Kiss me, I'm English (Curly!)

[gray]

Adrian nursed his drink as he checked his reflection in the countertop. It was the same face that stared at him every day in the morning, though now it was clean-shaven for the first time in a week. He hadn’t bothered with his hygiene – not when he didn’t want to leave the house. But a month in solitude had convinced him he’d go crazy unless he did something stupid for once.

He’d paid a homeless fellow on the street for directions to this place. Apparently, not just everyone could find out about this ‘Alleyway’ from the newspapers – security was tight until it could be bought open.

It was a miracle he’d made it here without being robbed (or, like the Americans called it, ‘mugged’) – his clothes were much too fine for a place this dingy. He stood out like a shiny, expensive sore thumb.

The beer in this country tasted horrible. He looked down at his drink, silently wondering what he was drinking. Maybe it wasn’t really liquor; maybe they made this crap in the latrines.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel very thirsty any more.

Above his head, the announcer spewed out the results of the latest Alleyway fight loud enough to stop him from thinking – which, when all he could think about was Sybil, was a welcome distraction.

[faryllll]

Before, when the gentleman had strolled into the Alleyway, Curly didn't seem to mind him much. Yes, he was a rather atypical fellow, a rich man walking into a hobohouse, but then again, most people were crazy nowadays. Crazy enough to start coming to this joint, which made Curly both shake her head in pity and excited about making money. Working at the Alleyway was the next best thing to conning people, because most of the criminals, hotheads, street-talkers, and other hooligans knew where this place was, and if any regular person had made their way in here, it was game over for them, and for their wallet, too.

Now, after several minutes of standing guard at the door, Curly confirmed to herself that there was no one out there, and walked away toward the counter to get herself a drink. Anyone could come in when she wasn't at her post, which was a perfect opportunity for the perverts and just downright dirty people to get through. She really didn't care when she didn't get her fill of alcohol.

Slumping down at the countertop, she knocked on the table a few times and called out, "The usual!" before sitting up and looking around her for someone she could sneak a kiss or two. Along with all of the hooligans at the Alleyway, there were also people whose lives were rarely worth living anymore, so she (as the semi-official soldier of death) would do them a great favor. And dispose of the body afterward.

Of course, when she looked around, she found a few people, but the one who stuck out the most was the well-dressed gentleman who had walked in about ten minutes earlier, staring down at his glass.

"You gonna drink that, Bill Gates?" she remarked, scooting from her barstool to the stool next to him, thinking that she should do away with him first, since he was apparently the only one in there who knew how to use a telephone and call the cops on her.

[gray]

He blinked, wait... was Bill Gates the American president or the man who invented the iPod? He scratched the back of his mind. No, he was the fellow who got rich by selling Coca-Cola...?

Bah. Americans.

No, Bill Gates was definitely the Coca-Cola guy. His company probably had Bill Gates shares somewhere, if he’d bothered to look for them.

“Please,” he muttered, shoving the stinking glass in her direction, “you’d be doing me a favour,”

With a show of effort, he folded his arms across the counter and leaned his face on them, on its side, so as to get a good look at the woman. She seemed old enough to know better than to work at a dingepit like this. Didn’t she go to college? At all?

The announcer blasted out another round of match results. Adrian gripped his temples and almost gasped from the resulting headache. It was definitely something to do with the drinking, he decided, pushing the drink he’d ordered even further away from him.

With his brain still throbbing from his magically too-fast-to-be-real headache, he glanced over at the woman. Had she suspected anything? Did she recognise him from the business section of any papers?

It was probably best to check.

“So”, he raised a brow, deciding to start small, “What’s your name?”

[faryllll]

“Please,” he muttered, shoving the stinking glass in her direction, “you’d be doing me a favour,”

"I didn't think so," Curly purred, and within seconds the beverage was gone, chugged down by the somewhat pleasant bouncer. "You struck me as a beer virgin when you walked in the door. I have these instincts, you know."

Instincts such as knowing which guys to kiss and which guys to show mercy to.

"So, is that it? You don't drink because you're a virgin, or you just hate the alcohol? Because, either way, you don't know the definition of letting loose," she added.

Letting loose, and letting it all hang out.

"I know about letting loose, although I admit I went about it the wrong way," Curly explained. "A few years ago, I got a job at this dump because it paid some serious money, and all I've been getting high on is cash and drugs. That, and tobacco. I could really use a cig right now, to be honest..."

To stick up yours.

“So”, he raised a brow, deciding to start small, “What’s your name?”

"Lenorette. Ms. Lenorette. Evangeline, actually," she replied, leaning forward while putting her elbow on the table. "And yours? I probably saw your last name in Stuck-Ups Weekly."

[gray]

Ohh, thank heavens. If she’d recognised him and thought to report him to the Americans... He gulped. Wait. What was he thinking? She was a down-on-her-luck waitress. As if she’d ever be smart enough to go to the police. Besides, she was working in an illegal establishment – the police were definitely not on her speed-dial. Everything was going to be fine. Everything was abosolutely...

Wait.

Was that... an insult?

Miffed, he wracked his brain for a scathing comeback, but could think of nothing. Grudgingly, the only reply he could come up with was an introduction.

“Adrian,” He said, trying to be vague. Nothing said ‘low profile’ better than keeping all your relations on a first-name basis – at least, it felt that way for him.

“And I... don’t much care for alcohol,” At least unless it was wine. Brandy was fine on occasion, but this? This shouldn’t even be a beverage. And everyone could use a ‘cig’ right about now, he lamented, silently regretting leaving his old box of Cubans back in England.

He forced a smile. Contrived or not, he figured he would probably looked dashing anyway. Maybe he could charm her into... No, if he wanted to be left alone, it was probably smartest to make himself as unattractive as possible. He hunched his shoulders deeper into the fur lining of his coat, and fiddled with his cufflinks.

He was starting to get more aware of himself with her watching him. She probably saw how his head tilted to a side and his eyes squinted as he pretended to be fascinated by his sleeves. Maybe she even noticed how his jacket was darker in places where Basil’s blood had flown onto it. (The stains could never wash off.) It made him sweat. God. Would she ever leave?

“Don’t you... have somewhere else to be?” He trawled his mind for her name again. “...Angeline?”

[faryllll]

“Adrian,” He said, trying to be vague. Nothing said ‘low profile’ better than keeping all your relations on a first-name basis – at least, it felt that way for him.

Curly rolled her eyes.

"Adrian, huh? Adrian WHAT?" she asked, before whistling for another drink. "Adrian the Illegal? Because that's the story for most of the foreign trash that comes in around here. But, then again, they're mostly Mexicans, so I'm pretty much sick of making margaritas..."

“And I... don’t much care for alcohol,” At least unless it was wine. Brandy was fine on occasion, but this? This shouldn’t even be a beverage. And everyone could use a ‘cig’ right about now, he lamented, silently regretting leaving his old box of Cubans back in England.


Scoffing, Curly had no choice but to laugh.

"Don't care much for alcohol? Where do you think you are, a tea party? This place serves alcohol to people who like alcohol, and if you don't like alcohol, then the place you ought to be is over there getting your face punched in," she chortled, nearly falling off her stool as her drink came.

He was starting to get more aware of himself with her watching him. She probably saw how his head tilted to a side and his eyes squinted as he pretended to be fascinated by his sleeves. Maybe she even noticed how his jacket was darker in places where Basil’s blood had flown onto it. (The stains could never wash off.) It made him sweat. God. Would she ever leave?

Curly downed her drink, at first not noticing Adrian's anxiety.

"You're really weird, you know that?" she stated, a slight slur to her voice as she glanced over at his sleeve, barely catching the dark specks that definately looked like and reeked like blood splatters. "Maybe... even my kind of weird."

“Don’t you... have somewhere else to be?” He trawled his mind for her name again. “...Angeline?”

"Evangeline," Curly corrected. "I only take certain nicknames. And I don't have anywhere else to be but home, and I don't get paid for sitting at home."

[gray]

Brilliant. So it was now her job to bother him and, or otherwise, ruin the one night he felt brave enough to leave his house. Abso-fooking-lovely.

His headache was killing him. Maybe it was the very action of being around her that made it so bad. It was as if he couldn’t breathe, that something... horrible... inside him was waiting to be retched out. He gripped his temples, almost missing the motion of her downing her drink. He didn’t need any of that stuff to muddle his thinking. Nuh-uh: he was muddled as it was.

The only way to make her leave was to scare her away – tell her the whole and blatant truth and see how far she could run before he ordered a bottle of vintage wine.

It wouldn’t hurt would it?

“Argh,” He grunted as his head throbbed again.

Of course, she’d tell her girlfriends, and they’d whisper. But they’d be rumours – half-truths that nobody with a grain of logic believed. She, or anyone else here for the matter, would never think to call the police; he was more-or-less certain of the fact.

Oh, what the hey:

“Well," He began. Before correcting himself:

"Well, Evangeline," He smiled, "I was weird enough to stab a man in the neck. Indeed. I sat there and watched him stop breathing and then I sat there some more to see all the blood clump up like jell-o. It was three in the morning when I called over a friend and paid him a small fortune to dispose of the body. It took five bloody hours in a fireplace to burn his coat and another three hours before the room was clean again – but I did it. Hey. And no one’s caught me yet. Abso-fooking-lutely no one.”

He laid there for several moments panting for breath, and a crooked, wild expression in his eye. His head has cleared up somewhat. It felt like his first confession over again; only he wasn’t being told to use his rosary and pray to whoever Jesus or Mary that you used your rosary for again.

...Wait.

What did he just do? He’d just confessed to a capital offence. In public. In front of a total stranger. And for what? To clear up a headache? It felt as stupid as if sounded.

He waited for her reaction, half ready to run in case she screamed out loud, and half ready stab himself to end all his stupid running anyway.

[faryllll]

"Well, Evangeline," He smiled, "I was weird enough to stab a man in the neck. Indeed. I sat there and watched him stop breathing and then I sat there some more to see all the blood clump up like jell-o. It was three in the morning when I called over a friend and paid him a small fortune to dispose of the body. It took five bloody hours in a fireplace to burn his coat and another three hours before the room was clean again – but I did it. Hey. And no one’s caught me yet. Abso-fooking-lutely no one.”

Curly blinked for a moment, and it would seem to Adrian that she would do what he expected of her, but then she chuckled.

"That's it, Love? That's the 'big crime' you committed? No wonder you're such a rookie," Curly mocked, still laughing drunkly. "If you only killed one man... then you're still considered a rookie. And if you were expecting me to run away? What am I, a Barbie doll? No, the only reason I'm still here and not in society is that I've a dirty little secret as well..."

Go ahead... tell him, the Boss whispered to her. Tell him their names.

"For example... Harold Lee. He was a charmer, and pretty popular here. At least, until he started to turn sour. He was a devil, having as many as five girlfriends at a time, and still managing to juggle them without the others knowing. Of course, the bouncer of the joint hears everything, and the most dominant rumors were that of Mister Lee. So I snuck in to be number six. We hit it off for a while, until the first kiss. And after that... well... the other five were waiting an awful, awful, awful..." With each 'awful,' Curly leant in closer to Adrian, nearly knocking him off his stool. "Awful... awful... awful long time..." She nearly touched his lips before pulling away again, gulping down yet another glass of beer.

"Patrick Bronx, the previous bartender. Your reaction to the drinks here remind me of mine when I first tasted the concoctions... or, should I say, distilled alcohol mixed with his own urine... so I decided to do everyone a favor and throw him out. Thankfully, he wasn't married or with anyone so it was fairly easy to worm my way into his life. The day after the first date, the old bartender was back, and the new one was never seen again,

Jonathan Greensborough. He thought he was smart. He thought he was cool enough to get hooked on the bouncer when he first walked in. In reality, he was dumb enough to walk into his own deathtrap. He's buried under the floorboards if you want to see him.

Your pockets remind me of George Andrews, another filthy rich brat who had come from the main city and accidentally stumbled upon the joint. He got his face punched in a few times, and I pretended to have watched and I offered to make everything better once we both were floozed and boozed. Of course, I did make everything better. Better for me, and MUCH better for my wallet.

Jean Patron, one of those sailor guys. Came straight from France, and confirmed that the American women were much sexier than the Frenchwomen. Of course, 'American women' was only a generalization for 'me', so it was indeed a compliment. I learned a bit of French, although not much, for I only needed one thing to say to him... Vous, monsieur, sont morts!

But those are only a few of them, since I don't have the time right now to name them all. And if you're going to ask about whether or not anyone noticed... well, the longtime patrons of the place know all too well, but they don't dare say a word to the fresh meat that come in, for fear of Death knocking at THEIR doors, too..." Curly concluded, grinning as she looked Adrian straight in the eye. "Now, do you consider your little scenario a murder, or child's play?"

[gray]

"That's it, Love? That's the 'big crime' you committed? No wonder you're such a rookie," Curly mocked, still laughing drunkly. "If you only killed one man... then you're still considered a rookie. And if you were expecting me to run away? What am I, a Barbie doll? No, the only reason I'm still here and not in society is that I've a dirty little secret as well..."

No. What’d he done? A bile mixture of shock, horror and relief squeezed his brain. This woman was crazier than he was!

With his mouth agape he listened to her tick her list of victims off her fingers, feeling a stab to his chest with each name. He hoped whatever the afterlife saw fit for Harold Bronx, Jonathan Greensborough and the other guy was a nice, comfortable place. Or, better yet, no place at all. Maybe – if that TeleAtheist was right and heaven and hell was a myth - they’d ceased to exist after death. The only thing left of them would be their mildewing corpses. Their souls would never ever have to feel as lost, lonely and twisted with guilt as his was.

Oddly enough, he didn’t find himself doubting her confession for a moment. Sure, it was over-the-top unbelievable in most senses... mad, even. But still, she sounded so honest. Maybe it was the sheer smoothness of her delivery, or her more-or-less indifference to the notion, as if she was telling her best friend how her day went. He’d been an actor. He knew how to put on a front, create a false reality, lie wondrous lies to his audience – if he knew anything, she wasn’t acting.

Harold Bronx, John Patron... all very, very real human beings. If he wanted to be blunt, he’d say she’d sent them all to a better place.

And he was next.

“I may have killed just one man,” He whimpered, sounding much less debonair than he usually was. “But it’s still murder.

“If you’re all you say you are... Evangeline... you might as well add me to your list. Heck, I prolly deserve it.”

Shakily, he offered her his lips. And then realised how stupid puckering thin air looked. It seemed a lot more noble in his mind.

Silently, he totalled his life insurance. He had no family that would possibly benefit from it, but it just felt like the right thing to do before Death herself does you in. He was alright with the world, and, hopefully the next one. He didn’t have any burning desires or mysteries he had to solve. He could die happy. Well, happy as death was concerned.

[faryllll]

“I may have killed just one man,” He whimpered, sounding much less debonair than he usually was. “But it’s still murder."


Curly now burst out laughing. It was a major change from the serious topic she had been talking about earlier.

"The more you talk, love, the more obvious it is that you don't know crap about killing people. The ones who deserve it drop like flies. The ones who don't live another day until they do deserve it. You don't get anywhere by being a sinner, Adrian the Illegal. Because sinners sin, and they are easily tempted by what could be their downfall," she explained with a slur in her voice, grinning as she slowly approached Adrian to the point where he could strongly smell the alcohol on her breath.

“If you’re all you say you are... Evangeline... you might as well add me to your list. Heck, I prolly deserve it.”

"Everyone deserves it. Everyone gets it eventually, whether they think they deserve it or not. Remember, Adrian, I have two Bosses. One can fire me from the Alleyway, and one can take me into his office to have a small discussion if I do anything wrong. And I prefer to listen to the Boss in whose hands my fate is held. You'll get to meet him personally, Adrian. And then you can say hello to him from me. You know, send him my regards."

Shakily, he offered her his lips. And then realized how stupid puckering thin air looked. It seemed a lot more noble in his mind.

Immediately, she lunged. Pressing his back toward the unfortunate fellow who was sitting on the opposite side of Adrian, Curly locked lips with her victim, and fate began to work its charm. Curly held onto Adrian tightly so she could catch him when he fell limp. She wrapped her tongue around his as if she intended to suffocate it - to absorb his taste buds before they, too, grew useless. She even went as far as to gnaw on his lip a little to add to the dramatic effect. There was just one small problem, though.

It had been over a minute, and Adrian was still alive.

Curly pulled back in disbelief. She looked Adrian over one more time, before lunging at him again. Another thirty seconds, and still nothing had happened.

Boss? she thought, grimacing as she attempted to consult the omnipresent voice of the reaper of souls in her mind.

Yeah, you can't kill him. At least, I can, the Boss replied, which made Curly scrunch up her face in frustration, but you need him. I'm a jerk like that. You can't pick the people you want to be with, even if you are Death's little lackey. I can predict, however, that you'll be incredibly satisfied with this guy, since you're going to make more cash than this place can contain doing what we love best. Right, Evangeline?

Right... Curly absently agreed.

Good. Now, I don't want to hear any more complaining. You're a big girl, and you know life completely sucks. Why else would you have come to work here?

[gray]

((Argh, latelatelate! Sorry Faryl. It's finally November, though, and expect a reply as soon as you post your's up.))

--

“You'll get to meet him personally, Adrian. And then you can say hello to him from me. You know, send him my regards."

“I’ll get him a bouquet, gorgeous,” He smirked darkly, the way his photographer said made his eyes smoulder. If he was going to die, he’d at the very least, look sexy doing it.

What was he waiting for exactly? A light floating sensation? Debilitating pain? He had nothing. Well, maybe the slightest hint of tongue, but otherwise, nothing.

He threw his eyelids questioningly open, raising a brow as he did. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to get off the ride, not earn another free go on the living-go-round. Was this some kind of joke? Was there Ashton Kutcher somewhere behind the counter? Or (oh holy mother of fuckshits) was she a new kind of American cop? The villain’s femme fatale? He felt sick.

“Well?” Her face was screwed with concentration, as if paying attention to an important speech. A speech dictated into her head. Wait. Was she really talking to death himself? Under any other circumstances, he would’ve been afraid, but now he was just too tired, twisted and bothered to care much. His emotions were a roller coaster of panic and dull resignation.

“What’d he say?” He found himself asking, honestly curious and believing. Heck, if you believed in a girl who could kiss you to death, believing she was talking to death in her mind wasn’t that far a stretch.

She wasn’t answering him, still listening, somewhat enraptured and absentminded. Her face, he’d happily admit, looked almost vulnerable. She had brilliant eyes, and lips he wouldn’t have minded tasting again. She had a good face, and there was nothing wrong with the rest of her, either.

[faryllll]

THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, MY LOVE,
is those below serving those up above.

“I’ll get him a bouquet, gorgeous,” He smirked darkly, the way his photographer said made his eyes smoulder. If he was going to die, he’d at the very least, look sexy doing it.

Curly glanced over at him dryly, before muttering, "Yeah, you do that."

This guy was no longer Adrian the Illegal. He was now Adrian "is trying too hard". So much so that it was simply... weird.

You sure about him? Curly managed to sneak in, raising an eyebrow.

He'll snap out of it eventually, the Boss replied.


“Well?”

Curly scoffed.

"That's what I want to know," she snapped in reply, trying to listen to the Boss. "As you can tell, this isn't supposed to happen. Now shut up. The Man's talking."

“What’d he say?”

"He said..." she started, but she trailed off, trying to think of a good way to put what The Boss had said. "He said... you're cool. Try as I might, I can't kill you on my own because... well... I need you, quite frankly." She paused for a moment, before correcting herself, "Not my own words! Don't kill the messenger, all right?"

Couldn't have put it any better, the Boss piped up, the smirk on his face visible in his voice.

how gratifying for once to know
THAT THOSE ABOVE WILL SERVE THOSE DOWN BELOW!

made with NUMBEROFWORDS in the post, bby. the gorgeous outfit is here, so be jealous, yo. using the wonderfull and amazing MS. CURLY LENORETTE so fear it. <3

template is copyright © to Heidi<3 of CAUTION 2.0<3. don't take off this credit, or i'll send velma kelley after you with a rusty spoon. >:[ lyrics are from the lovely SWEENEY TODD: DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET. pwnage, yo. <3

[gray]

Aaaand, there are so many different levels of sorry that don’t manage to comprehend what I mean. :I Sorry this took so long, Farebear – I really couldn’t for the life of me, think up anything decent to say back.

---

She was... doubting the Mask of Indubitable Shashbucklery? Well, he couldn’t blame her – he hadn’t had much practice with his face (he tried to remember the last time his expression showed anything more than genuine, raw self-misery).

Why was it so hard to pick between being bad and loving it (and, oh, how he loved it – nights of women and good wine and acting every bit the devil-may-care playboy) or being good, doing the right thing, and hating the twisted, sinning shell of a man he’d turned into.

Maybe it was when the whole idea of killing came into the picture. He’d cried – hard – when Sybil’s death hit him, tried to convince himself it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t, of course, not entirely, but he couldn’t shake it – that feeling that he’d done something horrible wrong.

“How do you do it, Evangeline?” He fingered the circle of water someone’s glass of beer had left behind, absentmindedly breaking the ring with his dry fingers. “How do you just do your job – do away with all those people without so much as crying? I just don’t get it,”

"He said... you're cool. Try as I might, I can't kill you on my own because... well... I need you, quite frankly." She paused for a moment, before correcting herself, "Not my own words! Don't kill the messenger, all right?"

“Not planning to,” Aidrian chuckled darkly. “That’s your job.”

[faryllll]

THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, MY LOVE,
is those below serving those up above.

“How do you do it, Evangeline? How do you just do your job – do away with all those people without so much as crying? I just don’t get it.”

Curly took a large swig of alcohol and looked Adrian in the eye, although her eyes sometimes wandered and her pupils dilated from the influence. She gagged and spit off to the side, but when she regained eye contact with Adrian, her expression grew very somber and serious.

"It's because I'm a bitch. A heartless bitch. One that doesn't give a crap about anyone or anything. I don't have any 'loved ones' or people I really care about. I guess that's something else the Boss gave me. Apathy. Because the Boss doesn't like killers who mourn. Crybabies, he calls them. Wimps. I guess he needed a tough woman to do the job, since men make connections too easily. Seems the opposite of what you think, eh?" She raised her glass before downing the rest of its contents. "Besides, a man doing a man's job is much too cliche, and the Boss always likes to get with the times. He told me all this on one of my days off. Even though he's got soul-reaping to do, he always has days off. Some days where everyone around is too important to die. 'Around' meaning around the docks, of course." Curly hiccuped. "No one is too important to die in New York City at any given time. They just need to have their own 'time'."

“Not planning to. That’s your job.”

Curly narrowed her eyes at Adrian's joke.

"You know, that was so funny, I forgot to laugh," she remarked drunkly and sarcastically.

how gratifying for once to know
THAT THOSE ABOVE WILL SERVE THOSE DOWN BELOW!

made with NUMBEROFWORDS in the post, bby. the gorgeous outfit is here, so be jealous, yo. using the wonderfull and amazing MS. CURLY LENORETTE so fear it. <3

template is copyright © to Heidi<3 of CAUTION 2.0<3. don't take off this credit, or i'll send velma kelley after you with a rusty spoon. >:[ lyrics are from the lovely SWEENEY TODD: DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET. pwnage, yo. <3