|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:08:59 GMT -5
Antoine sniffed haughtily. Don't even try that, you bastard. "Jam is perfectly lovely, and even if it is sweet, it has all the tastes of the earth in it. Jam is subtle where butter would slap you in the face. Your butter is perfectly vile. It is the apex of your horrible need to mask every taste with salt." Maxim was already perfectly aware of his hatred of "that American penchant for the overuse of condiments," but it was never a bad time to remind him of it, and it was never a bad time to remind him that he was (shock! horror!) assimilating to its travesties.
He graciously accepted Maxim's hand —and the silent concession that he would never properly make— and considered it for a moment, more to ensure that he let Maxim know that his hand was not going to distract Antoine from his point.
Even if it was.
"And do you know, I didn't do this for any of them? In fact, this used to be got at a far higher price, M. Richard." He brought Maxim's hand to his lips, and suspecting that most of the butter was already gone from the thumb (and thank goodness because it was such a trial to get that to look delicate, no matter what airs he put on before Maxim), sucked very delicately on the web between thumb and forefinger (disgustingly salty and bitter; it would have been better with jam) before quickly licking the underside of Maxim's thumb (salty only in the taste of skin, thank heaven). He pressed a damp kiss to the palm. Butterless. He stuck the tip of Maxim's middle finger indelicately into his mouth as a litmus test. Clean. Bless the man, fastidious even when he was making a mess of himself.
"All right, all right, don't look so miserable," he said. "I'll go to your goddammed party, and I'll enjoy myself, too. Will there be dancing, or is that too decadent in this puritanical age of stoic, unpleasurable merriment?" He declined politely from commenting on any first nights because, he suspected, that was something that would put Maxim into a thoroughly rotten mood (it unfailingly did) and dull parties were not improved upon by a lack of witty repartee with his particular friend.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Apr 9, 2008 19:09:14 GMT -5
Hah. Decadent dancing. Maxim knew for a fact that Antoine was one to spice up the modern 'unpleasurable merriment' every Friday evening. And the occasional Wednesday afternoon. There was also that one Thursday...
"Really, Antoine," Maxim said, giving him a look. "Even if I told you that you weren't allowed to dance, would you really abide by that rule? There hasn't been any dancing thus far, of course, but as soon as you're in there....well, I'm sure you'll find ways to amuse yourself."
His eyes narrowed at the thought. Of course Antoine would find ways to amuse himself. He always managed to, whether they were at a dance, a restaurant, or on a street. People were drawn to Antoine's charm (or hair, or both), and they were generally of the extremely attractive sort.
Maybe this party would be different. Maybe, just maybe, Antoine would behave himself and exchange pleasant words to people who wanted nothing but that. Maybe Antoine would...
Maxim managed a polite smile. He didn't want his overactive (hah) imagination ruining this evening. Even if the evening wasn't really all that big of a deal. It may not have seemed like it, but it really was.
"I know you used to go at a much higher price, Antoine. But these days, these unpleasurable days, you have to learn to go with the figurative flow." This was especially true for California, where a disgustingly cold day was never met with a friendly café owner running out to collect him into a nice, warm bistro. And the hot days were never as pleasant: the water, at least, where he'd last been, was cold. And on hot days, one could immerse one's self in the water, and...
"Let's go," he said, breaking his thought flow. He would never get Antoine to be productive if he continued to think like this.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Apr 9, 2008 19:09:28 GMT -5
"If you say no dancing, there will be no dancing. As you say, I can always find a way to amuse myself. If it isn't dancing, ah, well, there are other pleasures to be had in life," he said, giving Maxim a smile that had perhaps a tad more gleeful menace than pure cheer in it.
He peered at the side of the toaster, flicking a lock of hair into place. He smoothed down his left eyebrow and then his right and tapped his nose. "Do I look all right, Maxim? Nothing out of place?" Antoine said offhandedly. Maxim was fairly blind to any sort of fashion faux pas, though Antoine liked to think this was due more to his own blinding perfection than anything else. Biting his lip, he took the opportunity to straighten his friend's tie, not that it particularly needed straightening, and smooth down the shoulder of his suit coat where there were at least some legitimate rumples.
"Going with the figurative flow would, I believe, involve skyrocketing value, even in this sadly flagging economy, which—" Antoine put on his best American businessman voice, which sounded rather peculiar as he continued to speak entirely in French. "—I am terribly concerned about. The home- and small business-owners of Shawl need to be protected from the, er, recession, and it's my job— em, duty to ensure that they are able to conduct their lives without fear of, um, loss of quality of life or their savings. Not bad, eh, Maxim?" He smiled brightly. Maxim would make a politician of him yet. Marvel at how bubbly and charming and disarming he was! Oh, yes, just throw those donations at him. Yes, yes, the city needs your money. Oh, thank you, yes, Madame— Mrs. So-and-so we will happily spend your money in the name of the good of Shawl.
He sighed. "All right, if you insist." Repressing the urge to offer Maxim his arm (it was only polite, you know), he strolled to the doors, threw them open, and walked out into the bustling crowd.
|
|
|
Post by Camille Desmoulins on Apr 10, 2008 13:33:56 GMT -5
This was troubling. Jeun stared at the party, half listening to the chatter in some subconscious part of his brain and in the more conscious part wondering why he was here. Because he honestly had no idea how on earth he had gotten here.
The last thing he had remembered was prowling around his home for a while before settling down to make himself a nice cup of tea.
And now he was at some gala. To meet people he already knew and that he, moreover, already knew he did not like.
He frowned, sitting back in the chair he had found himself sitting in. He had, apparently, had enough presence of mind to change into his suit- which was black like he preferred most of his clothes. Black suit, black shirt and a black tie. He'd even pulled his hair back so that it looked rather less like a mane then it usually did. He'd also brought his cell phone- which he owned purely because he thought it was fascinating and not because he ever used it.
Although he was now debating if he should call Zahra down here for moral support. Or to get him out of this. Possibly both. However he wasn't sure if Zahra had a phone and he doubted that she would want to come down here and he also wasn't sure if she'd gotten started on that thing that he had asked her to do yet. So he would hold off on calling her until he got desperate. It did not occur to him that he didn’t know her phone number.
Anyways, he supposed to himself, this was a good time to pick up some tidbits of information about people. People, after all, tend to have nothing better to do at parties like this than gossip about other people. He supposed that while he was here he may as well make the best of his situation.
He sighed and slid into his general look that read 'I do not care' and began to examine his nails. Which he came to the alarming realization were no longer nails, but claws. He frowned, examine the black claws and looking rather uninterested while trying to figure out why exactly he had claws. This had never happened before. He wasn't even aware that he could have claws anymore! He suspected that it had something to do with that little lapse in his memory and he could only suppose that he had meant to kill someone while he was here.
Interesting.
|
|
|
Post by Louis Capet on Apr 11, 2008 10:43:44 GMT -5
Jason could hardly describe himself as being a social butterfly. The only parties he was ever really invited to were those where he gained an automatic invitation by default-for example, the office Christmas party, his parents birthday parties or, in this case, a party that was open to anyone and everyone, and so him being there was nothing to be particularly proud of. Jason just wasn’t a party animal. I mean, waking up in the bathtub soaking in someone else’s vomit with sixteen empty bottles of vodka floating in front of you? Never really appealed much to Jason.
But nonetheless, he’d left his fascinating evening (which had mainly consisted of sorting out paperwork and watching whatever was on TV which, on this particular evening, had happened to be the Barefoot Contessa) and toddled along to the party to see the new mayor and his staff and involve himself in an evening of what had been described as “good food and chatter” according to the paper.
But standing here in the house that simply oozed wealth and flamboyance, surrounded by socialites and people pretending to be socialites, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. Not because it was a particularly bad party-the food was fine, the music was fine, the atmosphere was fine-but because there was simply nobody to talk to. So far he’d had a conversation with an elderly lady who was convinced the mayor had been staring at her rear whilst she had been dancing, which Jason had very much doubted, an entrepreneur who wanted to talk about himself and nothing else and a woman who showed too much cleavage and too much leg and whose every sentence seemed to have some sexual innuendo.
And now he was bored out of his mind. Patting down his dark suit and rearranging the burgundy tie beneath the collar of the pale pink shirt, he scoped the room, looking for any familiar, friendly faces, but still there were none. He could see the egocentric entrepreneur and the promiscuous woman were now dancing nearby. There’s very little chemistry there, mused Jason.
“Champagne, sir?”
The pronounced voice to his left interrupted his chain of thought. Jason turned to where a waiter was standing, balancing a tray of tall, thin glasses filled with bubbling liquid.
“Oh, well, I’ve already had one, so-”
He cut himself off as something else caught his attention. A man, sitting on a chair not too far away, was inspecting his long, sharp nails that appeared to be painted black. Long black nails? Christ, the crowd at this party was getting stranger by the minute.
“So I’ll have another,” Jason finished, turning back to the waiter and taking one of the glasses of the tray. He returned his attention to the gentleman with the nails. Were they nails? They had to be nails. That was the general position of nails. There was nothing else they could be, full stop. With this thought he turned away and took a gulp of the drink he had in his hand.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on May 1, 2008 22:53:12 GMT -5
Maxim grabbed Antoine's arm much like one would a small child. Only, Maxim was preventing Antoine from wandering over to unimportant, whorish people instead of an ice cream truck. It was mostly because there weren't any ice cream trucks in the room at the moment.
He spotted Mr. Kazin across the room, and decided to not visit the pesky bookkeeper just yet. That could be saved for another day, one where there weren't quite as many people to meet. "Look over here, Antoine," Maxim said, making a beeline towards a crusty old gentleman who was standing quite close to a young man whom Maxim thought migh possibly work for Basil. It was entirely possible.
"This here is," he said, pausing for a moment. To chat with Basil's underling (he could tell by the glum look on the boy's face), or to chat with someone who would be boring and quite possibly unimportant?
"Jason Meade. He works for Basil Dixon, your chief investigator. Jason Meade, lovely to meet you, I'm Maxim Robert, the mayor's campaign manager. How do you do?" He stuck out his hand, almost desperately. They just had to meet the right people at this gathering.
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Jun 1, 2008 22:50:36 GMT -5
Antoine pouted, but went along. One learned not to argue with Maxim. It simply wasn't very productive. "Oh, Maxim, my dear, please not an elderly gentleman! I simply shan't be able to maintain my cool," he whined in French. "They're so terribly boring, my sweet, and really, lovely, oh, please don't. Have mercy!" If Antoine let his lips tremble a bit in that moment, then it was not entirely under his control.
When he realized that he was not being led to the conversational guillotine, he brightened considerably. Antoine offered the man his hand, though it wasn't entirely clear if he meant for it to be shaken or kissed. "How utterly delightful to meet you. I have heard so very much about that, ah, charming boss of yours. Your work has done so very much to reduce the crime in our lovely city."
He shot a glance at Maxim. Introducing him to one of Dixon's puppies? How very intriguing. Maxim had never had much fondness for bureaucratic employees, no matter how much money they donated to the government or how much they improved the sleep of mothers throughout the city. Dixon, as far as Antoine knew, had not particularly supported Antoine's campaign, and usually, it was the deep pockets that he got introduced to first. Huh. He cocked his head and smiled at the man. Could he be— But no. A municipal employee certainly couldn't afford the sort of donation that caught Maxim's attention, but then, no one in the little town was what they seemed. Perhaps he was a fellow worth meeting after all.
|
|
|
Post by Camille Desmoulins on Jun 2, 2008 20:20:50 GMT -5
Jeun's attention was diverted from his claws as he saw the mayor and his campaign manager enter the yard. He looked over in the direction of a pair of elderly women, trying to ignore the two men. He knew who he had come here to kill now, and he knew that doing such a thing would be a very bad idea. There were police everywhere, not to mention Mr. Dixon's employee, and there were far too many witnesses for him to get away with murder. Besides this he would be killed were he to try such a move.
The sphinx sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a head ache that was threatening him. That was strange. He didn't usually get head aches...
The next thing he knew he was standing, several feet away from where he had been sitting and his hand was flexed in such away that his palm would be clear of any gore and the claws would best be able to hit someone. He looked at his hand for a moment, perplexed at his own killing instinct that was taking over. After a few seconds of this he reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. It took his a while but he finally figured out how to dial a number he stopped, realizing he did not know his assistant's phone number.
He walked slowly back to the chairs, sitting down and looking at the phone for a minute before tentatively pressing a few buttons- recalling the manual that he had read for it. After a good while of fiddling, a game of solitaire, and quite a bit of cursing modern technology he found the contacts and found that he had (or she had) put her phone number in there. There was a bit more fiddling and he finally got it to call. As he listened to it ring he sunk his claws into his own palm, keeping himself from going into whatever sort of unconsciousness that he kept slipping into. When his employee finally picked up the phone he sighed with relief and thanks all deities that she'd picked up.
"Zahra...? Yes... I... I need you to very quickly come and get me from the new mayor's galla before I murder someone... yes it is likely to happen...." he sighed and pulled his claws out of his palm with a wince, "No, I'm not sure how I got here either. Most likely a cab, or I might have walked- I wasn't conscious.... Post haste would be appreciated. I would prefer to not kill someone... I'll explain later..... I know... Thank you."
He pressed a few buttons and when he finally got the call to end he flipped the phone shut, sighing again and glancing at the mayor and his consort (or campaign manager, whatever you wanted to call him) and then turning his attention to counting people and seeing how many of them he could name off the top of his head. He guessed that keeping his mind occupied would keep him from doing anything stupid- like murder.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Jun 4, 2008 0:50:30 GMT -5
Maxim smiled politely at Antoine's response. He could have been a smidgen less eager, and Maxim really wouldn't have complained. It really was important, though, that this slightly shady-looking fellow get the right impression of them. Basil hadn't seemed to like Antoine's campaign all that much, but he was just one man in a sea of men (and women, of course). And besides, Maxim had heard all sorts of things about the chief investigator, most of which involved some sort of anger-induced yelling match and occasionally, several different types of cheeses.
"Yes well, er, well met, I suppose." Maxim almost felt like a schoolchild, stumbling over his words. He knew that Antoine and he needed to meet as many people as they could, since they weren't native to the charming town. And he supposed that if he and Antoine were to split up, they would manage to meet twice as many people. Of course, he also was sure that if they split up, Maxim would end up meeting most of the people, and Antoine would spend his time either off eating toast, or eating...well, it was a really diverse party, and there were many options.
Maxim caught sight of something peculiar across the room, and its name was Jeun Kazin. The crazy little sphinx was flexing his fingers, or claws, and looking positively antsy. Maxim wondered what could be getting into that rascally fellow. The sphinx suddenly whipped out a phone, and seemed to be talking frantically (or calmly, he could never tell with that man) for a few minutes, before he settled down and began flexing his claw-fingers again.
What could he be up to? Surely it couldn't be more important than the meeting Maxim and Antoine were having with Jason...
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Jun 8, 2008 19:05:38 GMT -5
Glancing at Maxim to check that he had not made a faux pas, he realized that Maxim was not paying the slightest attention to his conversation with the detective's lackey. He was staring off across the room. How very like Maxim to tell him not to do something and then be so terribly hypocritical! Really, he could be so cruel. Antoine followed Maxim's gaze across the parlor and found himself looking a small cattish man in whom Antoine had to confess he could find little interest. He looked somewhat upset, the poor dear. He had probably bored himself out of his mind. Antoine wouldn't be surprised; he was afraid he would soon go the same way.
Idly making conversation with M. Meade, Antoine watched out of the corner of his eye as the fellow had something resembling a fit of nerves or perhaps apoplexy. Oh dear. Glancing to Maxim, he noticed that his face remained mask-like. Are we pretending that we don't see him? But he'll spoil it. He'll spoil everything. No one lets a madman stay at a party. Making his accent as think as possible to defend his words from schoolboy ears, he said in French to Maxim, "Well, take care of him. Go on. You can leave me with the detective's boy for a minute or two. My hands will stay up." He raised them slightly. He added in English, "I'm afraid that fellow looks quite drunk. Maxim, you really must make sure that he gets a safe ride home. I wouldn't want him to get hurt."
"Now," he said, turning wholly back to the detective, "I do believe that I need a drink."
|
|
|
Post by Louis Capet on Jun 9, 2008 6:38:05 GMT -5
Every good law student spoke a foreign language. That’s what Jason had been told back in Surrey, and he was no exception to this thought. For eight years he had studied the French language, always suspecting that the skill would come in handy later in life. But for now, given the fact that he was dealing with the mayor, the most powerful man in Shawl, he decided to set this fact aside, choosing instead to look around casually and blankly, trying his best to ignore the private conversation between the two Frenchmen. It was hard, though-to listen is in the nature of the detective.
His eyes shifted slightly to where the mayor and his campaign manager were looking. It became apparent that the pair were watching at the gentleman with the nails who Jason had noticed only a few minutes ago before this stalemate conversation had begun. Evidently, from what he could just about interpret, the said person was stirring up a little worry between the two of them.
Curiouser and curiouser... Jason thought, having what he referred to as an “Alice moment.” It was in his character to suspect something bad was afoot. He’d have to keep an eye on this little happening, partly because of his own nosy little desires but also because he felt it was his duty as a detective to watch intently. Plus, if anything bad happened he could report it back to Basil as a first hand witness, which might actually please his boss for once...
But is anything that drastic really likely to happen? he wondered to himself. And why the hell am I so concerned about pleasing Basil when I’m at a damn party? My social and professional lives should not mix...
Setting the thought aside and glancing back to the mayor, Jason gave a courteous nod as Monsieur Ginvillione turned to him.
“I must say, Monsieur Ginvillione, the drink here is wonderful. You must have a very fine taste for champagne. I mean, I don’t normally drink, but I can tell good quality when I taste it.”
|
|
|
Post by Maximilien Robespierre on Jun 10, 2008 23:58:31 GMT -5
((Short post is short. Sorry!))
Antoine beamed at the man. "It was Maxim's choice, so I shan't take credit for it, but thank you very, very much. I am glad you enjoyed it. I enjoy ensuring that every detail is to taste. I shouldn't like to serve a subpar wine, just because it seemed more affordable," he said. If the boy could not taste quality, then he could at least taste dollar signs, and that was a good sign indeed. Maxim would want people like that when they were ensuring that the bureaucracy was as efficient as it could be.
"I believe you work in our local detective department, no? How is that? I'm afraid that I haven't had time to visit all our individual departments yet, but all in good time," he said. "Do you have sufficient funds? Should we make more room in the budget for you? But, no, no, I mustn't talk shop tonight." Because you will realize that I have no idea what the current situation is or what you actually do under the mythical Basil Dixon. "Are you enjoying the party?"
Noticing a nearby server with a platter of glasses filled with champagne, he subtly waved the woman over. She strayed a bit closer, and Antoine wondered if Maxim had not told all the waiters to refuse to serve him. It would have been so like him. But, no, she strolled close enough that he was able to pick up a flute. He knew that it would not be enough to make the party interesting (he suspecting nothing would), but it would dull the experience a tad, and that was all that he could hope for. He smiled at the man, lifted his glass in a silent toast, and sipped it, resisting the urge to swallow it in one gulp.
|
|
|
Post by Louis de Saint-Just on Jun 17, 2008 0:09:35 GMT -5
((short, short, short, short, INTERACTION!!!))
After observing the conversation between Antoine and Jason for a while, Maxim noticed a few people moving closer to their small triangle and decided trhat Antoine could handle this scene all by himself. He was good with people, even boring people, and Maxim had to go across the room to check up on Jeun Kazin's mental health.
"I regret that I must excuse myself," Maxim said, smiling at Jason, "But I just have to go visit with Mr. Kazin for a moment. I'll be back in a few moments, I'm sure." He nodded to Jason, shot Antoine a look (the 'don't screw up your party by drinking too much' or 'I'll see you in the KITCHEN if you do anything wrong' look), before sauntering off.
He sauntered, ducked under a tray, and sidestepped a lovely, if large, woman, and then stopped right in front of Jeun, his expression rather indifferent. "Excuse me," he said, coldly. "Can I help you, Kazin? You look like you're having a problem keeping your fingernails out of the flesh of your hands."
He put his hands on his hips, and then shook his head. "I do not believe that you were invited. And if you endanger any one of the guests at this event, Kazin, I will have your hide for it. There will be no senseless murder in Shawl."
|
|
|
Post by Camille Desmoulins on Jun 17, 2008 21:44:17 GMT -5
Jeun looked up at Maxim, taking a moment to process what he had said. He could feel the edges of his consciousness slipping away from him as he struggled with the urge to rip the man's throat out, or rip off his head, or pull him in half... all of those seemed like very lovely options. But no -he told himself firmly- he was not going to be committing murder any time soon (or ever, if he could help it).
Instead he sighed and fixed his gaze at a point somewhere to the upper left near Maxim's head (for he feared that it he looked at him strait on for much longer he would loose his control) "Maxim, you put out an open invitation for anyone to come. If you didn't want me here you should have included a foot note saying so," he said, tapping his claws against his knee, "In any case I can assure you I did not mean to come. I can only guess that my subconscious brought me here with the intention of doing you and.... oh I never know who is the consort with the two of you. Regardless, I can only assume that I came with the intention of violently murdering you both.
"This being," he continued, looking Maxim in the eye for a moment to accentuate his point, "A direct result of me loosing my body. I'm having trouble keeping a handle on myself and it has resulted in me coming to parties that I had no intention to go to and wearing suits and overturning shelves and walking through walls and all this what-have-you which has made my life worse than hell although I will point out hell is not that bad as long as you are on the winning team."
He had lost his point somewhere, he knew it. He paused trying to remember his point, "Oh right. Anyways. Don't fret I shan't be here too much longer. I've already called my assistant and she should be here sometime soon to get me and make certain I don't terrorize your guests or rip off your head."
|
|
|
Post by Louis Capet on Jun 19, 2008 15:04:19 GMT -5
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jason with a faint smile, lying through his teeth. “I’m enjoying the party very much.” In truth, he felt it was boring-the chatter was idle, it was uneventful and there was nobody he particularly knew or liked around. He refrained from telling this to the mayor, though.
“As far as my work goes, I do indeed work for the local detective department. I suppose you could say I’m one of Basil Dixon’s personal subordinates. It’s an...interesting job, to say the least, but one I wouldn’t trade for the world. He’s a great man, that Mr. Dixon, but working under him can be a challenge sometimes. Not that that’s a particularly bad thing...”
He gave an indifferent shrug before taking a small sip out of his glass. He doubted the mayor was genuinely interested in what he did for a living, let alone whether or not he enjoyed what he did. Being a competent worker was probably the only thing that mattered.
“As far as funding is concerned,” he continued, “I’m pretty sure that the department’s doing fine as it is.”
I’m also pretty sure that Basil wouldn’t accept any further funding from you of all people, he thought to himself with vague amusement.
“But enough of me,” he said in a nonchalant manner. “It must be interesting to be the mayor. You must be very pleased with your recent success, hm?”
|
|