narrative!
WHO: Rose Bloom (THE UNGRATEFUL DWARF), a sleeping old man, and telephone operator for the NY Times.
WHEN: Late-evening.
WHERE: The aforementioned sleeping old man's apartment.
WHAT: Having been greivously insulted by B.G. Blackwell, Rose exacts her revenge with a phone call, and also likely causes the Pentamerone a bit of a head ache for the next week.
RATING: R for language and, uh, mentions of head.
Tricky, tricky.
Feet up on the table, tapping her pen against the rather tattered compendium on her lap, the situation at hand required perhaps just that bit more thought than her usual response of blinding rage and capitalization. Not that the two aforementioned actions wouldn't have had she been in the privacy of her own room. And may have likely involved a crack in the window from where she'd possibly throw a week-old open can of baked beans at it. But with this not her room, and Johnny The Stockbroker That Moaned Like A Little Girl snoring softly in his bed, she was forced to rationally consider the appropriate measure to take against this "B.G." (initials, Rose assumed, stood for Bitch Guts), which was proving more difficult than expected. She'd been LAUGHED AT. LAUGHED AT. I can't take you seriously, my name is B.G., I can't take Rose Bloom seriously and my pussy crack smells like rotten fish. Which was precisely what was said. Give or take maybe a few comments about her nether regions. But semantics aside, the ISSUE was the same. SHE HAD BEEN FUCKING LAUGHED AT. By some LOW DOWN, CLICHE OF A JOKE! SHE couldn't be TAKEN SERIOUSLY? What about HER? HER, THE BORING SLAG. Blah, blah, blah, I wanted to go clubbing, blah, blah, someone suggest a sexy outfit for me so I can act shocked, blah, blah, blah, I'm a little cock-tease and I'm begging for it, BLAH FUCKING BLAH. FUCKING CHRIST, if there was ONE THING that got on her FUCKING NERVES (well, one of the many, many, many things that got on the girl's nerves) it was THAT FUCKING INNOCENT SHIT. As IF they were for FUCKING REAL. As IF.
She may have given head to a fifty-seven year old pizza boy last week, but AT LEAST she was fucking OBVIOUS about it and didn't BEG FOR IT, like SOME. And having returned to wanting to break things over some unsuspecting idiot's head again, she took a deep breath before picking up her phone. Because there was no FUCKING way she was going to let some little shit LAUGH at her.
The question was, who to call. Too much effort in exacted revenge would mean she CARED, too little effort and what was the fucking point? She could call Avery, his offer of ruining someone's life for sport was still in her hands. She could call Easy or Alex, maybe have them flirt with the shit a bit, sleep with her, and then break her. But no, the first was a favor she was waiting to save for the right moment, and the second was probably what the bitch wanted anyhow. It was like fucking Jess, like they fucking ASKED for misery and then got all bloody shocked when it happened; at least she bloody ENJOYED HERSELF. But that was another rant for another time. And she'd just had an idea.
"Hello? Is this the New York Times?" It was perfect. Not too much effort, sleek, and would be worth a laugh for the next few days, and Rose Bloom was a girl who never turned down the opportunity for a laugh at someone else's expense. "Yes, I'd like to place an advert in the personal section, under the single section, please. My name's B.G. Blackwell? And it should say: looking for a night of fun, only 50+ need apply. Lesbian threesomes welcome. It should run for the rest of this week and the next. And put my phone number in," Oh, the Pentamerone phone service, she almost felt bad for them as she gave the operator their general number. "Just let me give you my credit card details." And sifting through Johnny The Stockbroker That Moaned Like A Little Girl's trouser pockets, casually grabbed a hold of his wallet -- hell, for the fucking EAR PLUGS she bought when he came to the club, he fucking OWED HER. Yes, listing off the information to the woman on the phone, grinning to herself, life was definitely good.
WHEN: Late-evening.
WHERE: The aforementioned sleeping old man's apartment.
WHAT: Having been greivously insulted by B.G. Blackwell, Rose exacts her revenge with a phone call, and also likely causes the Pentamerone a bit of a head ache for the next week.
RATING: R for language and, uh, mentions of head.
Tricky, tricky.
Feet up on the table, tapping her pen against the rather tattered compendium on her lap, the situation at hand required perhaps just that bit more thought than her usual response of blinding rage and capitalization. Not that the two aforementioned actions wouldn't have had she been in the privacy of her own room. And may have likely involved a crack in the window from where she'd possibly throw a week-old open can of baked beans at it. But with this not her room, and Johnny The Stockbroker That Moaned Like A Little Girl snoring softly in his bed, she was forced to rationally consider the appropriate measure to take against this "B.G." (initials, Rose assumed, stood for Bitch Guts), which was proving more difficult than expected. She'd been LAUGHED AT. LAUGHED AT. I can't take you seriously, my name is B.G., I can't take Rose Bloom seriously and my pussy crack smells like rotten fish. Which was precisely what was said. Give or take maybe a few comments about her nether regions. But semantics aside, the ISSUE was the same. SHE HAD BEEN FUCKING LAUGHED AT. By some LOW DOWN, CLICHE OF A JOKE! SHE couldn't be TAKEN SERIOUSLY? What about HER? HER, THE BORING SLAG. Blah, blah, blah, I wanted to go clubbing, blah, blah, someone suggest a sexy outfit for me so I can act shocked, blah, blah, blah, I'm a little cock-tease and I'm begging for it, BLAH FUCKING BLAH. FUCKING CHRIST, if there was ONE THING that got on her FUCKING NERVES (well, one of the many, many, many things that got on the girl's nerves) it was THAT FUCKING INNOCENT SHIT. As IF they were for FUCKING REAL. As IF.
She may have given head to a fifty-seven year old pizza boy last week, but AT LEAST she was fucking OBVIOUS about it and didn't BEG FOR IT, like SOME. And having returned to wanting to break things over some unsuspecting idiot's head again, she took a deep breath before picking up her phone. Because there was no FUCKING way she was going to let some little shit LAUGH at her.
The question was, who to call. Too much effort in exacted revenge would mean she CARED, too little effort and what was the fucking point? She could call Avery, his offer of ruining someone's life for sport was still in her hands. She could call Easy or Alex, maybe have them flirt with the shit a bit, sleep with her, and then break her. But no, the first was a favor she was waiting to save for the right moment, and the second was probably what the bitch wanted anyhow. It was like fucking Jess, like they fucking ASKED for misery and then got all bloody shocked when it happened; at least she bloody ENJOYED HERSELF. But that was another rant for another time. And she'd just had an idea.
"Hello? Is this the New York Times?" It was perfect. Not too much effort, sleek, and would be worth a laugh for the next few days, and Rose Bloom was a girl who never turned down the opportunity for a laugh at someone else's expense. "Yes, I'd like to place an advert in the personal section, under the single section, please. My name's B.G. Blackwell? And it should say: looking for a night of fun, only 50+ need apply. Lesbian threesomes welcome. It should run for the rest of this week and the next. And put my phone number in," Oh, the Pentamerone phone service, she almost felt bad for them as she gave the operator their general number. "Just let me give you my credit card details." And sifting through Johnny The Stockbroker That Moaned Like A Little Girl's trouser pockets, casually grabbed a hold of his wallet -- hell, for the fucking EAR PLUGS she bought when he came to the club, he fucking OWED HER. Yes, listing off the information to the woman on the phone, grinning to herself, life was definitely good.