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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.
Dinner.

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.
Bullsh*t.

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
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