Jᴀᴍᴇs Pᴀᴛʀɪᴄᴋ Mᴀʀᴄʜ (Tʜᴇ Mᴀsᴛᴇʀ) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
idesof) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2016-07-23 02:07 pm
idesof) wrote in maskormenacelogs2016-07-23 02:07 pm
I know you’ll take care of all my needs
WHO: A bunch of jerks
WHERE: Hotel Castile
WHEN: Friday evening
WHAT: A gathering of jerks...needs a plural form.
WARNINGS: Uh pretty much everything in their respective canons, will update if anything gets off the rails. Murder is definitely getting a shout out or forty though.
The Castile's atmosphere is somewhat different tonight. There isn't a single sign of a celebration to be seen past the fact that the little restaurant off to the side on the first floor has a RESERVED note hanging next to it. No staff runs around wildly, trying to prepare for the big evening. Actually, from the looks of it, there are less staff on board than usual. Arriving guests will be treated with considerable respect from the person at the front desk, who will go so far as to walk them to their destination despite it not being all that far off. One doesn't have to be too observant to pick up on a bit of awe in that respect, too. Or fear. Depends on the perspective.
Their room for this evening is lit lowly, lights dimmed and the bar lined with candles, at the counter top and in the selections behind it. More of a muted celebration this time around, as though a party sending off someone finally retiring instead of a full blown joyous bash. This space has been cleared except for a long, thin table in the middle. It holds an absinthe fountain, trays of finger foods, trays of small sweet treats, and one area has an array for anyone inclined to make themselves a salad, vegetables only or with thinly sliced chicken sitting on a heated plate. Hungrier than that? Express it to the staff. Or complain loudly enough they can hear it. Meals of any make will be offered. A favored bellboy is helping out as staff this evening, server and waiter instead of bellboy. But he's in his bellboy uniform just the same and a little idle chit chat proves he's got a foul mouth and cutting sarcasm he doesn't care to hide. He's a smarmy little shit for someone in his position and doesn't seem to have a single fear his mouthy nature will get him written up or canned. Anyone who dares fire back (as they should) will find that returned, and the easiest way to enjoy a companionable conversation is by standing up for oneself or spitting right back; then he's a fine chatty fellow indeed. Still drops obscene words quite often, but nobody's perfect. His name tag holds no name. If asked, he will give one. And the next person to ask will get a different name. Nelson to one, Martin to the next, Cornelius when he's drinking, Mister Jackson if you're nasty.
A small jazzy band plays covers from all eras in one corner (like so), loud enough without being overwhelming. All members are middle aged, most with additional wrinkles. They have that look of a rough sort of life. The music never falters, voices never drop out, but anyone paying them a lot of attention may spot at least the drummer throwing back liquor while they're on stage. Or sniffing something from his sleeve. Play time and work time are not mutually exclusive.
In a booth across from this band sits a lone clown in full costume. His make up was of the frowning variety but has since been smeared. It creates a very warped sort of sadness, perhaps more so since he's been given a bottle of bourbon. He has no tumbler or shot glass. He drinks right out of the bottle itself, the rim a mix of blue and white and red face paint. His focus is only ever on the band, the bottle, Sally, or his hands on the table in front of him. If approached, he will not speak. He smiles and stares but answers no one he doesn't recognize. He'll go so far as to watch the band and completely ignore newcomers if that's what it takes. The bellboy occasionally drops by with napkins or some small plate of food, gripping the clown's shoulder or patting his back as though he understands this behavior and feeling completely. A show of solidarity.
Sally is behind the bar, of course, in her finest vintage '90s wear. Tristan isn't far off either, wearing a shirt so low cut it would be obscene on a woman and dark pants that might as well have been sprayed on. March isn't anywhere in this room. Ask those who seem to be in the know, and answers will vary, but no one can explain where he is and why he isn't here. Why it's time for his little celebration and he hasn't made an appearance yet. But why worry after him? There's food, and drink, vices, and plenty of other folks to talk to. Music, even. There's something more interesting than that old bastard to be found. Tick tock. There isn't a clock in the room but watches aren't difficult to come by.
When the last late guest arrives, it's quickly after that March strides in, all impeccable shiny tailcoat, top hat, and cane. He stops to lift the thin golden chain from one side of the doorway in order to clip it at the other. It's won't keep anyone out (or in) who is very intent on getting out (or in). It's for show and part of the theatrics just the same. Only after he's done that does he pass off his cane to the bellboy, bearing the largest, most pleased grin he possibly can. The band tapers off their song and he places his top hat, upside down, on the edge of the table. He unbuttons his coat so when he puts his hands on his hips, it pulls back rather than bunching up and strangling him.
"I am" one hand goes over his heart "filled with joy to see you all here tonight. I'd like to welcome you all, each of you, to the Hotel Castile! It is my hope that after tonight, we'll continue to gather, and our gatherings will become much more than they are this evening."
He's absolutely genuine, endeared to the point his eyes give off a misty, so-happy-he-could-cry appearance.
"You've all met Sally, I know." He gestures to Sally, smile fond. That hand turns to point out Tristan. "This is Tristan. We've all come here from the same Los Angeles. We were all together at my last hotel, the Hotel Cortez. We have our differences of views, opinions, likes and dislikes, but there is one thing the three of us have in common. The most important thing any group of people can share, in my opinion. When made known and properly nurtured, this one thing can bind us together. Far beyond shared hobbies or interests! This one common denominator is something I have seen in each and every one of you as well. That is why this evening came to pass. That is why I have called you all here tonight, so you could see for yourselves. So you could come to the answer I have."
Abruptly, the clown in the booth speaks, waving his bottle. His words are too slurred, too guttural, too warped to be understand. It's not even clear if he's speaking English, but he's captured March's attention. When he finishes whatever it is he's saying, March points to him, laughs briefly, and nods.
"Absolutely, darling! You're not playing this evening; you already know the answer!" Oh, those clowns. That ends the interruption, and March turns his focus back to his imPort visitors. "I'm no fool; I am aware many of you have been here far longer than I. You've had opportunities to meet before. To know each other. Opportunities I have not yet had, though would like to remedy in the future. Some of you mightn't get along! I understand that as well. So I shall be clear that this evening: these meetings are to be civil. If you cannot remain civil, then tolerate. Keep anything past heated debates for outside that door. Within these walls," his arms encompass ceiling, walls, floor, "we strive for an acceptance of each other. That was one of my many reasons for moving so quickly to have the Castile properly renovated and in my name."
The bellboy appears at his side with a glass container, something commonly seen holding mints. This one holds small scraps of paper. March takes it with a muttered thank you, my dear, moving to place it in front of the absinthe fountain.
"Tonight, I'd like for us all to get to know each other. For those of you who already do know one another, splendid! The challenge is to find another and learn about them. Let them learn about you." He pulls off the top of that container and sets it neatly to the side. "Should you have difficulty making conversation, the staff has put together a collection of questions you may pull from."
Said questions are a wild variety. From simple moral choices like You find a box of abandoned newborn puppies in need of food, what do you do? to the braver like You're a combat doctor. You realize the man bleeding on your table is the man who took the life of someone you held dear years before. Do you treat him to the best of your abilities or work to see him dead in a way that looks accidental? Or leave him to die? to the questionable such as If there were two guys on the moon and one killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what? It's possible March didn't check all of these out. Or some were sneaked in. What a trusting fellow.
"Once you come to a decision of what this common factor we all share is, I'd like for you to write it down on a slip of paper and deposit them here." He's walked as he speaks, and now taps at the brim of his top hat on the table. "And that's it! I hope this evening is one of learning and understanding, and one that will lead us all to a much brighter future."
Still so genuine, so joyous about everything despite the slight unsettling factors in the room. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, even, smile somehow growing even bigger when the band kicks in a song he recognizes from his youth.
So go wild, friends. Be honest. Be amused. Be liars. Be deceitful. Be yourselves, that's really all he asks. Of course March will be playing this evening, too. He's so eager to learn about everyone in this room it's practically palpable. But where oh where to start?
WHERE: Hotel Castile
WHEN: Friday evening
WHAT: A gathering of jerks...needs a plural form.
WARNINGS: Uh pretty much everything in their respective canons, will update if anything gets off the rails. Murder is definitely getting a shout out or forty though.
The Castile's atmosphere is somewhat different tonight. There isn't a single sign of a celebration to be seen past the fact that the little restaurant off to the side on the first floor has a RESERVED note hanging next to it. No staff runs around wildly, trying to prepare for the big evening. Actually, from the looks of it, there are less staff on board than usual. Arriving guests will be treated with considerable respect from the person at the front desk, who will go so far as to walk them to their destination despite it not being all that far off. One doesn't have to be too observant to pick up on a bit of awe in that respect, too. Or fear. Depends on the perspective.
Their room for this evening is lit lowly, lights dimmed and the bar lined with candles, at the counter top and in the selections behind it. More of a muted celebration this time around, as though a party sending off someone finally retiring instead of a full blown joyous bash. This space has been cleared except for a long, thin table in the middle. It holds an absinthe fountain, trays of finger foods, trays of small sweet treats, and one area has an array for anyone inclined to make themselves a salad, vegetables only or with thinly sliced chicken sitting on a heated plate. Hungrier than that? Express it to the staff. Or complain loudly enough they can hear it. Meals of any make will be offered. A favored bellboy is helping out as staff this evening, server and waiter instead of bellboy. But he's in his bellboy uniform just the same and a little idle chit chat proves he's got a foul mouth and cutting sarcasm he doesn't care to hide. He's a smarmy little shit for someone in his position and doesn't seem to have a single fear his mouthy nature will get him written up or canned. Anyone who dares fire back (as they should) will find that returned, and the easiest way to enjoy a companionable conversation is by standing up for oneself or spitting right back; then he's a fine chatty fellow indeed. Still drops obscene words quite often, but nobody's perfect. His name tag holds no name. If asked, he will give one. And the next person to ask will get a different name. Nelson to one, Martin to the next, Cornelius when he's drinking, Mister Jackson if you're nasty.
A small jazzy band plays covers from all eras in one corner (like so), loud enough without being overwhelming. All members are middle aged, most with additional wrinkles. They have that look of a rough sort of life. The music never falters, voices never drop out, but anyone paying them a lot of attention may spot at least the drummer throwing back liquor while they're on stage. Or sniffing something from his sleeve. Play time and work time are not mutually exclusive.
In a booth across from this band sits a lone clown in full costume. His make up was of the frowning variety but has since been smeared. It creates a very warped sort of sadness, perhaps more so since he's been given a bottle of bourbon. He has no tumbler or shot glass. He drinks right out of the bottle itself, the rim a mix of blue and white and red face paint. His focus is only ever on the band, the bottle, Sally, or his hands on the table in front of him. If approached, he will not speak. He smiles and stares but answers no one he doesn't recognize. He'll go so far as to watch the band and completely ignore newcomers if that's what it takes. The bellboy occasionally drops by with napkins or some small plate of food, gripping the clown's shoulder or patting his back as though he understands this behavior and feeling completely. A show of solidarity.
Sally is behind the bar, of course, in her finest vintage '90s wear. Tristan isn't far off either, wearing a shirt so low cut it would be obscene on a woman and dark pants that might as well have been sprayed on. March isn't anywhere in this room. Ask those who seem to be in the know, and answers will vary, but no one can explain where he is and why he isn't here. Why it's time for his little celebration and he hasn't made an appearance yet. But why worry after him? There's food, and drink, vices, and plenty of other folks to talk to. Music, even. There's something more interesting than that old bastard to be found. Tick tock. There isn't a clock in the room but watches aren't difficult to come by.
When the last late guest arrives, it's quickly after that March strides in, all impeccable shiny tailcoat, top hat, and cane. He stops to lift the thin golden chain from one side of the doorway in order to clip it at the other. It's won't keep anyone out (or in) who is very intent on getting out (or in). It's for show and part of the theatrics just the same. Only after he's done that does he pass off his cane to the bellboy, bearing the largest, most pleased grin he possibly can. The band tapers off their song and he places his top hat, upside down, on the edge of the table. He unbuttons his coat so when he puts his hands on his hips, it pulls back rather than bunching up and strangling him.
"I am" one hand goes over his heart "filled with joy to see you all here tonight. I'd like to welcome you all, each of you, to the Hotel Castile! It is my hope that after tonight, we'll continue to gather, and our gatherings will become much more than they are this evening."
He's absolutely genuine, endeared to the point his eyes give off a misty, so-happy-he-could-cry appearance.
"You've all met Sally, I know." He gestures to Sally, smile fond. That hand turns to point out Tristan. "This is Tristan. We've all come here from the same Los Angeles. We were all together at my last hotel, the Hotel Cortez. We have our differences of views, opinions, likes and dislikes, but there is one thing the three of us have in common. The most important thing any group of people can share, in my opinion. When made known and properly nurtured, this one thing can bind us together. Far beyond shared hobbies or interests! This one common denominator is something I have seen in each and every one of you as well. That is why this evening came to pass. That is why I have called you all here tonight, so you could see for yourselves. So you could come to the answer I have."
Abruptly, the clown in the booth speaks, waving his bottle. His words are too slurred, too guttural, too warped to be understand. It's not even clear if he's speaking English, but he's captured March's attention. When he finishes whatever it is he's saying, March points to him, laughs briefly, and nods.
"Absolutely, darling! You're not playing this evening; you already know the answer!" Oh, those clowns. That ends the interruption, and March turns his focus back to his imPort visitors. "I'm no fool; I am aware many of you have been here far longer than I. You've had opportunities to meet before. To know each other. Opportunities I have not yet had, though would like to remedy in the future. Some of you mightn't get along! I understand that as well. So I shall be clear that this evening: these meetings are to be civil. If you cannot remain civil, then tolerate. Keep anything past heated debates for outside that door. Within these walls," his arms encompass ceiling, walls, floor, "we strive for an acceptance of each other. That was one of my many reasons for moving so quickly to have the Castile properly renovated and in my name."
The bellboy appears at his side with a glass container, something commonly seen holding mints. This one holds small scraps of paper. March takes it with a muttered thank you, my dear, moving to place it in front of the absinthe fountain.
"Tonight, I'd like for us all to get to know each other. For those of you who already do know one another, splendid! The challenge is to find another and learn about them. Let them learn about you." He pulls off the top of that container and sets it neatly to the side. "Should you have difficulty making conversation, the staff has put together a collection of questions you may pull from."
Said questions are a wild variety. From simple moral choices like You find a box of abandoned newborn puppies in need of food, what do you do? to the braver like You're a combat doctor. You realize the man bleeding on your table is the man who took the life of someone you held dear years before. Do you treat him to the best of your abilities or work to see him dead in a way that looks accidental? Or leave him to die? to the questionable such as If there were two guys on the moon and one killed the other with a rock would that be fucked up or what? It's possible March didn't check all of these out. Or some were sneaked in. What a trusting fellow.
"Once you come to a decision of what this common factor we all share is, I'd like for you to write it down on a slip of paper and deposit them here." He's walked as he speaks, and now taps at the brim of his top hat on the table. "And that's it! I hope this evening is one of learning and understanding, and one that will lead us all to a much brighter future."
Still so genuine, so joyous about everything despite the slight unsettling factors in the room. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, even, smile somehow growing even bigger when the band kicks in a song he recognizes from his youth.
So go wild, friends. Be honest. Be amused. Be liars. Be deceitful. Be yourselves, that's really all he asks. Of course March will be playing this evening, too. He's so eager to learn about everyone in this room it's practically palpable. But where oh where to start?
no subject
Far, far into the future was a reasonable assessment, because battles were normal in relationships.
Weren't they?
"But I am more curious about you." And more desperate to figure out the details to this mystery woman.
no subject
That little, unspoken question all of the wretches like him, like her, always lived with. When will you leave me? No ifs, no maybes. Just whens.
"Or do you really want to learn about how I got into the hotel business instead?"
no subject
That in of itself would be something to chew on, the meat of her conversation savored in different kinds of light. Chilton figured he could afford the analysis, however steeped in trickery he might consider the methodology.
"I know you best as you are now, after all," he said. And that translated the minuscule amount he could claim.
no subject
"We should have a little threeway. You, me, and her."
no subject
"I wouldn't say no."
He didn't speak on Raina's behalf, of course, Chilton had long ago learned what a mistake that would be. The man might be masochistic, but there as only so much punishment he could take.
"You sure know how to suggest a good time."
no subject
She lets go, detaches completely, to grab a napkin and write a room number on it. She doesn't offer it, doesn't give an option, just goes and tucks it in his breast pocket.
"Come find me. What you've had the talk. I can be home in a flash."
no subject
Chilton stared at the napkin turned invitation, somewhat amazed at the ease. He should have been suspicious, perhaps, he could have been skeptical -- but the gratification flooded his mind, dopamine-laced flattery in his brain.
He took it without question.
"Will do, Sally. Will do."
The woman knew how to make an exit without much overt effort, and Chilton would be thinking about that the rest of the evening.