There is a man who's just run into the Inn. He is a writer from Hollywood, he had back surgery (L-5 S-1, if that means anything) three days ago, and he's high as a paper kite on Vicodin and Percoset. He just won a Writer's Guild award for a screenplay he wrote, and he looks rather pissed
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"Sorry. I'm not your Danny." She stands from the table she's been at and smiles. "You're not going to believe me, but you're in the Inn. Between worlds and times. Not anywhere near... Studio 60, was it? Or any other place you're familiar with, most likely."
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"I'm in an Inn between worlds and times. And I've got a gorgeous English tour guide." He ponders this for a moment. "These are some really good painkillers!"
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"It's not the meds, but... believe what you'd like." She points a slender, polished fingernail at herself. "Not a tour guide though. Can't have you believing that."
It's kind of amusing. Americans.
Martha fixes him with a look, noting the dazed expression. "What kind of pain medication? Are you sure you should be... up?"
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And, amusingly enough, he can't remember why he thinks that.
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"You're in the Inn, I don't know who Danny is, and if you make me lose me concentration, you'll be very sorry." Or blown up with the rest of the Inn. A minor detail, really.
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Never mind that he's not getting married, or that he's just recently broken up with his girlfriend. He's high, his mind is not his own at the moment.
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Once she is done, and the Explosive safely stored away until it's debut, she looks up. "We could have exploded."
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