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Happiness Is A Warm Gun


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Jameson Orlav

Wrong Number
I thought I already texted it to you?
Just hurry up, you were supposed to be here
like a half hour ago! The Grammys already started!
Attachment: Google Maps Address

The unfaltering trust of humans would forever amuse Jameson. Even when he himself had a pulse and a heartbeat, he'd been wary of trusting people. Although, he did have his reasons. Depending on your view, perhaps he hadn't been the most trustworthy himself.

Either way.

Phone slipped into his pocket, Jameson had made his way from the (too bright) kitchen of Valar Morghulis (Bourbon collection on fleek) and out to the long, narrow driveway. At the mouth of the drive, hidden just slightly beneath the shade of an old willow tree, Jameson had a car. It was a plain black color with no bells and whistles. Maybe ten years old, as not to be too flashy. When he needed to go long distances it came in handy, otherwise it could go weeks without seeing any use.

Tonight he'd received the text from a stranger. It was an open invitation, even if it had been under the assumption that he was someone different. He had an address. He was bored. What was the worst that could happen?

Someone could stake him in the heart?
I said the worst thing.
You wont win with that argument.

The car ride is incredibly uneventful. The play list is unexciting. Jameson doesn't even have Spotify on his phone. The radio played the same old mix of 90's alternative that he'd missed in his years spent in Warsaw and yet somehow he had already grown tired of them in the few months he'd been in New Orleans. He's almost glad to turn the noise off when he'd pulled into the parking lot of what seemed like a random bar.

No, it actually is a random bar. It wasn't likely that he'd have ever stopped here without some sort of incentive.

Like now. This was incentive.

Before he makes his way up the side stairs and into the apartment that was nestled oh so charmingly above the bar below, Jameson makes his way inside. He stuffs his keys into the inner pocket of an old brown leather jacket and dips through a door that makes a gentle 'ding' as he walks inside. There aren't many patrons gathered around, but then it was a week night and there were many bars scattered throughout the city. Without a second look, this one could easily have been missed.

He's not entirely sure how many people had noticed him walking in. Jameson assumes that each of them have laid eyes on him, so he walks slowly to the bar, no sudden movements as he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a lazy look around. The lights are dim, and the place almost looks dirty, but he suspects it has everything to do with the rustic charm that was very much in style. The brightest lights hung over the bar, where he talked and wasted no time in flagging down the bartender and begging his attention.

"Just a beer." Jameson makes his request, the cooler on the opposite side from where he stood. He earns a somber look from the bar keep, but the other man obliges. As soon as he'd turned to fetch the beer, Jameson leaned over the counter top and grabbed a warm bottle of aged amber liquid. He's not sure until he inspects the label just what exactly he had grabbed, but is pleasantly surprised by it's Canadian rye label.

He pops the pourer from the mouth of the bottle and throws it off to the side before he silently sneaks away from the bar and exits around the side of the building. Of course, he takes a generous pull off of the bottle. One, and then another. Another after that. It takes Jameson virtually no time at all to empty a third of the liquor down his throat and into his stomach; the bitter taste barely ghosting over his taste buds.

"Let's hope our new friend is home." He speaks into the air, eyes locked onto the bottle. Jameson? Speaking to an inanimate object?

Eh. It's not the weirdest thing he's ever done.

Up the stairs he climbed, slowing only to check his watch and note the time- 8:26 P.M. The Grammy's already started! The Grammy's are... Which award show, again? Is that the acting or the singing? Both?

Jameson reaches out an arm- the one with the bottle neck wrapped up in his fingers- and taps lightly at the buildings exterior as he moves along, until his finger run out of cheap siding and collide with the heavy splinter of a wooden door.

He knocks.
He waits.
He takes another healthy swig off of the bottle he'd stolen from downstairs.
January 29, 2018 11:59 pm

Theodora Hawthorne

Theo was becoming beyond reckless lately. There had been a time when getting dinner had been a covert affair, arranging meetings with nobodies far from home with no possible connections to herself. However, the life of a maneater was a tumultuous one, and it had started to become quite apparent that Theo was possibly trying to get caught.

Take tonight, for example. She had hit Tinder (or, as she liked to call it, the menu) and made a connection with some desperate brotastic Chad that was willing to meet her immediately for a hookup. At her home. If Theo from a few years ago knew just how self destructive she would become, she wouldn’t have believed it.

She was hungry, impatient, and feeling lethal. Despite having no choice but to dine on humanity, Theo wasn’t sure just how much of it she had left, herself.

Yeah, yeah. You are what you eat.

She’d gotten the number of her hookup and had texted him from a burner phone, but somewhere in the process of getting sloshed, she’d misplaced it. She found the number again easily enough and had texted him again when he never showed up (from her own phone like a smart little murderess)… but one of the numbers had been off. Little did she know.

Having been reassured that her new friend was on his way, she had continued on with her bottle of cab, dancing all alone to the tune of the Grammys.

YES, Bruno. Get’em, you deserve all of that sh*t.”

The long awaited knock on her door interrupted her conversation with the television, and she quickly padded over to her door to invite supper in, wine glass in hand. She had dressed casually for dinner, draped in a brightly colored bohemian dress that brushed her knees; her feet were bare and her dark hair was mussed.

Theo opened the door, but the man who awaited her on the other side was not the one she had contacted.

She didn’t care.

Smiling at the unfamiliar face, she braced a hand against her door frame. “You’re not the guy I invited over.” The smooth southern turn of her words gave no indication that this had displeased her. It occurred to her that she’d obviously texted her address to the wrong person, but it didn’t necessarily interrupt her plans for the evening.

A subtle up and down of amber eyes, and she decided that this one would be much sweeter. Easily the poster boy for tall, dark, and handsome - Theo was hopeless when it came to beautiful men. They always tasted just that much better.

God. She was destined to die alone.

“Come on in. I’ve been gasping for some company up here.” Dropping the arm that had barred entrance, she stepped aside to allow him entry. “I’m Theo. What do I call you?”
February 03, 2018 03:51 pm

Jameson Orlav

Jameson had slipped into a lazy stance against the framing of the front door. He'd only knocked once, doing so loud enough so that he would not need to repeat himself. In the absence of sound (and in his impatience), he'd pulled the bottle back to his lips, hastily slurping down another gulp of the bitter drink that his tongue had learned to ignore. There's a very small shuffle that echoes from the other side of the door, and he doesn't think it sounds suspicious in it's intention. There's no scrambling for a gun, or shuffling around for a sharp object.

He doesn't think.

The door swung open, and with it, Jameson's body swiveled. He turned from where his back pressed flat against the frame, to face the pale light that suddenly confronted him from the inside of the apartment. It wasn't such a stark contrast from the porch light, but somehow it seemed warmer.

'You're not the guy I invited over.' The man offered a smirk, pearly teeth peeking just barely from lips that were tempered with bourbon. He couldn't help but feel like she were sizing him up- which was not a feat that had been entirely uncommon in this day in age. Of course, he pays it no mind. The idea that Jameson was not the apex predator had hardly ever crossed his mind.

This was foolish, of course. But you're all suitably acquainted with this guy by now, right?

"I beg to differ." Jameson had slipped his dark phone from his pocket and offered it into the air as tribute, "I've got my invitation right here. Serves you right for not double checking the number." The tone of his voice remains playful, of course. Never conceited or entitled unless it was blatantly obvious. The man had a dull accent of his own, but it lacked the rich and smooth depth that came with a southern drawl. Instead it seemed sharp and cold- reminiscent of eastern Europe.

He doesn't even push his way inside, but instead waits for the subtle sidestep which would allow him and his bottle entrance. His eyes are working overtime as he takes a speedy glance around in order to better understand his surroundings, especially since he'd just walked into the den of a stranger.

"Jameson." The name rolls simply off his tongue, and once he's comfortably past the threshold of the front door, he turns and extends his arms just slightly to his sides; like an offer of introduction in true Orlav dramatics. "Pleasure."

One of the arms drops back to his side, but he's quick with another hard pull of the bourbon.

"So, I thought this was a Grammy's party? What kind of party doesn't have... Food?"
February 06, 2018 01:12 am

Theodora Hawthorne

For someone that had always, always been the hunter, it never occurred to Theo to consider that she could become the prey. Having dealt with her condition all her life, having been good at it, she’d become overconfident. Recklessness had her choosing victims with less care. It was really only a matter of time before she picked a lion instead of a lamb.

Her guest blithely flaunted his ‘invitation’, insisting that he had indeed been invited over, to which she amiably conceded. Truly, she was pleased at this turn of events. It was like expecting a soggy burger from McDonald’s and being surprised with a choice cut steak.

She watched him enter her tiny abode, shutting the door behind them. As his gaze moved rapidly across the small studio-type dwelling, amber eyes were appreciating his tall, strong build. Robust and well-muscled beneath those clothes, no doubt. While she was a woman and could certainly appreciate the male form from that standpoint, Theo was thinking more along the lines of which limb would serve best as the appetizer.

The dwelling Jameson found himself in was very small, but well lived in. It wasn’t separated by walls, but rather divided up by furniture. The kitchen was hardly more than a nook, barely accomodating a single person, and the living room bled quickly into the dining area. Her ‘bedroom’ was less of a room and more of a bed separated from the rest of the space by curtains that weren’t currently closed. The space was tidy, but because of its size, there was a fair bit of clutter. Beside the television on the wall across from the couch was a small bookshelf that wasn’t nearly large enough to hold her books. The spillover took residence on the floor beside it in neat stacks, as well as beneath the end tables that bookended her couch.

The floor and walls were the exact same as the bar downstairs; dark wood and bared brick, respectively. On the floor in front of her couch and beneath the small coffee table was a large, hand woven rug of Native American design, filled with geometric patterns of bright red, black, and earthen tones.

Theo gave a soft huff of amusement at his dramatic introduction, and dipped slightly in a poor imitation of a curtsy in response.

"So, I thought this was a Grammy's party? What kind of party doesn't have... Food?"


She quickly thought up a lie.

Moving breezily to the kitchen, she removed a glass tumbler from a cupboard. “Well, the man that I had originally invited over was supposed to bring some takeout.” Walking the few steps back toward Jameson, she offered the glass to him, should he wish to put down the handle of rye.

“But I guess we’ll just have to drink our dinner, won’t we?” She saluted him with a small raise of her wine glass, which she quickly polished off.

Theo was well into her bottle of cab. She wasn’t by any means drunk, but the warm flush of alcohol was apparent upon her cheeks.

Reaching between them, she lightly touched the open edge of his brown leather jacket. “Come on, why don’t you take off your jacket and sit down. Sting is about to come on.” She smiled up at him, flashing even, white teeth.

It was important to make him feel relaxed. When prey were tense and uneasy, it made things so much more difficult. Also, adrenaline tended to make them taste funny.
March 31, 2018 11:37 am

Jameson Orlav

The man had found himself lost in his surroundings only momentarily, curiosity often getting the better of him as he failed to consider how rude it might be to go snooping without having been invited to do so. He didn't fumble through her belongings or help himself to much of her personal space, but instead had taken to inspecting moderately sized bookshelves with an overabundance of literature. Even an exquisitely woven rug that stained the floor beneath his feet with great care. For as cramped as the place seemed to be, there was some semblance of separation between 'rooms' in the studio space. Tasteful decoration. It was evenly laid. Symmetric.

Yet she had been so careless in allowing a stranger to enter her home.


"I never did care much for takeout." The man confessed, his heavily booted steps carrying him to the kitchen where the woman greeted him with a healthy vintage. Indeed, he moved to lay down the bottle of bourbon and took up the glass.

Jameson waited to bring the tumbler to his own lips until Theo began to enjoy the drink herself. His eyes linger just moments longer than they ought to have, invading on her mannerisms without apology. The woman's eyes flicker beneath the flutter of her lashes in a shade of burnt gold similar to his own. The tepid liquid slips past her lips with ease, yet if he hadn't known any better he'd think none of it had touched the delicate skin at all. When finally the bitter blend slides down the narrow passage of her throat, it recoils beneath a faded sheath which seems to goe on for miles.

Jameson can hear the pale drumming of her pulse and it's unrelenting in it's taunt as it calls out to him. Theo beings to close the space between them in her attempt to ease his nerves. Those thin, delicate fingers reach out to touch the heavily warn leather at the opening of his jacket. ..Why don't you take off your jacket and sit down.. She says.

Barbarous thoughts are silenced only temporarily as he finally downs his own ration of wine.

Let's not pretend like he doesn't find the irony in drinking his dinner but not yet being sated at all.

"I thought you'd never ask." Jameson coo'd, sliding the glass onto the counter. He begins to slip his arms from the jacket without putting any more space between them and though a stately grin had tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes fail to leave those of the woman who stood before him.

There's almost nothing about the way he looks at her that suggests a mild or kind nature. But the infernal bloodlust disappears from his expression almost as soon as it had appeared and the tiny smirk on his face melts into something much more welcoming. A smile meant to be both assuring and disarming all at once.

"Bring the wine, wont you?" That tiny scarlet hue to her cheeks was enticing. "I never watch Sting perform while sober if I can help it."

Jameson stepped to the side of the woman, tearing his eyes from her as he made his own way to the couch that was positioned in front of the television. He waits to sit until Theo joins him, again taking the opportunity to peruse his surroundings in silence until she either sat herself or insisted he do so.

He's careful, of course, as he takes in her scent. Unwilling to be spotted as he inhaled deeply and savored the aroma of the woman and her livelihood. It's a ritual that takes place in much the same way that a human might indulge in a surf n' turf and a glass of Shiraz.

Somethings just taste better when you truly have time to devour.

April 01, 2018 11:46 am

Theodora Hawthorne

Oh, he was pretty. The corners of her lips curled upward as he began to remove his jacket, aware that no movement to supply distance had been made from this tall, dark stranger. Nor did his eyes leave hers; a brash statement that only single-minded body language could say: I am going to devour you.

Although Theo didn’t necessarily intend it in the same way, she certainly shared the sentiment. There would be no coy drop of her gaze, no self-comforting touch to play with her hair. Rather, the same steadfast gaze, promising an unforgettable evening, if only he would play along.

She took his jacket from him, unleashing a bright peal of laughter at his insistence to be inebriated for Sting. “Cheers to that.”

Theo moved the few short steps to hang his jacket up by the door, retreating to the kitchen momentarily to uncork another bottle of cabernet, as she’d killed the last one. She stole glances at Jameson as he moved through the small space, silently thrilling at her luck. Not so long ago, she was quite picky about her meals. She could afford to be. A single kill could last her weeks if she played her cards right, and every hunt was an event. It was fun.

But now? Something had changed, and not for the better. She was always hungry. Sacrifices had to be made that favored quantity over quality. It was only now, with such a specimen at her fingertips, that she truly regretted how far she’d fallen.

She carried their glasses and the freshly uncorked bottle of wine toward the couch, bending momentarily to pour them each a generous amount. She gestured for him to sit, and followed suit soon after, cradling her wine glass in her left hand. Her legs were curled beneath her, and the brightly colored, airy dress billowed just enough to cover the important things. Sitting near enough to Jameson to ensure her intentions couldn’t be mistaken, she offered him a sultry smile.

“So, Jameson was it? I’m very curious.” She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Why does a man like you pay any sort of attention to a wrong number? Don’t you have something better to be doing on a Saturday night? Not that I’m complaining.”

Theo shifted her weight slightly, inching just that much closer to the enticing body before her. The hilt of her well-loved, serrated, drop-point folding blade pressed intimately into the flesh of her upper thigh with the movement, needlessly reminding her of what would come. The strong beat of her heart quickened with the excitement of the game - something that could quite easily be mistaken for attraction.

“Oh, and…” She glanced at the clock hanging on her wall. “I think you’ve got about ten minutes to make sure you’re not sober for Sting. Bottoms up, gorgeous.”
April 25, 2018 11:30 pm
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