(no subject)
WHO: Malachi Roth (BRICK PIG) and Delilah Rousseau (LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD)
WHEN: After this cry for help from Nate.
WHERE: The AEPi Frat House, Columbia, NYC
SUMMARY: Malachi and Delilah have a slight misunderstanding.
RATING: PG-13, though bordering on R for the f-bomb.
Malachi: Malachi showing up at the frat house was not a rare occasion, by any means. In fact, he might as well have been living there still for how often he happened to occupy and take advantage of the couches, the Wii someone had hooked up to the television downstairs, or even the food that was found in the various refrigerator's in sleeping fratboy's dorm rooms (it was sharing, not stealing, how often had his own dinners disappeared? he was a senior member of AEPi, damnit, and seniority granted certain privileges, okay?) and today was just one more of those advantage-taking days. For the most part, the house was quiet. The studious group was actually in classes or doing their assigned set of works, essays and models, and the hellions were sleeping off hangovers or otherwise out. Except, you know, for Nate and Skip, who were probably masturbating one another upstairs in Nate's room. Malachi wasn't that interested in either of their fantasies to join, he was just waiting for something to be decided about their day. As in, what was actually going to happen after they'd both blown their mutual loads.
As such, he was sitting downstairs, his anthropology (102) book propped open on his lap and his sneakered feet were up on the coffee table. Maybe that was a little rude, maybe it meant he lacked some manners, but it was impossible to study when he wasn't comfortable. Actually, it was just plain impossible to study. It was one of those days where the words his eyes ran across simply couldn't manage to go through his brain and retain any meaning. That was a very big problem when the test before spring break was getting dangerously close. However, Malachi knew that, if he really had to put his feet down (so to speak) and memorize over two-hundred pages of absolute blather, he could do it, but AEPi was certainly not the place for that kind of hard work. At least, not with the horrible bass of someone's stereo upstairs shaking the window panes of the two-story, almost victorian house. And the time? Really wasn't right for it either, come to think of it. Bored of work, and ready for play, Malachi's growing impatience was only matched by his growing frustration with the music.
Still, he remained resolute that he would give his friends a few more lengthy minutes, not just to save his own eyes from horror, but to come up with whatever devious plans they thought necessary for the day. Malachi glanced at his Compendium on the coffee table, and thought about thumbing through the usually worthless tripe people had to say (or, more accurately, complain about), but he was fairly confident that nothing interesting was going on. Unless there was another decapitated cat. That was interesting on a Purely Professional Level, as he thought of it (complete with capital letters). It only made sense that Tales, who can be reincarnated many times over, could be reincarnated with some serious mental defects, but it was just that much more interesting to consider they might have been incarnated in every life that way. Eventually, he mentally dismissed the option of reading and wading through the pages, his own pet curiosity wasn't quite strong enough to break his revere of simply staring at Tasmanian Aborigines.
"Helloooooo?" A female voice called out from the wide-open front door (it was usually kept open when the whether was seasonable).
That, however, managed to brake his "study-time" resolve. Listening for a beat or two, to see if anyone anywhere else was either A) going to get the door because they were expecting a visitor, or B) just going to get the door, it became quite obvious to Malachi that he would have to get up and do the whole, you know, host thing. Getting up was difficult, as he sighed like an hundred year old man when his knees popped, but he was still quite young and most of the weariness he felt was simply mental, anyway. Shuffling out of the front room and into the foyer, right in front of the door, he spied the would-be intruder, "Don't tell me you're delivering pizza this early," Malachi didn't really ask, as he wouldn't have been surprised, but he waved her in and mentally shrugged, it wouldn't matter. Men in fraternities tended to eat like pigs, and not just the ones that were reincarnated swine, either.
Delilah: It didn't take much doing to find the AEPI house, particularly with the combination of Mapquest and the absurdly detailed directions from Nate. So, plastic bag of carryout - Egyptian pizza, not just regular type! and bodega coffee - in hand, she soldiered up to the front door. All was quiet, which was sorely at odds with her media-inspired impression of frat houses, but the Greek letters on the front were hard to mistake for anything else. She knocked a few times on the frame of the open door, then yelled inside, "Helloooooo?" Echo, echo, echo.
Thankfully, she isn't left to go yelling through the house by her lonesome. When Malachi comes to the door, she smiles brightly. "Hey! Uh.. yes. Yes I am. Also coffee." She holds up the plastic bag, though it is opaque, and reveals nothing more than the yellow smiley and block "THANK YOU" printed on the front. As she does so, there's a little familiar prickle that persists in the back of her neck, and she sort of pauses, and frowns a little, then says, "Oh. You're.. that guy. Hey. So could you tell me where...?" Nate's room? Nate's place of eternal academic suffering? Nate's general cosmic presence? He's a Tale, he's almost undoubtedly the third of the Pig trio, he knows what she's talking about.
Malachi: Insert a long, mental groan here, please. Malachi didn't really mean to look her up and down with trailing annoyance, but really, the oldest student resident of AEPi, a la the self-proclaimed King of the frat was really a piece of work. Not knowing how he did it, but after three years, Malachi was well aware that Matthew always found the youngest and most naive girls on campus to woo with his tales of frat house glory and eventually bed, it wasn't hard to guess what the pizza and coffee baring young woman was really offering. He just sincerely hoped that Matt didn't think R&B was actually any kind of mood music, but hey, it was better than the Barry Manilow that was blasting a few weeks past. The relative quiet of the house and her appearance all seemed to click into place for Malachi, as Matthew had a certain modus operandi that was hard not to pick up on after, you know, the hundredth time some poor sap in the house had to give yet another poor and hopeful sap directions to his bedroom suite. Nubile frat groupies, you had to pity them.
With a sigh, "I don't know if this is such a great idea, but," Malachi began, running a hand through his hair before pointing it up the stairs which were directly behind him. "Alright, up, all the way down and to your right, impossible to miss. It's got the crown on the door," He completed this rather expressionless (read: perturbed) set of directions, he rolled his eyes. Could these people get anymore predictable? And why in the hell had Matt assigned him Sir Mapquest? For once, he would have appreciated being left out of his venereal disease swapping endeavors. At least Malachi was never the guy who got slapped eventually, although, he had been confronted in many-a-hallway by many-a-hopeful who wanted to know why Matthew The Great wasn't returning their calls.
It was a tough job, being the barer of bad news, and he had apparently been permanently elected to hold that office. Maybe it was because he had an altogether "serious" look about him, or maybe it was just because he was the one who most often happened to be there at the time. Regardless, he stepped aside, but before retreating into the sitting room, he looked back at Delilah and down at the coffee. He really couldn't help himself. "Yeah, I don't think the coffee is that necessary. It's not going to last that long," he offered cryptically, but he knew she would understand exactly what he meant. It was the only helpful advice he could offer, the only real condemnation he still had the conviction to give. After all, hadn't he seen this whole thing play out one too many times? Yes, yes. He surely had.
Delilah: "A crown? What the shit, man." But Delilah does not mock for overly long. She has a mission to accomplish, here! She nods to the directions, and is stepping towards the stairs when Malachi makes some cryptic comment about the coffee. She stops on the landing long enough to give him a weird look. "Uh, it better. He said he was going to be up all night." But nevermind that, there are goods to be delivered, spirits to bolster, and she ascends the stairs.
The sound of her footsteps fades up the stairs, down the hall, until faintly there can be heard a knock from the second floor. A pause, then distantly, "Oh! Sorry dude, I was looking for - .... uh, no. No. HEY. Back up motherfucker or so help me-" And then a brief BZZT sort of sound, accompanied by, in contrast to the voice, a distinctly masculine scream. Then, in increasing volume, steps moving quickly and heavily down the hall, down the stairs, until Delilah stomps into the door of the living room, carry out in one hand, taser in the other. "You! Malachi Pig Guy Whatever! What the shit is your problem? I'm looking for Nate Katz not Random Pervy Motherfucker Number Five." Pause. "Also you might want to tell whoever that was," she thumbs behind her, with the hand holding the taser, "to put some ice on it, then aloe, or else the burn is going to peel like a bitch."
Malachi: Aw, how nice, Malachi thought scathingly, he managed to pick one with half a brain. At least not everyone thought he was clever. Of course, there had been dames before who hadn't thought the crown was clever either, but they had actually been looking for a crayon. They had been dumb. Dumb, southern broads, needless to point out. He wasn't going to have to hold this one's hand, knock on the door for her, and be accosted by half-naked men. That was never pleasant, really. Malachi's train of thought, that was laden with memories that could cause some form of post-traumatic stress, were broken with Delilah's comment. He grimaced horribly. What should he say? Should he pretend that the girls who ultimately come (...) to the frat house leave within half an hour? No, no. Better to play this one stoic. Better to just... let it slide. "Uh, okay," he murmured, under his breath before climbing over the couch and plopping down in his seat (it was wonderfully formed to his ass by now, and thus very comfortable.)
He didn't mean to listen in, but this chick walked like a heard of elephants. Or, maybe he was meaning to listen in. At least to hear what horrible nickname Matt had given her, before ultimately turning the music back up. Thankfully, that usually did the whole, masking other sounds shit pretty well. The music went down, the smarmy voice echoed through the halls, but it seemed a bit more surprised than Malachi was normally used to. Much less self-assured. What had he been expecting? A tan trench coat with lacy red panties underneath? Her reaction wasn't much better, actually. Malachi furrowed his eyebrows. Surely she hadn't wanted roses and, g-d forbid, foreplay - like most men his age even knew what that was.
Rolling over his previous encounter with the woman, Malachi began to adjust his quick assessment of her. Had he somehow gotten that whole situation wrong? Had he read her wrong? Matt's scream seemed to indicate that Malachi wasn't as smart as some people believed he was. Very, very slowly, with a great deal of dread knotting itself in his stomach, he turned around as her clodding footsteps fell down the stairs, getting louder as she seemed to run. An eyebrow quirked in her direction, his arm helping to anchor him in sitting position, he was, at first, very shocked. How did she know his name? And, what the fuck, pig guy?
He was suddenly standing behind the couch (it was protection, if need be, a natural barrier) when he noticed the taser. Suddenly, he was very, very sure he had made a very big mistake. "Hey, okay, fine, whatever, just put the taser away alright? I just thought you were one of Matt's, you know, profligate whores," Malachi's face blanched as his mind quickly went red, as in, WARNING; DO NOT CALL WOMEN WITH TASERS WHORES OR SUGGEST THEY COULD BE ONE, "Not that you look like a slut," He quickly amended as he grabbed a large, blunt object with one groping hand.
Glancing down to survey his new-found weapon, which happened to be his anthropology book, he figured, if he threw it, he'd have time to run the hell away from her, "Nate? Nate, okay, right, Nate and Skip. Right. Of course. Studying," Malachi managed in clipped speech, "Upstairs, first door on your left," Lifting up both of his hands to show his palms (well, the palm of his left hand, the large textbook in his right), he hoped she got the idea that he had already forfeited this fucked up contest. And, hopefully, she believed him. Glancing up the stairs, "And no, I won't tell Matthew any such thing, it's just a shame you only had a taser and not a castration device."
Delilah: "Profligate what? No, forget it, I'm not fucking hard of hearing. I mean - what the hell, man!" Delilah was at a loss for words, really, and one might gather that being mistaken for a college floozy is not something that's happened to her terribly often. She's stunned, really, as much as insulted, and tempting as it is to taser Malachi for her trouble, it really wasn't going to wash that bad taste out of her mouth. By the lack of color in his face, he seemed to have learned his lesson, anyway. So after fixing him with one last, good glare, she tucks the taser back in her bag.
"Christ on a cracker. Oh, yeah, I'm Delilah by the way, fucker, and you mistake me for a whore again I will MacGuyver a castration device on you so fast." With those parting words, she turned on her heel, making her way once more up the stairs, and this time, one would hope, to the proper room.
Malachi: As he began to recover (because the taser was put away, I mean, he's not afraid of some ... girl who is possibly 110 soaking wet, no, he was afraid of pain, thank you) and the color filtered back into his cheeks, he couldn't help but to look embarrassed. And, actually ashamed. He hadn't even paid attention to the whole, Tale sense, thing, because it was always going off when he was around the other Piglets. That should have been his very first clue. He still couldn't understand why, if Nate and Skip were waiting for her, hadn't they just told him a Tale he had not yet met was coming over? Or, you know, decided to grace the ground floor with their presence? It made no sense at all. The burn in his cheeks began to subside as Delilah seemed at a lost for words. He really hadn't meant to make such a horrible impression, and he was pretty positive he'd never live it down. Self-consciously, he tossed the book aside, as if he was never actually planning to use it to throw at a girl. Honestly. Who does that?
"Yeah, I'm, well, you know who I am. Malachi -," He paused, grimaced a little, "Or, you know, fucker works, too." Malachi was saying to her departing figure, she hadn't even given him the chance to make amends, or even apologize, really. Which, he probably would have. At grotesque length. Instead, he simply muttered, "Oops," under his breath as he stood there in the (almost) restored quiet. Before slinking back into his seat, he couldn't help but get a horrible thought.
What if Skip hadn't informed him on purpose?
No, Malachi thought, shaking his head visibly. No, Skip wouldn't have done something like that. Malachi really needed to be nicer when it came to his friends. He certainly wouldn't accuse Skip of masterminding possibly the most embarrassing moment in Malachi's ... last month, but really, was it that far beyond him? He shook his head again, resolute not to think about the possibility. If Skip had played a hand in this little endeavor? Malachi was certain he'd get his in the end. At least, he vaguely hoped. After all, that was what the intangible karma concept was about, right?
Sinking far into the couch, feeling like a very large and less than ornately brown turd, Malachi rested his head up against the back of the couch and shut his eyes. He really needed to not hang out here any more, never again, in fact. A new hang out was definitely the remedy, at least for a couple of weeks. Replaying the exchange in his head a couple of times, cringing each time someone misinterpreted one thing or another, he actually couldn't help but to snicker when he thought about it. " 'He said he was going to be up all night.'," he whispered to himself before chuckling as Delilah would have no more luck with her second suitor than she had with her first.
WHEN: After this cry for help from Nate.
WHERE: The AEPi Frat House, Columbia, NYC
SUMMARY: Malachi and Delilah have a slight misunderstanding.
RATING: PG-13, though bordering on R for the f-bomb.
Malachi: Malachi showing up at the frat house was not a rare occasion, by any means. In fact, he might as well have been living there still for how often he happened to occupy and take advantage of the couches, the Wii someone had hooked up to the television downstairs, or even the food that was found in the various refrigerator's in sleeping fratboy's dorm rooms (it was sharing, not stealing, how often had his own dinners disappeared? he was a senior member of AEPi, damnit, and seniority granted certain privileges, okay?) and today was just one more of those advantage-taking days. For the most part, the house was quiet. The studious group was actually in classes or doing their assigned set of works, essays and models, and the hellions were sleeping off hangovers or otherwise out. Except, you know, for Nate and Skip, who were probably masturbating one another upstairs in Nate's room. Malachi wasn't that interested in either of their fantasies to join, he was just waiting for something to be decided about their day. As in, what was actually going to happen after they'd both blown their mutual loads.
As such, he was sitting downstairs, his anthropology (102) book propped open on his lap and his sneakered feet were up on the coffee table. Maybe that was a little rude, maybe it meant he lacked some manners, but it was impossible to study when he wasn't comfortable. Actually, it was just plain impossible to study. It was one of those days where the words his eyes ran across simply couldn't manage to go through his brain and retain any meaning. That was a very big problem when the test before spring break was getting dangerously close. However, Malachi knew that, if he really had to put his feet down (so to speak) and memorize over two-hundred pages of absolute blather, he could do it, but AEPi was certainly not the place for that kind of hard work. At least, not with the horrible bass of someone's stereo upstairs shaking the window panes of the two-story, almost victorian house. And the time? Really wasn't right for it either, come to think of it. Bored of work, and ready for play, Malachi's growing impatience was only matched by his growing frustration with the music.
Still, he remained resolute that he would give his friends a few more lengthy minutes, not just to save his own eyes from horror, but to come up with whatever devious plans they thought necessary for the day. Malachi glanced at his Compendium on the coffee table, and thought about thumbing through the usually worthless tripe people had to say (or, more accurately, complain about), but he was fairly confident that nothing interesting was going on. Unless there was another decapitated cat. That was interesting on a Purely Professional Level, as he thought of it (complete with capital letters). It only made sense that Tales, who can be reincarnated many times over, could be reincarnated with some serious mental defects, but it was just that much more interesting to consider they might have been incarnated in every life that way. Eventually, he mentally dismissed the option of reading and wading through the pages, his own pet curiosity wasn't quite strong enough to break his revere of simply staring at Tasmanian Aborigines.
"Helloooooo?" A female voice called out from the wide-open front door (it was usually kept open when the whether was seasonable).
That, however, managed to brake his "study-time" resolve. Listening for a beat or two, to see if anyone anywhere else was either A) going to get the door because they were expecting a visitor, or B) just going to get the door, it became quite obvious to Malachi that he would have to get up and do the whole, you know, host thing. Getting up was difficult, as he sighed like an hundred year old man when his knees popped, but he was still quite young and most of the weariness he felt was simply mental, anyway. Shuffling out of the front room and into the foyer, right in front of the door, he spied the would-be intruder, "Don't tell me you're delivering pizza this early," Malachi didn't really ask, as he wouldn't have been surprised, but he waved her in and mentally shrugged, it wouldn't matter. Men in fraternities tended to eat like pigs, and not just the ones that were reincarnated swine, either.
Delilah: It didn't take much doing to find the AEPI house, particularly with the combination of Mapquest and the absurdly detailed directions from Nate. So, plastic bag of carryout - Egyptian pizza, not just regular type! and bodega coffee - in hand, she soldiered up to the front door. All was quiet, which was sorely at odds with her media-inspired impression of frat houses, but the Greek letters on the front were hard to mistake for anything else. She knocked a few times on the frame of the open door, then yelled inside, "Helloooooo?" Echo, echo, echo.
Thankfully, she isn't left to go yelling through the house by her lonesome. When Malachi comes to the door, she smiles brightly. "Hey! Uh.. yes. Yes I am. Also coffee." She holds up the plastic bag, though it is opaque, and reveals nothing more than the yellow smiley and block "THANK YOU" printed on the front. As she does so, there's a little familiar prickle that persists in the back of her neck, and she sort of pauses, and frowns a little, then says, "Oh. You're.. that guy. Hey. So could you tell me where...?" Nate's room? Nate's place of eternal academic suffering? Nate's general cosmic presence? He's a Tale, he's almost undoubtedly the third of the Pig trio, he knows what she's talking about.
Malachi: Insert a long, mental groan here, please. Malachi didn't really mean to look her up and down with trailing annoyance, but really, the oldest student resident of AEPi, a la the self-proclaimed King of the frat was really a piece of work. Not knowing how he did it, but after three years, Malachi was well aware that Matthew always found the youngest and most naive girls on campus to woo with his tales of frat house glory and eventually bed, it wasn't hard to guess what the pizza and coffee baring young woman was really offering. He just sincerely hoped that Matt didn't think R&B was actually any kind of mood music, but hey, it was better than the Barry Manilow that was blasting a few weeks past. The relative quiet of the house and her appearance all seemed to click into place for Malachi, as Matthew had a certain modus operandi that was hard not to pick up on after, you know, the hundredth time some poor sap in the house had to give yet another poor and hopeful sap directions to his bedroom suite. Nubile frat groupies, you had to pity them.
With a sigh, "I don't know if this is such a great idea, but," Malachi began, running a hand through his hair before pointing it up the stairs which were directly behind him. "Alright, up, all the way down and to your right, impossible to miss. It's got the crown on the door," He completed this rather expressionless (read: perturbed) set of directions, he rolled his eyes. Could these people get anymore predictable? And why in the hell had Matt assigned him Sir Mapquest? For once, he would have appreciated being left out of his venereal disease swapping endeavors. At least Malachi was never the guy who got slapped eventually, although, he had been confronted in many-a-hallway by many-a-hopeful who wanted to know why Matthew The Great wasn't returning their calls.
It was a tough job, being the barer of bad news, and he had apparently been permanently elected to hold that office. Maybe it was because he had an altogether "serious" look about him, or maybe it was just because he was the one who most often happened to be there at the time. Regardless, he stepped aside, but before retreating into the sitting room, he looked back at Delilah and down at the coffee. He really couldn't help himself. "Yeah, I don't think the coffee is that necessary. It's not going to last that long," he offered cryptically, but he knew she would understand exactly what he meant. It was the only helpful advice he could offer, the only real condemnation he still had the conviction to give. After all, hadn't he seen this whole thing play out one too many times? Yes, yes. He surely had.
Delilah: "A crown? What the shit, man." But Delilah does not mock for overly long. She has a mission to accomplish, here! She nods to the directions, and is stepping towards the stairs when Malachi makes some cryptic comment about the coffee. She stops on the landing long enough to give him a weird look. "Uh, it better. He said he was going to be up all night." But nevermind that, there are goods to be delivered, spirits to bolster, and she ascends the stairs.
The sound of her footsteps fades up the stairs, down the hall, until faintly there can be heard a knock from the second floor. A pause, then distantly, "Oh! Sorry dude, I was looking for - .... uh, no. No. HEY. Back up motherfucker or so help me-" And then a brief BZZT sort of sound, accompanied by, in contrast to the voice, a distinctly masculine scream. Then, in increasing volume, steps moving quickly and heavily down the hall, down the stairs, until Delilah stomps into the door of the living room, carry out in one hand, taser in the other. "You! Malachi Pig Guy Whatever! What the shit is your problem? I'm looking for Nate Katz not Random Pervy Motherfucker Number Five." Pause. "Also you might want to tell whoever that was," she thumbs behind her, with the hand holding the taser, "to put some ice on it, then aloe, or else the burn is going to peel like a bitch."
Malachi: Aw, how nice, Malachi thought scathingly, he managed to pick one with half a brain. At least not everyone thought he was clever. Of course, there had been dames before who hadn't thought the crown was clever either, but they had actually been looking for a crayon. They had been dumb. Dumb, southern broads, needless to point out. He wasn't going to have to hold this one's hand, knock on the door for her, and be accosted by half-naked men. That was never pleasant, really. Malachi's train of thought, that was laden with memories that could cause some form of post-traumatic stress, were broken with Delilah's comment. He grimaced horribly. What should he say? Should he pretend that the girls who ultimately come (...) to the frat house leave within half an hour? No, no. Better to play this one stoic. Better to just... let it slide. "Uh, okay," he murmured, under his breath before climbing over the couch and plopping down in his seat (it was wonderfully formed to his ass by now, and thus very comfortable.)
He didn't mean to listen in, but this chick walked like a heard of elephants. Or, maybe he was meaning to listen in. At least to hear what horrible nickname Matt had given her, before ultimately turning the music back up. Thankfully, that usually did the whole, masking other sounds shit pretty well. The music went down, the smarmy voice echoed through the halls, but it seemed a bit more surprised than Malachi was normally used to. Much less self-assured. What had he been expecting? A tan trench coat with lacy red panties underneath? Her reaction wasn't much better, actually. Malachi furrowed his eyebrows. Surely she hadn't wanted roses and, g-d forbid, foreplay - like most men his age even knew what that was.
Rolling over his previous encounter with the woman, Malachi began to adjust his quick assessment of her. Had he somehow gotten that whole situation wrong? Had he read her wrong? Matt's scream seemed to indicate that Malachi wasn't as smart as some people believed he was. Very, very slowly, with a great deal of dread knotting itself in his stomach, he turned around as her clodding footsteps fell down the stairs, getting louder as she seemed to run. An eyebrow quirked in her direction, his arm helping to anchor him in sitting position, he was, at first, very shocked. How did she know his name? And, what the fuck, pig guy?
He was suddenly standing behind the couch (it was protection, if need be, a natural barrier) when he noticed the taser. Suddenly, he was very, very sure he had made a very big mistake. "Hey, okay, fine, whatever, just put the taser away alright? I just thought you were one of Matt's, you know, profligate whores," Malachi's face blanched as his mind quickly went red, as in, WARNING; DO NOT CALL WOMEN WITH TASERS WHORES OR SUGGEST THEY COULD BE ONE, "Not that you look like a slut," He quickly amended as he grabbed a large, blunt object with one groping hand.
Glancing down to survey his new-found weapon, which happened to be his anthropology book, he figured, if he threw it, he'd have time to run the hell away from her, "Nate? Nate, okay, right, Nate and Skip. Right. Of course. Studying," Malachi managed in clipped speech, "Upstairs, first door on your left," Lifting up both of his hands to show his palms (well, the palm of his left hand, the large textbook in his right), he hoped she got the idea that he had already forfeited this fucked up contest. And, hopefully, she believed him. Glancing up the stairs, "And no, I won't tell Matthew any such thing, it's just a shame you only had a taser and not a castration device."
Delilah: "Profligate what? No, forget it, I'm not fucking hard of hearing. I mean - what the hell, man!" Delilah was at a loss for words, really, and one might gather that being mistaken for a college floozy is not something that's happened to her terribly often. She's stunned, really, as much as insulted, and tempting as it is to taser Malachi for her trouble, it really wasn't going to wash that bad taste out of her mouth. By the lack of color in his face, he seemed to have learned his lesson, anyway. So after fixing him with one last, good glare, she tucks the taser back in her bag.
"Christ on a cracker. Oh, yeah, I'm Delilah by the way, fucker, and you mistake me for a whore again I will MacGuyver a castration device on you so fast." With those parting words, she turned on her heel, making her way once more up the stairs, and this time, one would hope, to the proper room.
Malachi: As he began to recover (because the taser was put away, I mean, he's not afraid of some ... girl who is possibly 110 soaking wet, no, he was afraid of pain, thank you) and the color filtered back into his cheeks, he couldn't help but to look embarrassed. And, actually ashamed. He hadn't even paid attention to the whole, Tale sense, thing, because it was always going off when he was around the other Piglets. That should have been his very first clue. He still couldn't understand why, if Nate and Skip were waiting for her, hadn't they just told him a Tale he had not yet met was coming over? Or, you know, decided to grace the ground floor with their presence? It made no sense at all. The burn in his cheeks began to subside as Delilah seemed at a lost for words. He really hadn't meant to make such a horrible impression, and he was pretty positive he'd never live it down. Self-consciously, he tossed the book aside, as if he was never actually planning to use it to throw at a girl. Honestly. Who does that?
"Yeah, I'm, well, you know who I am. Malachi -," He paused, grimaced a little, "Or, you know, fucker works, too." Malachi was saying to her departing figure, she hadn't even given him the chance to make amends, or even apologize, really. Which, he probably would have. At grotesque length. Instead, he simply muttered, "Oops," under his breath as he stood there in the (almost) restored quiet. Before slinking back into his seat, he couldn't help but get a horrible thought.
What if Skip hadn't informed him on purpose?
No, Malachi thought, shaking his head visibly. No, Skip wouldn't have done something like that. Malachi really needed to be nicer when it came to his friends. He certainly wouldn't accuse Skip of masterminding possibly the most embarrassing moment in Malachi's ... last month, but really, was it that far beyond him? He shook his head again, resolute not to think about the possibility. If Skip had played a hand in this little endeavor? Malachi was certain he'd get his in the end. At least, he vaguely hoped. After all, that was what the intangible karma concept was about, right?
Sinking far into the couch, feeling like a very large and less than ornately brown turd, Malachi rested his head up against the back of the couch and shut his eyes. He really needed to not hang out here any more, never again, in fact. A new hang out was definitely the remedy, at least for a couple of weeks. Replaying the exchange in his head a couple of times, cringing each time someone misinterpreted one thing or another, he actually couldn't help but to snicker when he thought about it. " 'He said he was going to be up all night.'," he whispered to himself before chuckling as Delilah would have no more luck with her second suitor than she had with her first.