aqua: A new character already?
Sam: Oh, terrific. More people to be terrible examples.
starts to pertly walk into the Polo Club. She had long blonde hair and a voluptuous body. She was about 20. She was dressing in an expensive designer cerulean gown and not a bit of jewelry; her beauty needed no jewelry. She tried and signed the guest book.
Aqua: I don’t think that’s actually very hard.
Namine: But the club is exclusive, maybe they wouldn’t let her.
She had come there from her hotel, where she had checked out that morning. She had driven here down the tortuous roads by all the Civil War monuments and past the pastures where they get the polo horses. They were all thoroughbreds and very beautiful. There had been flowers all along the way: roses and tulips and asters and crocuses and lilies and magnolias. She had managed to park her vehicle in the newest parking lot but she had been compiled
Namine: That sounds uncomfortable.
Sam: Even dangerous.
to park it where the ferocious sunlight would infernally heat it up while she was leisurely enjoining the Polo Club. The soaring oak trees and maple trees had gloomily, dismally shaded the parking lot.
Sam: Are they going to go back and describe how she dressed herself and brushed her teeth that morning, too?! STOP. With this ceaseless describing!
Elegantly, She walked up the stairs. The gown swished mysteriously about her legs. The sparkling mirror in the stairway considerately let her prudentially endeavor to carefully check her hair and jewelry. The artificial, incandescent light did not become her. It unflatteringly made her verdant dress and gold necklace look ghastly unbecoming.
Namine: I thought she wasn’t wearing jewelry.
Aqua: She teleported some on.
Sam: Or a gold necklace made of -ly’s just formed on top of her!
But nothing could, in its worst efforts, made her look less than marvelously stunning, could really detract from her gorgeous beauty and loveliness and she hurriedly took arctic comfort
Namine: That’s one way to say it was a cold comfort.
and consolation in that.
She urgently meandered
Aqua: I’d like to see that.
down the marmoreal hallway to the opulent, exotic, expansive bar. It was very, very crowded and odorously noisy. All the men instantly stopped and ardently looked at her. She wearisomely sighs.
Sam: *sighs wearisomely*
Aqua: Too many adjectives?
Sam: Far too many.
She was getting very tired of the way all the men instantly stopped and ardently looked at her voluptuous body and long blonde hair and her vermilion dress
Namine: I thought her dress was green.
Sam: A thousand and one descriptions, and none of them consistent.
and her gold watch with the diamonds. Especially when they were such tiresome stuffy old business men and none of them could adequately, competently, sufficiently
Aqua: One descriptor is fine.
Namine: The thesaurus isn’t always a good friend.
play tennis let alone anything more private. And all the women cattily looked at her with sniffy expressions, when they were foolish wearing too much makeup and revolting, unsightly jewelry. She can be already heard the snide gossip began too perambulated its gossipy peregrinations about the ostentatiously crowded bar.
Sam: I. What is this? This isn’t English. They are English words, but they are coming out as gibberish!
Namine: I’m not really following it either.
Swiftly, she sveltely walks up to the bar and smoothly orders a Bloody Mary. The bartender sagaciously nods. He competently takes a crystal glass.
Sam: *just shakes his head, his wings over his eyes* This is torturous. We are being bombarded with adjectives and adverbs and have no shield against them!
Aqua: They... aren’t really what shield spells are designed for.
Namine: More verbs and nouns wouldn’t seem to work, either.
Sam: See?! There is no defense we can use! This is the absolute worst!
He swiftly gets the cold ice and put it in the empty glass. Consequently, he gets the imported, foreign vodka and put it in the glass with the red, opaque tomato juice. He sticks a fair wedge of easy lemon
Aqua: Instead of hard lemon?
Namine: How would you tell the difference?
on the edge of it and promptly gives her it.
She comfortably sat back in her opulent, luxurious chair and leisurely sighed.
This was the right thing, after a long, wearisome, odious burdens and troubles of an appalling day like that.
She toyed with her pearls.
Sam: A moment ago she had gold, and...oh, why do I bother!
Namine: Because otherwise we would just have to read the story?
Sam: ...That is the worse option.
The comfortable chair was brown leather and very nice. She liked it.
And she was here in the bar.
Alone.
It was nice.
Aqua: We established that.
No one would talk here. She carefully tried and soothed out the skirt of her sallow dress.
Namine: Changing color so much upset it. It wasn’t supposed to be a magic dress.
She fortuitously remembered Henry Archer.
She managed too shivered in memory. No wonder no one was looking attentive anymore, next to him.
Sam: Nonsense! How does one possibly take English words and turn them into such nonsense?!
She sips her martini.
That was when Steven Suffern saw her.
Steven was a well-built and well-hung young masseuse at the Polo Club. He has an eye for the ladies, but bats for both teams.
Sam: THAT. Was not appropriate!
Namine: Switching teams in the middle of the game usually isn’t.
Aqua: Again, could we please stick to one tense.
His eyes narrowed when he saw her.
Irene Stevens.
Hear.
Alone.
There was no one around.
No one would come to the Polo Club on such a dreary, wet day, especially so entirely early in the morning.
Sam: And now the day has changed, too!
Thunder cracked thunderously overhead. There was a loud, voluminous drumming and thumping of precipitous and abundant rain.
Aqua: Let me guess. It was rainy?
He walked toward her. Slowly. Took each step in leisure. Contemplating Irena with gimlet eyes.
Sam: Now who is Irena?!
Aqua: Her twin sister?
Namine: Her Nobody?
Taking in that voracious figure and the elongated blond hair. The carroty dress.
Sam: We’ve covered nearly every color of the rainbow by this point.
The ruby band. He wanted to linger, to savor the moment, to pounce at once.
She leisurely drank from her gin and tonic again.
Namine: That’s the third time her drink has changed.
"Irena," he pontificates. "You are the daughter of Isaac Stevens. I will reveal your dark secret to your father unless you allow me to have my way with you."
Sam: *gasps, horrified* And this story is now officially not appropriate for anyone and children especially!
Namine: Maybe he just wants to draw on her face?
"No," exclaimed she, horror stuck.
Sam: Is this that strange comic on the internet about trolls in space that seems to be so popular nowadays?
Namine: You mean they’re trolls now? But wait, then wouldn’t their words be written with different colors and fonts?
Aqua: Maybe. But I don’t think they talk in colors.
Sam: Perhaps they make up for it with thousands of pointless adjectives and adverbs.
"Yes," grated he, harshly.
"You will not!" expostulated she.
"I will reveal your dark secret!" exclaimed he.
"I will not allow you to have you way with me!" she avowed.
"You will!" he averted.
"No, you won't reveal my dark secret," threatened she, numbly. "My father will never believe you."
"I will, and he will," exerted her.
"You won't and he won't," claimed he.
Sam: This is a Looney Tunes sketch!
Aqua: It’s like listening to children.
"I will, and he will," remonstrated he.
"You won't," explained she, in an explanatory tone of voice. "My father will be very, very, very furious with you. He will certainly blame you."
Sam: I blame all of you for this!
Namine: Well, the characters can’t always help having a bad author.
"I will and he won't," demonstrated he, contemptuously.
"You won't and he will," proclaimed her, definitely.
"I will and he won't," declared he, defiantly.
"You won't," denounced her, angrily. "I already told him last Tuesday."
Namine: I think I liked it better when there were too many adjectives.
Sam: Why didn’t you tell us this half a page ago and save us all the trouble?!
Namine: I didn’t know.
It was as if a copious galleon of wintry water had been surreptitiously poured over his hansom head. He sat stonily and goggled explicitly and gaped impassively as if he were a fish precipitously extracted from its appropriately aqueous environment. He boisterously, wordlessly, softly sputtered like a boiling tea kettle.
Namine: I think some of those are opposites.
Aqua: They are.
He stolidly sat like an ancient, moss-overgrown statue from the radiantly fragrant gardens
Namine: Now they’re in Radiant Garden?
Aqua: I don’t remember it being any more fragrant than other worlds.
that the noble city was plenteously, bountifully endowed with.
Sam: *head in his wings, just groaning*
She contentiously got up and stylishly walked away, her amethystine dress swirling about her ankles, fondly remembering his exquisite, superb physique and form of his well-proportionate, muscled body. She dazedly walked down the polished wood of the stairway and out of the Polo Club and up the hill and under the oaks and over to her vehicle.
Aqua: Did we even get anywhere?
Sam: No! That accomplished even less than the previous chapter! We accomplished nothing and then we accomplished less than nothing!
Namine: But we finished the part of the story we had to read.
Sam: And I feel worse off for it.
Aqua: Mmm. But at least it’s over now.
Sam: None too soon.