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///The way you see me walking on * Maybe if he tries squinting his eyes and focusing harder, the human known as Charles Gunn will spontaneously disappear. As it is, the wall of apathy and not-so-veiled hostility seems to lack any affect on the man's halting attempts. At apology. "...so of course then.(pause)........{{{blah blah blah blah blah}}}.....(swallow)......and that's why...." No doubt haltingly because Lorne is on the move and wants to be away. Wants the human to go away. This particular one. Far. The stream of words nevertheless continues. On. And on. And. On. And on. Charles is smoothly, doggedly, ignoring the hint. // Either that, or he's as dumb as a karbluschk ox. Hmmph. // The flow of gibber, and the staticky aura, both stop. "What was that?" Lorne eyes him warily. The red eyes squint more intensely, and the rest of this heretic, body marked and cast out from Clan Deathwok, remains bristling in stony silence. Beat. "C'mon I *heard* you say something." Silence. "You _made_ a noise, " Gunn points out. "I know I heard so-" "I was CLEARING my THROAT, " Lorne returns loudly. "And now I want you to leave." The affronted demon doesn't bother to point the way out the door. He does squint his eyes just a little bit harder.
And plays down the sudden desire to start belting out
the lyrics to Gloria Gaynor's renowned opus, the
Bouncing Back song and tell this schmuck -with really
tense "friends"- that he's not welcome anymore. You know, I really wish he'd stop staring at me like that. He reminds me of a bad comic-book villain. Laser-beams of redness, gyuuh. Like he wants to fry me with his eyes. "Like a FRITATA! " the Host grinds out. "Damn!" Now it is Gunn who is much affronted. "You've got to stop reading my mind like that! Y'know we've talked about this, man." The Host continues to walk away. Lorne stops before a wall splotched in the hue of a Hawaiian-Punch colored stain and dribbled with runny, yellow trails and a drying mix of pink gelatinous lumps. " 'Until we stop harming all living beings, we are still savages.' " Turning his purple-suited back once more, he moves farther away from Gunn. Gunn, who speeds up his pace to grab at Lorne's shoulder and spin the Host back so they face each other. Gunn holds up both his hands, "Look, Lorne..." -moves closer still- and stops. "Hoo, that ain't sea breeze on your breath--" "Look, you _human_...same human who greatly helped out in turning my bar into looking like the X of a tornado's bullseye....they terrorized my purveyors, Charles. Invaded and violated my Sanctuary. This is the first time in a few that I've taken the time to make myself look presentable again." Lorne sweeps an arm to take in his silk purple-suit-and-silver-necktie ensemble. "I'm picking up the pieces. I'm trying to move on." There is a brief time for reflection as the aura Lorne's trying to project, no longer as taut a compressed spring as before, makes an impression upon the human. "Remember the time it was All Country Ho-Ha Night?" Gunn prods gently. "Yeah, so what?" "You dared me to get up on the stage and sing that night. And I wouldn't budge, so Cordy said she'd try out Dolly Parton's underground cover of "All My Exes Live In Texas." Lorne shudders. "Ghhhesh...I remember." "We were still so worried about Wesley in the hospital, but he'd told us to beat it 'cause he wanted to 'have my tea in some solitude' for a while. You grabbed my arm and dragged me up there, and I sang 'I Can't Stop Loving You.' " Krevlorne smiles half-dreamily at the echoes of aura, and then remembers that insurance plans covering demon karaoke bars don't include "Fraternal Pillage by Violent Mob Crew." "You said I sounded like dark velvet." "I was lying. I thought Ray Charles was turning over...somewhere...on the fluffy goose down pillows of his bed. With Egyptian cotton sheets and Dubshkorrglst incense. All within his seaside bungalow. The likes of which I'll never be able to finance because I'll have to use my retirement fund to start all over again." Lorne walks agitatedly, gesticulating to point it out. How much havoc this mess has wrought. And what kind. "When I first hatched this joint in an empty warehouse, still blinking like a newborn deer in the neon lights of the strip bar a couple of blocks away, I was amazed. Stricken with joy and good fortune. The potential of this place, a place of _music_." He looks around, to picture in his mind and with the watercolor of those emotions, how it was then. How it all began. "With a good stock of liquor and a classy atmosphere. This was more than just a demonic watering hole. It was a Haven. Caritas. And now, " Lorne gestures at the broken chairs. Shakes his head. Cringes at a smell of the place not quite right where a slight citrusy scent used to be. The shards of glass and trash. Gunn follows the green arm, and surveys the wrecked vista. Paper, bottles, chips of sharp wood and plastic...bullet holes and cracked plaster... The not-so-subtle whiff of something pungent that might be chunks of flesh once living, gone singed and dead. The Host stops his movements and absorbs it all. "The Karma now positively reeks!" Lorne sees Charles tuck his chin along with the downward casting eyes. Gunn looks up. "I just really want to try to make it up to you." "I know. You will. But not today. Now get out." To which, exasperated, Gunn responds, "Twice I went to Ventura to deliver that-- demon. chakra. *stuff*--" "Charles---" "What does a brother have to do around here--" "MR. Gunn, I suggest--" "I have spent all of this morning and ALL afternoon cleaning up--" "--this mess you helped to make, however un---" "WHAT DO YOU WANT, A BLOWJOB??!!"
Pause. It is now dusk. Gunn is sore. Even the waterbed feels hard against his back. He can hear Lorne whistling in the shower through the open door. Damn. |