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morettaAt the eleventh hour, from a phone, with the dubious internet connection of the stately manor home where we're having our family reunion, here it is!
If you would like to read or vote for any of the others, you can do so here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html
Nicholas was bored. He rolled his shoulders to try and get some of the blood flowing, but he had been sitting in the uncomfortable chair for too long.
The bonds at his wrists and feet were just slightly too tight, which meant that he had to keep tensing the muscles in his legs and moving his hands about. It was getting tiresome, if he was allowed to say so.
The room was still dark, apart from the little slivers of light filtering into the room from the gap between the door and the door-frame.
Nicholas yawned. It occurred to him that this was the first time since he was small that he hadn't covered his hand with his mouth.
Funny how your brain works in situations like these.
The door opened slowly, with a creak that must have been deliberate.
“Riddle me this, Johnston. How does a man like ye'self get involved with people like me?”
He was a big man, robust, very tall, quite menacing, absolutely.
Nicholas grinned at him, “Through money, of course.”
“Of course.”
The man snapped his fingers and someone brought him a chair.
"You know, I never thought it'd come to this with you, Johnston. I thought you were one of the good ones."
He sat down as though he were a movie-villain, with the chair's back in front of him, straddling it.
Nicholas bit his lip at the clichéd thought, because he was sure that above it all some God of creative writing was currently laughing at him and the situation he was in.
"You're a good man, I think, just in a spot o' bother."
Laughing and pointing, probably, as the man pulled out a heavy looking stick.
"Ye know how much you owe us, right?"
Nicholas nodded, trying to look innocent and probably failing, tie slipping out of his jacket, "A lot, indeed."
"A lot is an understatement, mate. So, how are you gonna pay?"
Nicholas could not hold it in, had never been the type of person to hold it in, and asked, "Cash or credit?"
"You - mate. If you have the money..."
"Oh, no, I really don't. Just a joke."
The big man rolled his eyes.
"Mr Johnston. This is a serious matter."
Nicholas stifled a giggle.
"This is dangerous situation you've got ye'self in."
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh!
"And I am only here to help you. Failing that, I'm here to do some damage."
Damn. That was a laugh all the way out loud.
The big man scoffed, swinging the stick, “You got something to say, funny man?”
Nicholas had to bite his tongue to stop the laughing and something about phallic objects spill out. There was a great joke in there somewhere.
The man frowned, “Spit it out, Johnston, we 'aven't got all day.”
A gasp for breath, then, “You sound like one of my scripts.”
“What?”
Nicholas shifted in his bonds, trying to loosen the ones at his wrists again. It failed.
“You sound like you're quoting something I wrote. Like one of the bad guys from Motor Cop 2 or 3.”
The man raised an eyebrow at him, “You wrote those films?”
“Yeah. I know, right? They were crazy sequels, but the production company insisted.”
A moment of pause.
“Hey, what's your name, man?”
A very confused, slightly suspicious frown, “Tony.”
“Tony! Perfect! I'll put you in the next film.”
Another pause. The man – Tony, Tony was his name – was still frowning.
“Hey, could you loosen these ropes a bit? I mean, it would hardly help the writing if my hands and feet fell off because of bad circulation, would it? I mean, maybe that depends on the critic you choose to side with, bastard lot, but I would like to think that functioning digits are key to film-writing, at least for me. You can do without food or drink, but my best films are written with fingers typing away - when I'm not romancing some gorgeous woman, you know what I mean?"
The man stared at him for a long moment.
"Do you - do you know why I'm here, Mr Johnstone?
"Of course, I'm simply trying to convey that the next Motor Cop film, or the next Space Mixer film, for that matter, keep an eye out, it's coming out in December and is going to be such a freaking hit, well, they depend entirely on me, with my writing skills, and each phalange intact to type on a keyboard! And my brain, of course, but it would so much easier to write it myself than to dictate, you know? Assistants are great, I don't know what I'd do without Mary, but the actual creation needs to be mine. That ownership, that writing, that's what keepsr going in such a difficult industry. I'm sure you understand, this can't be an easy industry to crack or stay on the top echelons of, am I right?"
Another long stare from the man. Tony. Who then stood up and said, in the tone of a shop clerk exasperated with their latest client continually seeking a manager, “I'll get the boss.”
Nicholas moved his head around to relieve the crick in his neck as the man walked out the door he'd just come in through.
“Is that a no then?”
If you would like to read or vote for any of the others, you can do so here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html
Nicholas was bored. He rolled his shoulders to try and get some of the blood flowing, but he had been sitting in the uncomfortable chair for too long.
The bonds at his wrists and feet were just slightly too tight, which meant that he had to keep tensing the muscles in his legs and moving his hands about. It was getting tiresome, if he was allowed to say so.
The room was still dark, apart from the little slivers of light filtering into the room from the gap between the door and the door-frame.
Nicholas yawned. It occurred to him that this was the first time since he was small that he hadn't covered his hand with his mouth.
Funny how your brain works in situations like these.
The door opened slowly, with a creak that must have been deliberate.
“Riddle me this, Johnston. How does a man like ye'self get involved with people like me?”
He was a big man, robust, very tall, quite menacing, absolutely.
Nicholas grinned at him, “Through money, of course.”
“Of course.”
The man snapped his fingers and someone brought him a chair.
"You know, I never thought it'd come to this with you, Johnston. I thought you were one of the good ones."
He sat down as though he were a movie-villain, with the chair's back in front of him, straddling it.
Nicholas bit his lip at the clichéd thought, because he was sure that above it all some God of creative writing was currently laughing at him and the situation he was in.
"You're a good man, I think, just in a spot o' bother."
Laughing and pointing, probably, as the man pulled out a heavy looking stick.
"Ye know how much you owe us, right?"
Nicholas nodded, trying to look innocent and probably failing, tie slipping out of his jacket, "A lot, indeed."
"A lot is an understatement, mate. So, how are you gonna pay?"
Nicholas could not hold it in, had never been the type of person to hold it in, and asked, "Cash or credit?"
"You - mate. If you have the money..."
"Oh, no, I really don't. Just a joke."
The big man rolled his eyes.
"Mr Johnston. This is a serious matter."
Nicholas stifled a giggle.
"This is dangerous situation you've got ye'self in."
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh!
"And I am only here to help you. Failing that, I'm here to do some damage."
Damn. That was a laugh all the way out loud.
The big man scoffed, swinging the stick, “You got something to say, funny man?”
Nicholas had to bite his tongue to stop the laughing and something about phallic objects spill out. There was a great joke in there somewhere.
The man frowned, “Spit it out, Johnston, we 'aven't got all day.”
A gasp for breath, then, “You sound like one of my scripts.”
“What?”
Nicholas shifted in his bonds, trying to loosen the ones at his wrists again. It failed.
“You sound like you're quoting something I wrote. Like one of the bad guys from Motor Cop 2 or 3.”
The man raised an eyebrow at him, “You wrote those films?”
“Yeah. I know, right? They were crazy sequels, but the production company insisted.”
A moment of pause.
“Hey, what's your name, man?”
A very confused, slightly suspicious frown, “Tony.”
“Tony! Perfect! I'll put you in the next film.”
Another pause. The man – Tony, Tony was his name – was still frowning.
“Hey, could you loosen these ropes a bit? I mean, it would hardly help the writing if my hands and feet fell off because of bad circulation, would it? I mean, maybe that depends on the critic you choose to side with, bastard lot, but I would like to think that functioning digits are key to film-writing, at least for me. You can do without food or drink, but my best films are written with fingers typing away - when I'm not romancing some gorgeous woman, you know what I mean?"
The man stared at him for a long moment.
"Do you - do you know why I'm here, Mr Johnstone?
"Of course, I'm simply trying to convey that the next Motor Cop film, or the next Space Mixer film, for that matter, keep an eye out, it's coming out in December and is going to be such a freaking hit, well, they depend entirely on me, with my writing skills, and each phalange intact to type on a keyboard! And my brain, of course, but it would so much easier to write it myself than to dictate, you know? Assistants are great, I don't know what I'd do without Mary, but the actual creation needs to be mine. That ownership, that writing, that's what keepsr going in such a difficult industry. I'm sure you understand, this can't be an easy industry to crack or stay on the top echelons of, am I right?"
Another long stare from the man. Tony. Who then stood up and said, in the tone of a shop clerk exasperated with their latest client continually seeking a manager, “I'll get the boss.”
Nicholas moved his head around to relieve the crick in his neck as the man walked out the door he'd just come in through.
“Is that a no then?”
