Entourage/RPS/Heroes/Burn Notice - Wanted: One Fucking Miracle Worker, PG-13
You guys never believe me when I say if you ask for it, you just might get it. Especially when it comes down to The Crack. Some of you may have experienced The Crack before, some of you just might want to step back. Today, thecomfychair gets her wish. liketheroad and melodylemming this kind of fits what you want too. Kinda.
Entourage/RPS/Heroes/Burn Notice
Ari Gold, George Clooney, Nathan Petrelli, Angela Petrelli, Sam Axe, Claire Bennett, err, everybody and the kitchen sink. (Nathan/Peter)
Spoilers for Heroes 2.01
Wanted: One Fucking Miracle Worker
Ari only goes to New York because George asks. Ari is George's bitch and what George wants Ari delivers, plus George is depressed between the motorcycle accident and Brad being Brad and all sorts of shit that just makes Ari's dick go soft. He hates to see George depressed. It makes Ari depressed -- and more homicidal than usual -- and then George calls and they have a conversation that goes like this:
Ari: G-Money, baby, you have to get over this Brangelina shit. His dick was too small for you anyway. Why don't you go play with your new beard for a while? If Matty can find a nice domestic surrogate mom, you can too.
George: Ari, shut up.
Ari: Okay, I'm just saying though, if you really want, I know this guy who knows this guy in Miami and I heard he can make people disappear. Like suck your brain out of your head and have your whole body go poof! Not poof like fudge-packing, but poof like--
George: ARI!
Ari: Shutting up now, really. You sure, about this though? I bet that guy in Miami can get you a two-for-one deal. You're not godfather to the Rainbow Tribe are you? Because that's what boarding schools are for. I'm just saying.
George: Okay, I wasn't going to ask, but since you've brought it up.
Ari: I brought up what?
George: There's this problem in New York. I want you to fix it.
Ari: I thought you made all your hookers sign NDA's! George, baby, you're totally slipping. Never mind -- I've got it. Lloyd! I'm on the next flight!
George: No, it's not that kind of problem. There's this guy I know; he's a good kid. His family says he's gone missing.
Ari: Do I look like the fucking Center for Missing and Exploited Shirt-lifters, George?
George: You do now.
Ari: And what the fuck do you want me to do about it? *pause* Like I even have to ask.
George: You're my miracle worker -- so, go work a fucking miracle.
Ari: What if we're all out of miracles this month? Fuck. Be glad I like you.
George: I love you too, Ari.
Ari: Stop it; you're making my dick hard.
So, Ari goes to New York, and he doesn't know what he's expecting when he gets there, but it sure as hell isn't Angela Petrelli. The woman is so frigid Ari thinks his dick may never recover. Still, she's clearly living the good life and if his wife wasn't such a hot piece of ass, Ari might consider Mrs. P a MILF. Or not. No, probably not.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold, is it?" Mrs. Petrelli inquires again, eying him curiously. Ari knows that look; he's fucking from New York. He's a New York City Jew. His mom invented that appraising look. This is why Ari looks meticulous every day and twice on Sunday. "I have no need of your services, despite whatever Mr. Clooney may have said. My younger son. He--"
Mrs. Petrelli falters for a microsecond and Ari smells blood in the water. "Look, George says he's missing, and if he's missing I can find him. I'm not a Private Investigator; I'm a fucking miracle worker."
Mrs. Petrelli's eyes narrow. "A real miracle worker?"
Ari smirks. "Just call me fucking Helen Keller."
Mrs. Petrelli's smirks. Maybe Ari would hit that. It's hard to decide; she's a tough bitch. On one hand, she makes his balls want to crawl back into his body; on the other hand, tough women are fucking hot. And they always like to be on top.
It makes for less work.
"Mr. Clooney must think very highly of you to send you here."
"I think he would've come himself, but he broke a rib taking his latest beard for a ride in Jersey after hearing that Bradley and Mother Theresa adopted another rent-an-orphan, so he's kind of laid up."
Mrs. Petrelli wrinkles her nose. "You're not very discreet, are you?"
"If you're not reading about George trafficking twinkies in Hawaii or Matt Damon's surrogate bartender, I assure you I'm a lot more discreet than you think."
Mrs. Petrelli nods her head as though deciding something. "Very well then. I want you to fix my eldest son."
"Fix?" Ari chooses his words very carefully sometimes, so, he totally knows that sort of hesitation when he hears it. "I thought the youngest was the one that was missing."
"Peter," Mrs. Petrelli supplies. "His name is -- was -- Peter, and Peter and Nathan are -- were -- close. They're not like other boys."
It's Ari's turn to look suspicious. "How close are we talking?"
Pretty fucking close if the rabbi beard Nathan Petrelli is sporting has anything to say about it. Too fucking close if the six-week stench of bourbon and gin coming from his pores has anything to do with it.
Ari jingles the keys Mrs. Petrelli gave him in his hand and nudges Nathan Petrelli's listless form with his shoe. Passing out on the floor is so fucking bad for your back.
"Get up," Ari snaps, kicking Petrelli again.
Petrelli stirs and bats feebly at Ari's leg.
"I'm gonna tell you one more time to get your ass up off this floor," Ari warns, "and then I'm throwing this bottle of Tanqueray out the window and calling The New York Post. I'm telling them that their newly elected ex-junior senator is at the bottom of a fucking bottle because George Clooney was fucking his little brother when he was fucking his little brother, and now everybody's got an STD. And there might be ass babies involved."
This time Petrelli's eyes open and he looks up in Ari's general direction. Ari snorts. Okay, he's totally making shit up -- he doesn't have any Tanqueray. Besides, he would never put George out there like that. He takes one step back as Nathan Petrelli lunges for his ankles.
"Oh, c'mon sunshine, you're gonna have to do a lot better than that to take my ass down," Ari laughs. "I run five miles every morning and my ass is sober; your ass couldn't even run to the liquor store on the corner with a five-dollar bill in your hand. What the fuck's the matter with you?"
"Who the fuck are you?" Petrelli slurs.
"I'm the guy who's gonna get your brother back for you, so you need to get up, sober up and shave that Ode to Islam off your face, because we have work to do -- and I have to be home in time to fuck the wife."
Petrelli pushes himself upright and Ari can't believe that this wino, sprawled out on the floor of an apartment that looks like a hippie on LSD threw up in it, is the same guy in all those campaign ads Angela showed him.
George went to seed when Brad took up with Angie, but if he'd done something like this, Ari would've hung him from a balcony by his ankles to get him out of it.
"Leave me alone!" Petrelli orders.
Ari sniggers. "You're gonna need to be able to point in my general direction before I'm listening to anything you say, Mr. Drunk and Ball-less, so get up already."
Petrelli looks like he might actually be mobile, so Ari steps back again. "The bathroom is that way," he says, steering Petrelli away from the refrigerator and towards the back of the apartment.
Ari turns away when Petrelli starts stripping before he even gets to the bathroom. "I only accept free shows as payment if your name is Matt Damon," he hollers over the sound of the shower kicking on. "And if you fucking drown, I'm not saving you!"
Ari shakes his head and looks around the apartment sadly. What a fucking waste of quality real estate. He could totally chop this apartment into three, charge twice as much as whatever it costs, and use it to pay for Mrs. Ari's shoe habit. He already knows who it is when his phone rings.
"George, baby, I'm on it --" he answers promptly.
There's a pause on the other end. "Ari? It's Sam Axe; I heard you had a missing person?"
"Sam!" Ari says gleefully. "Long time no federal drug busts, Sammy -- how're things going for you down in pensioner's paradise?"
"Boring. Or they were until one of my contacts showed up. You ever heard of a guy named Michael Westen?"
Ari's brain reels. "Yeah, actually George told me to call him about this kid I'm looking for -- a Peter Petrelli. Why? Did this get outsourced to you? You fucking tell Westen that George is gonna have words for him later -- in fact you tell Westen that there'll be no fucking George later if he doesn't --"
"Whoa, Ari, too much information," Sam interrupts.
Another phone goes off and Ari looks around in confusion. Petrelli's still in the shower and Sam's still in his ear. "Sam, shut up for a minute and go get a blow job, I have another call, on another phone, and I don't even know where the fuck the phone is."
Ari finds a slimline Samsung tucked between the cushions of the sofa, and he answers it because he's fucking Ari Gold and he's a nosy motherfucker. "Claire?" He says aloud reading the LCD screen. "Who the fuck are you?" he answers by way of greeting.
"Nathan?" the voice on the other end sounds young. Wayyyy too young to be fucking an ex-junior senator.
"Oh, shit," Ari retorts mildly. "She didn't tell me he had a high school girlfriend. Look kid, whatever it is you're getting from Petrelli, it's over. Don't call this phone again."
"Who the hell are you?" the girl -- and yes, it's definitely a girl if she's hitting notes that high -- demands shrilly. "Where's Nathan?"
"Nathan's getting sober and you're going away." Ari hangs up the phone and flings it back between the sofa cushions.
Sam's still talking when Ari puts the phone back to his ear. "Ireland?" Ari says picking up the thread of the conversation seamlessly. "The kid's in Ireland? Krakatau? Is that a place? Sam, shut up, you're confusing me and when I'm confused small countries fall."
"I'm telling you, Ari," Sam insists. "I know a guy who knows a guy in Ireland," which Ari translates as George's ex-fuck buddy Michael Westen has an ex-fuck buddy in Ireland who's found the kid.
Everybody's got an ex-fuck buddy who knows somebody's ex-fuck buddy. The world is small that way. "Sam, I owe you one," Ari says happily.
"Just get me Sharon Stone's phone number, and we'll call it even," Sam says.
Ari shakes his head even though Sam can't see him. "You don't want any of that, Sam. She's crazy. And I say that knowing you."
Petrelli chooses this moment to emerge from the bathroom. He's walking kind of upright and he's wearing different clothing. He looks cleaner, but the beard is still there and charging a $25 per diem just to take up so much space.
Ari scowls. "Which part of 'clean up' did you miss, Poor Little Rich Boy? You think the mental rejects at JFK are gonna let you through customs looking like that?"
Petrelli shakes his head as though emerging from a fog. Shocker there. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my apartment?!"
"I found your brother," Ari waves Petrelli away dismissively. "Now go shave and remember where you left your passport, because if we get collared because people think you've got a bomb in your shoe, I'm going to beat you down like my name was Mike Tyson."
Petrelli's eyes open wide enough that he almost looks sober. "You found Peter?"
"Yes, and tomorrow I'm turning shit into gold, don't miss it." Ari turns his back on Petrelli and calls Lloyd to get two tickets to Ireland. He misses his ass monkey, plus, this errand for George has taken up Ari's whole morning and half of his afternoon. He's never going to be home in time for his pre-bedtime blow job now.
Ireland is fucking Ireland. Ari's Jewish. He doesn't care about scenery and St. Patrick driving the snakes from the country; he does care about Petrelli twitching beside him in the car from the Cork airport.
It's not even a real twitch -- that's the problem. It's like Petrelli doesn't know how to fidget, so he's faking it. This forces Ari to reach out and touch Nathan Petrelli. In a low voice, he warns, "If you don't stop acting like Amy Winehouse coming down off a crack high, I'm going to throw you out of the car, and tell your mom too fucking bad about your other kid because the IRA kidnapped him."
Petrelli narrows his eyes; Ari is totally unfazed. Petrelli stops though, which is all Ari cares about. This shit for George is already well into Day 2, and that's a day and a half too long.
Apparently you can't get a flight from JFK to Cork, so Lloyd booked them to Dublin, but then there had to be a connecting flight to Cork, and Ari wasn't interested in all of that leg work. So he made an executive decision and called George, who he told to call in a goddamn favor from fucking William Bradley 'I Take it Up the Ass From a Walking Toothpick' Pitt and get their private Rainbow Coalition shuttle to take them to Cork.
Now Ari and Nathan Petrelli are in Cork. Nuff said.
The car pulls up to the address that Sam provided and Ari's still unfastening his seat belt when Petrelli's out the car and banging on the front door of a generic row house. Ari's seen people in the throes of familial grief and this isn't that. This is, uh, some shit Ari doesn't want to think about.
Instead, Ari sighs and gets out of the car in time to see something he didn't need to know about at all -- namely Nathan Petrelli kissing the hell out of some guy who looks just like the baby brother George sent Ari to find in the first place.
"Aw, man, really?" Ari says distastefully. "I missed my evening blow job for this?"
The guy in the doorway doesn't seem quite as elated to see Petrelli, but he certainly doesn't seem to be pushing Petrelli away either, which means Ari's work is done here.
He turns his back on the reunion of 'I Don’t Fucking Want to Know Anything Else About this Shit' and tries to get a signal on his Crackberry. George's voice is tinny down the line in greeting, and Ari grumbles quite clearly. "The next time you want me to plan the Gay Reunion Du Jour, can I at least do it someplace I like? Like Miami?'
"You found him?" George sounds very pleased. If Ari were a dog, he might be wagging his tail, but he's not a dog, even if he is George's bitch.
"Yes, I fucking found him," Ari bitches, turning back briefly to see all kinds of bad wrong things occurring in the door way of that house in Cork. "I'm a fucking miracle worker, George, what else do I do?"
-end-
Yes, children, this is the sort of Super Deluxe Edition Crack ™ that I sometimes partake of. Some of you may remember this, others of you might need to seek professional counseling.
Beta by antheia
Entourage/RPS/Heroes/Burn Notice
Ari Gold, George Clooney, Nathan Petrelli, Angela Petrelli, Sam Axe, Claire Bennett, err, everybody and the kitchen sink. (Nathan/Peter)
Spoilers for Heroes 2.01
Wanted: One Fucking Miracle Worker
Ari only goes to New York because George asks. Ari is George's bitch and what George wants Ari delivers, plus George is depressed between the motorcycle accident and Brad being Brad and all sorts of shit that just makes Ari's dick go soft. He hates to see George depressed. It makes Ari depressed -- and more homicidal than usual -- and then George calls and they have a conversation that goes like this:
Ari: G-Money, baby, you have to get over this Brangelina shit. His dick was too small for you anyway. Why don't you go play with your new beard for a while? If Matty can find a nice domestic surrogate mom, you can too.
George: Ari, shut up.
Ari: Okay, I'm just saying though, if you really want, I know this guy who knows this guy in Miami and I heard he can make people disappear. Like suck your brain out of your head and have your whole body go poof! Not poof like fudge-packing, but poof like--
George: ARI!
Ari: Shutting up now, really. You sure, about this though? I bet that guy in Miami can get you a two-for-one deal. You're not godfather to the Rainbow Tribe are you? Because that's what boarding schools are for. I'm just saying.
George: Okay, I wasn't going to ask, but since you've brought it up.
Ari: I brought up what?
George: There's this problem in New York. I want you to fix it.
Ari: I thought you made all your hookers sign NDA's! George, baby, you're totally slipping. Never mind -- I've got it. Lloyd! I'm on the next flight!
George: No, it's not that kind of problem. There's this guy I know; he's a good kid. His family says he's gone missing.
Ari: Do I look like the fucking Center for Missing and Exploited Shirt-lifters, George?
George: You do now.
Ari: And what the fuck do you want me to do about it? *pause* Like I even have to ask.
George: You're my miracle worker -- so, go work a fucking miracle.
Ari: What if we're all out of miracles this month? Fuck. Be glad I like you.
George: I love you too, Ari.
Ari: Stop it; you're making my dick hard.
So, Ari goes to New York, and he doesn't know what he's expecting when he gets there, but it sure as hell isn't Angela Petrelli. The woman is so frigid Ari thinks his dick may never recover. Still, she's clearly living the good life and if his wife wasn't such a hot piece of ass, Ari might consider Mrs. P a MILF. Or not. No, probably not.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold, is it?" Mrs. Petrelli inquires again, eying him curiously. Ari knows that look; he's fucking from New York. He's a New York City Jew. His mom invented that appraising look. This is why Ari looks meticulous every day and twice on Sunday. "I have no need of your services, despite whatever Mr. Clooney may have said. My younger son. He--"
Mrs. Petrelli falters for a microsecond and Ari smells blood in the water. "Look, George says he's missing, and if he's missing I can find him. I'm not a Private Investigator; I'm a fucking miracle worker."
Mrs. Petrelli's eyes narrow. "A real miracle worker?"
Ari smirks. "Just call me fucking Helen Keller."
Mrs. Petrelli's smirks. Maybe Ari would hit that. It's hard to decide; she's a tough bitch. On one hand, she makes his balls want to crawl back into his body; on the other hand, tough women are fucking hot. And they always like to be on top.
It makes for less work.
"Mr. Clooney must think very highly of you to send you here."
"I think he would've come himself, but he broke a rib taking his latest beard for a ride in Jersey after hearing that Bradley and Mother Theresa adopted another rent-an-orphan, so he's kind of laid up."
Mrs. Petrelli wrinkles her nose. "You're not very discreet, are you?"
"If you're not reading about George trafficking twinkies in Hawaii or Matt Damon's surrogate bartender, I assure you I'm a lot more discreet than you think."
Mrs. Petrelli nods her head as though deciding something. "Very well then. I want you to fix my eldest son."
"Fix?" Ari chooses his words very carefully sometimes, so, he totally knows that sort of hesitation when he hears it. "I thought the youngest was the one that was missing."
"Peter," Mrs. Petrelli supplies. "His name is -- was -- Peter, and Peter and Nathan are -- were -- close. They're not like other boys."
It's Ari's turn to look suspicious. "How close are we talking?"
Pretty fucking close if the rabbi beard Nathan Petrelli is sporting has anything to say about it. Too fucking close if the six-week stench of bourbon and gin coming from his pores has anything to do with it.
Ari jingles the keys Mrs. Petrelli gave him in his hand and nudges Nathan Petrelli's listless form with his shoe. Passing out on the floor is so fucking bad for your back.
"Get up," Ari snaps, kicking Petrelli again.
Petrelli stirs and bats feebly at Ari's leg.
"I'm gonna tell you one more time to get your ass up off this floor," Ari warns, "and then I'm throwing this bottle of Tanqueray out the window and calling The New York Post. I'm telling them that their newly elected ex-junior senator is at the bottom of a fucking bottle because George Clooney was fucking his little brother when he was fucking his little brother, and now everybody's got an STD. And there might be ass babies involved."
This time Petrelli's eyes open and he looks up in Ari's general direction. Ari snorts. Okay, he's totally making shit up -- he doesn't have any Tanqueray. Besides, he would never put George out there like that. He takes one step back as Nathan Petrelli lunges for his ankles.
"Oh, c'mon sunshine, you're gonna have to do a lot better than that to take my ass down," Ari laughs. "I run five miles every morning and my ass is sober; your ass couldn't even run to the liquor store on the corner with a five-dollar bill in your hand. What the fuck's the matter with you?"
"Who the fuck are you?" Petrelli slurs.
"I'm the guy who's gonna get your brother back for you, so you need to get up, sober up and shave that Ode to Islam off your face, because we have work to do -- and I have to be home in time to fuck the wife."
Petrelli pushes himself upright and Ari can't believe that this wino, sprawled out on the floor of an apartment that looks like a hippie on LSD threw up in it, is the same guy in all those campaign ads Angela showed him.
George went to seed when Brad took up with Angie, but if he'd done something like this, Ari would've hung him from a balcony by his ankles to get him out of it.
"Leave me alone!" Petrelli orders.
Ari sniggers. "You're gonna need to be able to point in my general direction before I'm listening to anything you say, Mr. Drunk and Ball-less, so get up already."
Petrelli looks like he might actually be mobile, so Ari steps back again. "The bathroom is that way," he says, steering Petrelli away from the refrigerator and towards the back of the apartment.
Ari turns away when Petrelli starts stripping before he even gets to the bathroom. "I only accept free shows as payment if your name is Matt Damon," he hollers over the sound of the shower kicking on. "And if you fucking drown, I'm not saving you!"
Ari shakes his head and looks around the apartment sadly. What a fucking waste of quality real estate. He could totally chop this apartment into three, charge twice as much as whatever it costs, and use it to pay for Mrs. Ari's shoe habit. He already knows who it is when his phone rings.
"George, baby, I'm on it --" he answers promptly.
There's a pause on the other end. "Ari? It's Sam Axe; I heard you had a missing person?"
"Sam!" Ari says gleefully. "Long time no federal drug busts, Sammy -- how're things going for you down in pensioner's paradise?"
"Boring. Or they were until one of my contacts showed up. You ever heard of a guy named Michael Westen?"
Ari's brain reels. "Yeah, actually George told me to call him about this kid I'm looking for -- a Peter Petrelli. Why? Did this get outsourced to you? You fucking tell Westen that George is gonna have words for him later -- in fact you tell Westen that there'll be no fucking George later if he doesn't --"
"Whoa, Ari, too much information," Sam interrupts.
Another phone goes off and Ari looks around in confusion. Petrelli's still in the shower and Sam's still in his ear. "Sam, shut up for a minute and go get a blow job, I have another call, on another phone, and I don't even know where the fuck the phone is."
Ari finds a slimline Samsung tucked between the cushions of the sofa, and he answers it because he's fucking Ari Gold and he's a nosy motherfucker. "Claire?" He says aloud reading the LCD screen. "Who the fuck are you?" he answers by way of greeting.
"Nathan?" the voice on the other end sounds young. Wayyyy too young to be fucking an ex-junior senator.
"Oh, shit," Ari retorts mildly. "She didn't tell me he had a high school girlfriend. Look kid, whatever it is you're getting from Petrelli, it's over. Don't call this phone again."
"Who the hell are you?" the girl -- and yes, it's definitely a girl if she's hitting notes that high -- demands shrilly. "Where's Nathan?"
"Nathan's getting sober and you're going away." Ari hangs up the phone and flings it back between the sofa cushions.
Sam's still talking when Ari puts the phone back to his ear. "Ireland?" Ari says picking up the thread of the conversation seamlessly. "The kid's in Ireland? Krakatau? Is that a place? Sam, shut up, you're confusing me and when I'm confused small countries fall."
"I'm telling you, Ari," Sam insists. "I know a guy who knows a guy in Ireland," which Ari translates as George's ex-fuck buddy Michael Westen has an ex-fuck buddy in Ireland who's found the kid.
Everybody's got an ex-fuck buddy who knows somebody's ex-fuck buddy. The world is small that way. "Sam, I owe you one," Ari says happily.
"Just get me Sharon Stone's phone number, and we'll call it even," Sam says.
Ari shakes his head even though Sam can't see him. "You don't want any of that, Sam. She's crazy. And I say that knowing you."
Petrelli chooses this moment to emerge from the bathroom. He's walking kind of upright and he's wearing different clothing. He looks cleaner, but the beard is still there and charging a $25 per diem just to take up so much space.
Ari scowls. "Which part of 'clean up' did you miss, Poor Little Rich Boy? You think the mental rejects at JFK are gonna let you through customs looking like that?"
Petrelli shakes his head as though emerging from a fog. Shocker there. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my apartment?!"
"I found your brother," Ari waves Petrelli away dismissively. "Now go shave and remember where you left your passport, because if we get collared because people think you've got a bomb in your shoe, I'm going to beat you down like my name was Mike Tyson."
Petrelli's eyes open wide enough that he almost looks sober. "You found Peter?"
"Yes, and tomorrow I'm turning shit into gold, don't miss it." Ari turns his back on Petrelli and calls Lloyd to get two tickets to Ireland. He misses his ass monkey, plus, this errand for George has taken up Ari's whole morning and half of his afternoon. He's never going to be home in time for his pre-bedtime blow job now.
Ireland is fucking Ireland. Ari's Jewish. He doesn't care about scenery and St. Patrick driving the snakes from the country; he does care about Petrelli twitching beside him in the car from the Cork airport.
It's not even a real twitch -- that's the problem. It's like Petrelli doesn't know how to fidget, so he's faking it. This forces Ari to reach out and touch Nathan Petrelli. In a low voice, he warns, "If you don't stop acting like Amy Winehouse coming down off a crack high, I'm going to throw you out of the car, and tell your mom too fucking bad about your other kid because the IRA kidnapped him."
Petrelli narrows his eyes; Ari is totally unfazed. Petrelli stops though, which is all Ari cares about. This shit for George is already well into Day 2, and that's a day and a half too long.
Apparently you can't get a flight from JFK to Cork, so Lloyd booked them to Dublin, but then there had to be a connecting flight to Cork, and Ari wasn't interested in all of that leg work. So he made an executive decision and called George, who he told to call in a goddamn favor from fucking William Bradley 'I Take it Up the Ass From a Walking Toothpick' Pitt and get their private Rainbow Coalition shuttle to take them to Cork.
Now Ari and Nathan Petrelli are in Cork. Nuff said.
The car pulls up to the address that Sam provided and Ari's still unfastening his seat belt when Petrelli's out the car and banging on the front door of a generic row house. Ari's seen people in the throes of familial grief and this isn't that. This is, uh, some shit Ari doesn't want to think about.
Instead, Ari sighs and gets out of the car in time to see something he didn't need to know about at all -- namely Nathan Petrelli kissing the hell out of some guy who looks just like the baby brother George sent Ari to find in the first place.
"Aw, man, really?" Ari says distastefully. "I missed my evening blow job for this?"
The guy in the doorway doesn't seem quite as elated to see Petrelli, but he certainly doesn't seem to be pushing Petrelli away either, which means Ari's work is done here.
He turns his back on the reunion of 'I Don’t Fucking Want to Know Anything Else About this Shit' and tries to get a signal on his Crackberry. George's voice is tinny down the line in greeting, and Ari grumbles quite clearly. "The next time you want me to plan the Gay Reunion Du Jour, can I at least do it someplace I like? Like Miami?'
"You found him?" George sounds very pleased. If Ari were a dog, he might be wagging his tail, but he's not a dog, even if he is George's bitch.
"Yes, I fucking found him," Ari bitches, turning back briefly to see all kinds of bad wrong things occurring in the door way of that house in Cork. "I'm a fucking miracle worker, George, what else do I do?"
-end-
Yes, children, this is the sort of Super Deluxe Edition Crack ™ that I sometimes partake of. Some of you may remember this, others of you might need to seek professional counseling.
Beta by antheia