Post by SOREN SOMERSETT on Jul 23, 2011 15:04:58 GMT -5
It was really, really, really fucking dark out.
Not that Soren minded that much. He wasn’t exactly a night owl or anything, but hey, he’d had soccer games later than this before. And it was already morning in Madrid, where the F-ballers would already be getting up and getting their games on. Fuck, he wanted to be like them. He needed to be like them. Soren Sommersett, number 9, on Real fucking Madrid as soon as he could skip out of this damn town. It was happening. Suck on that, all you doubters. What was the address again? Nice…rice…ice…Ice! Ice palace! Right. He’d googled it. That sounded like an ice rink. God, he fucking hated hockey. If this bitch was a hockey player, this shindig was not going to happen.
The full moon gleamed over New York City. Soren walked slowly down West 33rd street, passing beneath the dim glows of the street lamps and windows. He kicked a soccer ball along in front of him, maneuvering it in deft figure-eights, pullbacks, and step-overs. Because fuck you, that’s why. He’d dribble a soccer ball wherever he damn well pleased.
Soren took a right at the Empire State Building and onto 5th Avenue, counting the addresses on his way through. 29…30…31…32…33. Soren made a nimble leap and kicked the soccer ball on the right edge of his right pinky toe, Soren was ambidextrous, but fuck you, he liked his right foot. He watched as the ball launched itself into the air, soaring in a graceful arc to land in the dead center of a dumpster across the road. Yes. In-fucking-deed.
He walked into the lobby, which seemed to be made entirely of fucking marble. He strolled up to the front desk, spitting in a fountain as he passed, and grinning at the receptionist. Because she was pretty hot. Like. you had to admit.
“Well well well. How’s we doin’ tonight, hun?” Soren leaned against the countertop, adopting the thick New-Youkuh accent he’d used in the school play. He wished he’d brought a fucking cigarette so he could take it out of his mouth like a boss. But he totally didn’t do drugs. Ew, no, no, no, fuck you.
“Ahm a’lookin’ fr’uh…What the fuck had her name been? Had she even said? Shit, he probably hadn’t even asked. Damnit, Soren. You’ve been turning your brain off for too long. “Queen Bee? Queenie? Queen? Any o’ that, uh…be ringin’ a bell fr’you?” And she totally hadn’t given him her room number either. That was fucking great.
Not that Soren minded that much. He wasn’t exactly a night owl or anything, but hey, he’d had soccer games later than this before. And it was already morning in Madrid, where the F-ballers would already be getting up and getting their games on. Fuck, he wanted to be like them. He needed to be like them. Soren Sommersett, number 9, on Real fucking Madrid as soon as he could skip out of this damn town. It was happening. Suck on that, all you doubters. What was the address again? Nice…rice…ice…Ice! Ice palace! Right. He’d googled it. That sounded like an ice rink. God, he fucking hated hockey. If this bitch was a hockey player, this shindig was not going to happen.
The full moon gleamed over New York City. Soren walked slowly down West 33rd street, passing beneath the dim glows of the street lamps and windows. He kicked a soccer ball along in front of him, maneuvering it in deft figure-eights, pullbacks, and step-overs. Because fuck you, that’s why. He’d dribble a soccer ball wherever he damn well pleased.
Soren took a right at the Empire State Building and onto 5th Avenue, counting the addresses on his way through. 29…30…31…32…33. Soren made a nimble leap and kicked the soccer ball on the right edge of his right pinky toe, Soren was ambidextrous, but fuck you, he liked his right foot. He watched as the ball launched itself into the air, soaring in a graceful arc to land in the dead center of a dumpster across the road. Yes. In-fucking-deed.
He walked into the lobby, which seemed to be made entirely of fucking marble. He strolled up to the front desk, spitting in a fountain as he passed, and grinning at the receptionist. Because she was pretty hot. Like. you had to admit.
“Well well well. How’s we doin’ tonight, hun?” Soren leaned against the countertop, adopting the thick New-Youkuh accent he’d used in the school play. He wished he’d brought a fucking cigarette so he could take it out of his mouth like a boss. But he totally didn’t do drugs. Ew, no, no, no, fuck you.
“Ahm a’lookin’ fr’uh…What the fuck had her name been? Had she even said? Shit, he probably hadn’t even asked. Damnit, Soren. You’ve been turning your brain off for too long. “Queen Bee? Queenie? Queen? Any o’ that, uh…be ringin’ a bell fr’you?” And she totally hadn’t given him her room number either. That was fucking great.
