Skip Wiley (Tourist Season, by Carl Hiaasen)

[flameofdecember]

Skip drops into a chair out of nowhere. He glances with some puzzlement at the hole in his jeans, but appears to decide it's not important. Having nothing better to do, he readies himself to answer the questions put to him.

Comments

[every_daae]

Christine curtsied politely. "Bonjour. Christine Daae, at your service, Monsieur. Are you a newspaper reporter by then? You aren't a critic of some sort, I hope?"

Opera singers and music critics had never had a very warm and friendly relationship, and Christine, who had been extremely reserved around anyone (particularly people who asked very personal questions that she didn't want to answer about her father's death) until her triumphant performance as Marguerite in Faust, had been on the receiving end of several lackluster reviews. Of course, she'd also received rave reviews declaring like she sang like an angel, but, if anything, she was more terrified of those.

[flameofdecember]

Pleased to meet you, Miss Daae. Yes, I do work for a newspaper, or, I used to. I left recently, and, well, I'm pretty sure I died shortly afterwords.

I'm not officially a critic - but, since I wrote an editorial column, you could say I was a critic of society as a whole.

[every_daae]

"You... died?" Christine found it hard to think of a proper response to such information. "I... that must have been singularly unpleasant. I, ah.... hope you aren't still dead or otherwise incapacitated?"

Oh dear, what was one to say to something like that? And, "that must have been singularly unpleasant?" What rubbish was that?

[flameofdecember]

*Skip smiles ruefully.* Yes, I'm pretty sure I died. I was dead for maybe a few seconds when I showed up here, though.

It wasn't really all that unpleasant - the entire island I was on blew up. I was incinerated pretty much instantly. It was being shot in the leg beforehand that was the unpleasant part. I hope that eagle got away.

As far as I can tell, I'm alive now, though. My leg's even healed, although my pants apparently haven't. *Skip glances at the hole in his jeans. He notes that Christine is looking distinctly uncomfortable, and feels an uncharacteristically charitable impulse.* Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that I died. I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable.

[marius_p]

*bows* Marius Pontmercy. Pleased to meet you.

You strike me as a Slytherin, Monsieur. Do you have any objections?

[flameofdecember]

I don't think so... I'm not too familiar with the groupings, Houses or whatever.

[marius_p]

Traditionally, Gryffindor, where I reside, is for the brave and noble, though some would hasten to point out that its inhabitants are brave and noble to, occasionally, the point of idiocy. Ravenclaw is for the intelligent and the erudite, though it has an open bar from which its inhabitants partake very liberally. Hufflepuff is for the kind and loyal, and, for whatever odd reason, most of the... ah... *clears throat uncomfortably* attractive female applicants get Sorted there. Slytherin is for the the cunning and ambitious, though I'm afraid some of its denizens seem rather too morally ambiguous for comfort. I suppose it doesn't help that their Head of House is a demon.

Do any of the Houses appeal to you particularly Monsieur?

[flameofdecember]

Hmmm... By those standards, yes, Slytherin's probably the best place for me.

[c_macaulay]

What's a gator hole?

[flameofdecember]

A gator hole is exactly what it says - a hole dug in the ground underwater by an alligator. Bits of debris fall into the hole, which lure fish in, and the fish get stuck there. The fish become food for the gators, who are strong enough swimmers to get out.

[c_macaulay]

*laughs* That sounds awfully convenient messy. I've heard the Ravenclaw house has a bar. If I voted you there, I wonder if they'd let you remodel it to put in a gator hole. I suppose there aren't any gators to be had in Scotland.

[flameofdecember]

Nah, too cold for gators in Scotland... wait - we're in Scotland?

Anyway, it's not really a gator hole unless the gators themselves dug it - and anyway, I seriously doubt that Ravenclaw's built on stilts over a swamp, which is the easiest way to be near a gator hole.

[wh0_kill3d_m3]

I'd like some of the shampoo, if you don't mind. Girl can never have too much of that stuff.

[mmmax_headroom]

A skateboard rolls up to Skip. Hydraulic arms raise the wood-cased TV set atop it to eye level, and a Head appears onscreen.

"AaAaAaAhHhHhH, a journalist, -list, -list, eh? Always nice to meet one of Edison's spiritual forebears."

*waggles eyebrows*

[flameofdecember]

Is there an echo in here?

Yeah, I'm a journalist. I assume that by Edison you don't mean Thomas Edison, since he lived quite a while before me.

[mmmax_headroom]

"Mor-mor-more of a stutter than an ec-ec-echo really. What we in the broadcast -cast -cast game like to call tec-tec-technical difficulties. hEeEee!!!" The skateboard spins in a circle.

"Nooooo indeed. I meant Edison Carter, investigative reporter extraor-or-ordinaire. Broadcast of course. Don't ask about print, there isn't any. So las-las-last millennium. The biological analogue of your-your-yours truly."

The Head tilts thoughtfully. "So what brings you by, fellow journo?"

[flameofdecember]

Maybe you should get that looked at - I had a TV repairman's number here somewhere. *Skip checks his pockets.* Ah, here it is.

Search me. I'm on an island, having been shot in the leg, and trying to climb a tree to get an eagle to actually leave before the place blows up, next thing I know, 6:27, KABOOM! I think I was dead for a couple of seconds, then I end up here.