Crash and Burn
Who: Mr. Braginsky and his assistant Mr. Jones
When: November 17th
Where: Outside the Vargas Mansion
What: In which Ivan can't drive and Alfred discovers the wonders of champagne.
There were three things Alfred F. Jones was aware of.
One: He was sitting on a curb with his Russian boyfriend in suits and sunglasses.
Two: Ivan was smoking. ‘Russian Style’ apparently. They smelt terrible.
Three: He’d totaled a Ferrari and a German fashion-aide called Ludwig was going to fix it.
When had his life become a Tarantino film?
Ivan spoke to him to inquire about the time. He still had that accent. Alfred would admit that it was hot. Deep, thick and rustic, reaching to his very core and smoothing over in cold velvet. He’d have to convince Ivan to play it up more because he knew that the minute the Russian said his name in that sweet tone, he’d be all over him.
Not at this very moment however. Because he’d just driven a Ferrari into a fire hydrant. And he was going to have to pay an upwards of three-thousand dollars to get it fixed. This was after he found out that Ivan couldn’t drive. After they couldn’t even finish testing out the bed. After he’d spilt coffee on the Stepford real-estate agent.
But he wasn’t going to pay upwards three-thousand dollars. Because a German fashion-aide called Ludwig was going to help him out. Was going to fix the car and not charge him. It had taken sweet-talking, grovelling and admittance that he, Alfred F. Jones, had fucked up royally. Only then had the German fashion-aide called Ludwig agreed to fix the Ferrari he had totalled.
The time? Ivan inquired again, noting that Alfred wasn’t paying attention. He slipped the phone from his pocket, the screen glinting in the sunlight so he had to angle it away to get a proper look. 5:13. He informed Ivan of this.
The Russian nodded once, then returned to his cigarette. As much as Alfred hated the smell, taste and feel of the smoke on his boyfriend, he would have to admit, the coolness factor was there. Then his attention was taken by the heavy weight in his pocket and his hands slipped in, fingers tracing over the smooth and soft-
The reservations?
“Six.” Alfred answered automatically, not even daring to look up. It looked like a nice restaurant. Had to be nice judging from the price. The thought of his empty wallet made him sink a little lower into his shirt and his fingers to lift out of the pocket and to his tie, tugging at it.
It came loose and Alfred tossed it aside. It sat on the street like a headless snake. Ivan and him both stared at it. Maybe it was some metaphor from God. Alfred would love to blame God in this situation. But God wouldn’t care about him right now. Not sitting on the curb with a Russian boyfriend who was smoking Russian Style in a suit, outside of a German-fashion-aid-called-Ludwig’s house with a totaled Ferrari under his belt.
God was probably laughing.
When: November 17th
Where: Outside the Vargas Mansion
What: In which Ivan can't drive and Alfred discovers the wonders of champagne.
There were three things Alfred F. Jones was aware of.
One: He was sitting on a curb with his Russian boyfriend in suits and sunglasses.
Two: Ivan was smoking. ‘Russian Style’ apparently. They smelt terrible.
Three: He’d totaled a Ferrari and a German fashion-aide called Ludwig was going to fix it.
When had his life become a Tarantino film?
Ivan spoke to him to inquire about the time. He still had that accent. Alfred would admit that it was hot. Deep, thick and rustic, reaching to his very core and smoothing over in cold velvet. He’d have to convince Ivan to play it up more because he knew that the minute the Russian said his name in that sweet tone, he’d be all over him.
Not at this very moment however. Because he’d just driven a Ferrari into a fire hydrant. And he was going to have to pay an upwards of three-thousand dollars to get it fixed. This was after he found out that Ivan couldn’t drive. After they couldn’t even finish testing out the bed. After he’d spilt coffee on the Stepford real-estate agent.
But he wasn’t going to pay upwards three-thousand dollars. Because a German fashion-aide called Ludwig was going to help him out. Was going to fix the car and not charge him. It had taken sweet-talking, grovelling and admittance that he, Alfred F. Jones, had fucked up royally. Only then had the German fashion-aide called Ludwig agreed to fix the Ferrari he had totalled.
The time? Ivan inquired again, noting that Alfred wasn’t paying attention. He slipped the phone from his pocket, the screen glinting in the sunlight so he had to angle it away to get a proper look. 5:13. He informed Ivan of this.
The Russian nodded once, then returned to his cigarette. As much as Alfred hated the smell, taste and feel of the smoke on his boyfriend, he would have to admit, the coolness factor was there. Then his attention was taken by the heavy weight in his pocket and his hands slipped in, fingers tracing over the smooth and soft-
The reservations?
“Six.” Alfred answered automatically, not even daring to look up. It looked like a nice restaurant. Had to be nice judging from the price. The thought of his empty wallet made him sink a little lower into his shirt and his fingers to lift out of the pocket and to his tie, tugging at it.
It came loose and Alfred tossed it aside. It sat on the street like a headless snake. Ivan and him both stared at it. Maybe it was some metaphor from God. Alfred would love to blame God in this situation. But God wouldn’t care about him right now. Not sitting on the curb with a Russian boyfriend who was smoking Russian Style in a suit, outside of a German-fashion-aid-called-Ludwig’s house with a totaled Ferrari under his belt.
God was probably laughing.