« on: October 13, 2014, 05:00:25 pm »
Bill had made an ass out of himself in less time than even we had expected. Four drinks in, and he'd started hitting on the blonde. She wasn't having it, of course, because her job is "waitress/conversational companion" and not "prostitute"...And she certainly wasn't going to lay him for free.
When it finally penetrated his whiskey-stunned mind that she wasn't interested, he began to "neg" her, clumsily. For those of you who don't expose yourselves to sociopaths, "negging" is the art of giving backhanded, demeaning "compliments" in order to dent the self-esteem of a woman, in order to make you look "out of her league", which is supposed to make her chase you. It doesn't work, but "Pick-Up Artist" gurus make $5000 a week, per head, showing chumps how it's done...With the women involved being just as hired as the women we spoke to in LA.
The blonde was a pro. She smiled at his increasingly offensive "compliments". With her mouth, anyway. Her eyes said something very different. Later, as he began to drunkenly whimper about "the friend zone", her smile got a little more razor-edged, and she began prompting him. Within minutes, he was more or less bellowing out shit about how "bitches don't know a nice guy when they see one". Blondie was trying very hard not to laugh out loud, and kept prodding him to expand on these ideas.
Tim was, of course, recording all over this into a flash drive, for possible later use.
Eventually, his behavior became so bad that the Brunette signaled me that he had to go. Staggering outside, we got back in the car. Tim was more or less sober, so he drove. I was half-tanked, and sat in the passenger seat...Bill, on the other hand, was shit-faced and sort of took up the whole back seat.
"I do not believe that we have enough," Tim said, "We will need more."
Misunderstanding (as intended), Bill hollered, "HELL NO. WE NEED MORE."
Hours went by. We stopped at a faux biker bar, where Bill managed to get fake bikers to take a swing at him. Tim settled them down for a nap, but not before his suit jacket got ruined. We hit a club, where Bill threw up on the dance floor. Finally, we were back at the hotel. We slung Bill's passed-out ass on the bed, and I jumped on my laptop and spoke to a friend for a while, while Tim went to get a new jacket.
While I was online, Bill rather noisily shat himself. When Tim returned, we carried him Weekend At Bernie's-style, and left him on the street outside, with his shitty britches around his knees, and then we called the cops on him and went to our own rooms to get some sleep.
The next day, we bailed him out of jail. He was hung over and miserable.
"What happened?" He asked.
"Well, you drank a little too much and ran off on us," I replied, "We spent all night looking for you."
"Uh, sorry guys. This mean the job is off?"
"Not at all. We expect a little eccentricity from our best minds. In addition, it is obvious that you are not a hard-drinking man, like ourselves. This is a good thing, and takes a load off of our minds. You wouldn't believe how many chemists are habitual drunks."
"This is the weirdest Goddamn job interview I've ever heard of", Bill said, oblivious to the fact that Tim was sending Bill's current boss emailed pics of his shame (both on the sidewalk and coming out of the jail) with his smartphone. Handy things, those. I really should get around to obtaining one.
"We are not a normal company," I said, "We do not do things the way other companies do them. That is why we are the future and they are the past. But we'll talk about that later. You need to get some real sleep, and so do we. We can discuss things this evening over a nice quiet dinner."
"That sounds like a plan," Bill responded, looking relieved.
Obviously, we had no such intentions. Once Bill was back in his room, Tim and I went to the Crabshack next door, and met Sharon for lunch.
"You are okay with going through with this?" I asked.
"Oh, sure," she replied, "He's a creep. Seriously, I fucking hate him, just from the hour I spent with him yesterday. So no problem. Hell, I'm even getting paid for this."
"Yes," Tim said, "And a very good coin indeed. With the promise of future acting engagements of a similar nature...Provided you can keep quiet about this one, at least until it's done. Longer would be better."
"No problem, muscles."
Tim grunted, which is about as close as he comes to laughing.
That evening, Sharon showed up at Bill's door. Tim and I observed from the fire stairs, listening in on my tablet, receiving from a small wifi device in Sharon's purse.
"Hello," he said, with a look of mild distaste.
"Hello yourself," she chirped, "Hamish and Tim had to handle a few things, so they asked me to show you a good time."
"Asked you or paid you?" Bill wasn't quite as dense as he looked.
"Paid me, of course. Are you complaining?"
"Well, then, let's not worry about it. How about you and I loosen up with a drink?" The two of them went into the room. They chatted a bit, her leading him to believe he was about to get into the pants of what he thought was a high-end prostitute. His voice became slurred by the second drink...Thank God for Roofies. Then we heard Sharon say "Okay, he's out."
We walked into the room, and put him on his side on the floor near the bathroom. Then the three of us scuffed the room up a bit, and went down to the car. A 20 minute drive back to the makeover palace, and a makeup tech got busy on Sharon. Within 30 minutes, she looked like she'd been curb-stomped by angry gorillas. Then a quick drive over to a clinic that "stayed open" after hours for us...We had a little photo shoot with Sharon lying on a gurney looking brutalized.
We dropped Sharon off at the makeover palace. I smiled while I handed her an envelope.
"I already got paid," she said.
"This is a bonus. You did a fantastic job. You'll be hearing from us again."
She looked in the envelope, and her eyes lit up. "Thanks, guys!"
"No, Sharon, thank you."
We went back to the hotel and took a nap. When we woke up, we let ourselves into Bill's room, and shook him until he finally woke up.
"Uhhh, what's going on?"
Tim dropped the photos of Sharon on the floor beside Bill. "What is going on, my friend, is that you are some kind of animal."
"Just look at what you did to that poor girl," I added, "You are in a lot of trouble, son. That's going to be about 5 years in the state penitentiary. What in God's name where you thinking?"
"I don't...I didn't..."
"She says you did."
"That lying bitch..."
"You have to get out of California," I said, "And you have to do it right now. Today. Within the hour would be best."
"Uhhh..." Bill's head was still fogged. So much the better.
"We have a car waiting downstairs. A 22 hour drive to Louisiana - one would not wish to use an airport - and one would never be found by inquisitive Los Angeles police officers. But one would have to be an employee of The Company."
"What? But...Um...What's the pay?"
"A fairly generous wage...And your liberty. Perhaps even a new name. Certainly not quite as generous a sum as one with less legal difficulties, but generous nonetheless," I replied, "You have 5 minutes to decide."
Ten minutes later, Bill was off to his new life in Louisiana. Tim and I relaxed in the restaurant, over some substandard and overpriced food.
"Do you suppose he will ever realize that nobody is looking for him?" Tim asked.
"Doesn't matter. Not really. The pics you sent his boss, plus his absence, means he won't have a job to miss here. But with any luck at all, he'll hunker down in Louisiana for 5 years or so before he realizes he isn't a wanted man."
"I almost feel bad about this," Tim said, "That was too easy. There is no pride in outwitting a fool."
"But there is in a job well done. Anyway, it's time to drive home. You will of course be driving, for I am old, and easily fatigued."
"Okay. Perhaps we can stop in Yuma for lunch. They appreciate us in Yuma."
We got into the Charger, and drove East.