hollywood

[cutthroat]

"and the guy, this fucking guy in a department store suit, he says to me.."

jason marcus was a good man.

he had a great job that bankrolled his wife's extravagant shopping sprees and had already funded the private education of a couple of kids, paid for a big house on a sprawling hill on the north side of town and even kept him comfortable in a plush assortment of luxury automobiles.

the job even allowed for a heavy cocaine habit on the side, that made his mouth chatter in a hyper-ego frenzy and his dick rock hard under the papery veneer of his dockers, turning him from a soft-spoken business man into a brass executive type that waved his cash around in sloppy fistfuls and demanded strange and awkward sexual favors out of his whores.

jeuls had met him two years ago, when her hair was short and black and her johns called her lola, outside of a bar where she was serving drinks and occasionally twisting her long-boned skeleton in an erotic origami around a sleek steel pole bolted to the bar top. it was good money, and her side business was booming. after doing blow of the dashboard of his bently coupe and fucking to a deranged chorus of his wife's name panted over and over, jeuls had scribbled her number on the hem of jason's shirt in gaudy red lipliner. already clawing into the niche a haggard housewife had left for her, or any other street-struttin' beauty who's standards limped through the deepest gutters.

and while he didn't become a regular, he would call every couple of months with his voice full of want and seduction, tempting her with wads of cash in exchange for her drugs and sloppy red mouth, her frustrated fists. tonight was no different. he had hoovered down half the bag of coke before they even reached his apartment, and he couldn't keep his hands on the wheel, strange fingers caressing the slope of her thigh, clumsily clawing at the glittery silver skirt that cut high over her thighs as the chromed-out nose of his bently careened dangerously close to the street's median. and jeuls closed her eyes, another pair of ink green eyes flashing against her subconscious and making her writhe like a junkie on the ass end of their last fix. jason read her uneasy undulations all wrong, interpreting them as encouragement for his filthy groping that continued from the parking lot to the elevator where he used wide hips to pin her into a corner. trapped under the assault of his numb mouth that slipped over her lips in a throb of impotent frustration towards his frigid wife. but he was telling stories as he led her towards his apartment, restraining wandering hands just in case a familiar face appeared in the hallway. he was confident his wife had no idea about jeuls, or cindy, tiffany, any of his girls, and wanted to keep it that way.

"..and you never close a deal that way!"

as they stepped through the front door, jeuls threw back her head with a bubbly laugh, an automatic reply to his stuffy high rise office stories she had practiced for years, and only her brother could've recognized the flat shine to her eyes, an emotionless front that she wore like a plate of armour. to keep them out of the dark shadows of her heart, or even worse, the plush swamp of her subconcious where nightmares lurked and raged every time jason's hand slid against her skin. so she would close her eyes and go through the motions of a devoted lover, actions that came to her so naturally, even more natural than true love itself, her hand dropping to the crotch of his docker's because the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could be back on the streets. where she felt safe, where she was bonded to the violence and filth, where she did not have to pretend that her blood was hot and red like everyone else. but as the drug-twisted couple twirled for the bed, their heavy petting reverie was shattered by the shrill shriek of a telephone.

"fuck." jason growled, prowling up between jeuls' thighs with a violent light shining in his eyes, hands already going hard against the soft curve of her hips as he pushed himself up. "hold on, lo' baby."

"mm...it's probably mrs. marcus, anyway." propped up on one elbow, the slightly sightless bombshell reached for a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table as jason recoiled from the bed and staggered for the telephone. "tell her i said hello." jason smirked at his bedroom gem over his shoulder, and as she lit her cigarette, eyes washed of their phony adoration sketched a quick line from the window to jason's back as he raised the receiver, her heart jumping into a frenetic throb before her brain even had time to catch up.

"hello?" the filthy city air whispered back through the wires, and jason frowned. "hello? is anyone there? who is this?"

her realization was too slow, like the lazy rise of her arm, body lifting off the bed as time seemed to shriek to a jarring halt.

"jason, no wait--"

her words were substantially louder than the gun shot itself, born from a point too far away to do anything but whisper in deadly, reassuring tones as it obliterated the window and met it's mark, before he even had a chance to turn and see the terrified mold of his young hooker's mouth. a single bullet crumbled the well-dressed CEO and brought the high-heeled hustler to her feet in one shocked sweep as the wind followed the bullet in a shattered window and tornadoed her shaggy white curls.

"jason! fuck!" she didn't even realize that she'd hit her knees at his side until she was bloody up to her elbows, memories of chicago's suicide flashing through her brain and mimed on her palms in discrete chunks of scalp and brainmatter. but her panic was a momentary lapse in her judgement, fueled by the coke and kicked into overdrive by a sex-buzzed brain, arms pinwheeling in a bloody circle as she rolled backwards on clumsy feet and tried to put as much atmosphere between the bleeding-out body and her as she could.

"oh god, oh god, fuck, god." once, she had been curious, to know what it was like at the other end of the barrel, but now she knew and her nerves burnt out in a fantastic supernova flash as she dashed for the bedroom door. she didn't even make the connection between the green eyed street assassin and her cash-flushed john until her blood-streaked hands were fumbling with an uncooperative doorknob, the phonecall, the single shot, had she seen jason's face in one of those black folders before? there was only one place she was headed once she burst from the apartment building, all blood and sweat in a short silver dress, high-heels reporting against grimy concrete as she cut across the boardwalk and made a beeline for dorothy's.

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 17, 2007 03:45 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

"what the fuck do you think you're doing."

"my job..as you were yours." even when she was blinded by a smear of blood across her eyes, his street-slick voice gilded her heart in a crumbling shine of lust. what an asshole. "wrong end of the scope, sweetheart."

"when did you job become k-killing my clients!"

her voice shuddered in bretrayl of her stony glare, exposing the terrified flutter of her heart in a trembling fragment of speech. she did not know what to do with the anger he offered--it was such a foriegn emotion, one that most people abandoned when it came to manipulate jeuls because she was so much easier to mold her emotions with sweetness and chemicals. but when he cut into her with those big green eyes, she flinched and spit abruptly.

"or are you just jealous? scared he might be a better fuck than you?"

"jealous? i don't have time to kill the entire east coast because i'm worried about who you happen to be fuckin' in the nearest back alley."

"you saw me, you had to have seen me, what the fuck?!" she knew, even from three hundred yards and ten stories up, she was impossible to mistake for your next street hustler, with her trademark white curls and extravagant tattoos. and her anger flared in defense of her sisters, her fellow streetcorner bombshells. "would you've just shot the girl too, if it was some other whore? would you've even bothered to call, or just fucking blow 'em both away?"

"just be glad mrs. marcus didn't request the slut die to. she very well could have." the black folder he dropped on the table was all too familiar, but she didn't reach for it with her usual eager thrust of weightless hands, instead she avoided it like a leper's kiss.

"you wouldn't have fucking done it." she tried to meet his eyes, because truthfully, she wasn't sure. if the scorned mrs. marcus had asked, flashed enough fluttering green, jeuls didn't doubt she would be laying right next to jason, their narcotic-spiked blood mixing in pools on his expensive oriental rugs. her hands had started their steady shaking again, trying to calm them as she picked up the folder. "what the fuck is this?"

"what the fuck is that? what the fuck do you think it is? and you're a fucking side note. she offered me twice as fuckin' much to do the whore as she fuckin' did 'im. i told her no. told her i'd deal with it. and then i go to do the fuckin' hit and you're tongue is wrapped around his god damned tonsils."

jeuls absolutely hated those midnight black sunglasses he wore sometimes, and tonight it was because all she saw when she looked up at him was her own ragged reflection staring back. wide mismatched eyes, a disasterous swirl of blonde and all that blood. so she stopped looking at him and stared down at the folder, finally slipping a bloodied thumb between the covers and flipping it open. jason stared out from a glossy 8x10 and stopped her from going any further, snapping the folder shut in her palms as a tremor ate down her spine.

sure, jason was just another john, another whiskey-dicked asshole that used her as a device in their sadistic dreames turned reality, but she always got so attached. and they were never all bad. there was always the gifts, the diamonds, the furniture, the cars and sprawling lof apartments, the clothes. but more than her flimsy attachment for the two-faced CEO, confusion was clouding her brain and making her ears buzz with flat, white noise. she could barely hear devon speak, so she lifted her eyes again, watching his mouth move to help her along. she tried to remember all of what devon woud've seen. none of the grotresque pawing and heavy breathing in the elevator, but he had barreled her through the door with both hands on her ass and her tongue down his throat. surprising even herself, she blushed. hard and red, but nothing in comparison to the blood.

"it's not like i went looking for him.. he just wanted some blow.." jeuls frowned deeply and stared back down at the folder. "i wasn't even going to go, but he.." had sounded so desperate. it was so hard to deny someone when they were screaming in a language so familiar, making the cripple-hearted junk queen feel like she was the only thing that could sedate the monsters that clawed from the dark, repressed edges of his subconcious when the want came whispering through like a foul wind. more than the coke and the sex, she was addicted to being their saving grace.



( note: all dialogue pulled from play session. )

[cutthroat]

shock-swole moon humping in a drunk grind across a polluted shine of three midnights, the slithering bloatbelly queen, the gator mama voodoo cunt, turned another year older in the arms of the super diamond hearted and grenade-eyed, a rotten hero/chivalry slipping off the bone, on the ides of march.

and the wings tremble to the tune of twenty seven more years nibbling on the poppies, lamb's eye black hole b-l-e-e-d-ing onto bloodless lip flatline past the jagged swerve of thinning teeth, at the rusting edge of a halycon creation.

[cutthroat]

<center>
won't say sorry when she offends
she comes over to my place in her old man's Benz
in gold and silver and jewels of all colors
and she doesn't take them off when we're tearing up the covers

c'mon kid, before i change my mind
c'mon kid, don't waste my time
so rich, so pretty
the best piece of ass in the whole damn city
</center>

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ August 05, 2007 01:53 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

<center>i shoulda known better than to be out here fuckin' with you
knowin' the shit you do
i shoulda known better than to be out here fuckin' with you
all that shit you took a man through
i told myself that everything would work out fine
fucked 'round an' slipped an' hit that pussy one more time
and got caught up in something that's worse than drugs
i'm a motherfuckin' fool for love
just a motherfuckin' fool for love</center>

renton watched with a sick wave of incestuous lust when the lights dimmed and his scabby-kneed juliet limped across the stage, dragging a plaster cast on a lame leg, gleaming cumshot white underneath a trembling spotlight.

she moved like flames on gasoline, money flying out the window, a stray bullet, trains derailing.

fondled by trauma in a perfect circle, from familiar back alleys to chrome poles, the naked wolfbitch tilted her head back to force the rejection down and cloaked herself in sex and sweat and returned to a place where no one ever said no. and when they did, it was shriekstitched onto words like shame.

decency.

future.

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ April 02, 2007 11:50 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

tonight found the cinder-hearted gemini trash sixteen stories above the babbling nocturnal roar of the city, far above the breaking point of a foaming black ocean of hustlers, addicts, innocents and murderers, degenerates and pretty women. so far up it was impossible to even stick their toes in for a numbing taste, the two of them sitting on the edge of a low wall that crept around the corners of juels' apartment building. even there, thrust into midnight with the stars on his shoulder and eyes dazzled by the orgy of neon and steel below, renton was still choking on a brittle sense of paranoia that had urged him to the highest point he could find, scaling past sooty windows and grime-slick brick, doing an awkward shimmy up a rusting fire escape. with juels biting at his heels, a splintered leg in a plaster cast dangling uselessly.

"ay dunnay trust 'im, juels.." the fall-down king fell, appropriately, to his knees on the black tar rooftop, a chin hanging off the cheshire curve of his spine resting on the edge of the wall; while juels pulled her legs up and stretched hollow belly-up along the top of the wall, endless and swathed in silver satin, letting a single shoestring limb lambasted in a swirl of fading ink stir the air over the edge of the building.

"mm.." she'd let one fist of tangled knuckles fall over paper-thin eyelids, smearing at unmovable bruises and a stain of tears.

"juels."

"what?" she snapped with a torpid whisper of smog and pollution whipping blow-white hair, tempted to roll off the lip of the roof under the clouds, letting one leg dangle over the edge as well, as if she was testing the waters.

"ay sed, ay dunnay trust 'im.."

"yeah, well, it's not about trust." how could it be, in the glamorous business of sex and murder? she peeled open her good eye and watched as the stars seemed to drop lower and lower through the slats of her fingertips, and when she closed them again, the smut hungry mongrel expected to feel their whitehot sharp points pressing into her skin. "especially yours."

renton struggled to hold her with rheumy eyes made the drunken darling's edges blownout, so it was hard to tell where the milk-white hustler ended and a stormcloud-clotted black atmosphere began, and after a moment with his hand twirling in his pocket, he reached for her with a permanent marker point and started doodling a sinister-looking crocodile near the plaster-white curve of her ankle.

"wot's it 'bout, then?"

a man that she could not easily gut and play on trembling heartstrings, perhaps. a slick-drawling shadow of a man that did not crumble so easily under the weight of her greedy, black-out hysterics, and kept his own secrets hidden and refused to be cracked when she could usually read her lover's like an old dog-eared book. a tremor of unfamiliar adoration took hold of her spine and shook when she thought of him, out there somewhere, sutured into darkness and gazing down the barrel of a gun. it was easier to think of him that way, because when she thought of him stretched out in the early morning sunshine underneath sweatslick sheets, it felt like the building was falling out from underneath her. and she was doing her best to stay still, so the sorrow's son could finish his masterpiece.

renton tapped her plaster toe, scattering her emerald eyed daydream like so many thunderclouds, repeating himself with a pleading bat of 'lashes that drooped in exhaustion.

"it's not about anything." and with a quiet reply, the vein of truth slipped dangerously close to the blade. "please, renny.." renton knew he was picking at a wound too fresh. it was sympathy that moved him from his withering half, with a pained sigh that seemed to draw the last splashes of his energy.

"ay werry, s'all.." rocking up from knobby knees, he stuttered across the rooftop with a visible limp only to circle back completely, with his usual aimless airs, trapped there so far above sidewalks that spiraled on forever. the walk out of the swamp had been long, exaggerated by the protests of a pretty piece of bait and every car passing that ignored his frantic thumbing at the sky. he had to keep moving, or exhausted muscles would lock up under their bruised skin finish, stopping when he was close enough to personally pinpoint various points of infatuation that had left very real scars across juels' skeletonscape. one lover had opened her chest with a unforgiving silver blade, and another broke bones instead, and long ago a lover's quarrel had put two bullets in her belly. using this pattern of logic, it would've been irresponsible for him not to worry. and in renton's eyes, the street thug was the most dangerous yet. the first in a long line before him who seemed to truly have his sister tucked securely under his thumb.

"'e's fucken crazier'n yew are.."

turning her face away from the amaranthine sprawl of the city below, the diamond-eyed witch laughed, abruptly filling the sky with a jangle of smoke-carved amusement that seemed to rattle the moon in it's orbit. forcing her poor brother to amend himself with a sheepish smile under the sudden and reproachful light that bled from slightly sightless eyes.

"almost."

[cutthroat]

<center>

"..i keep an alligator in the backseat.
i think a gun would be overkill."</center>

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 26, 2008 03:31 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ January 26, 2008 03:32 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

"are you really worried?" swarms of pampered pooches streaked in flea-bitten orbits around the crooked twinset and two snuffling shar peis at their feet, mangled hangover expressions screwing juels face into a grimace. the dog park was crowded, and a soft summer sun had turned juels from diamond-edged predator to a limp-lidded ragdoll, suspended off renton's elbow. a strange dog would come up to hike a cold nose up her thigh and she'd wave a cigarette-holding hand in it's face, gin-swollen lips crushed into a frown. tyson and caine swung hippo-heads to and fro, milk-white eyes rolling under an avalanche of wrinkles.

"aye." bending on one knee, one arm chicken-winging to stay knotted with juels' elbow, renton crammed a couple of scar-knotted fingers into tyson's meaty mouth, prying out a splintering stick. up over his shoulder, he focused on juels with a resentful bend of his brows. "'course ay'm werried. are yew kidden?"

"but she said she didn't even do it." unlacing her limb from the crook of his elbow, she tilted her chin down to watch the shar peis break into a jostled gait, baying blindly on the heels of a pack of golden retrievers.

"still. whir is sh', then?"

"i dunno." pausing to spike her lungs with a smokeshot, she crushed her eyes up to keep the boys in her scope of sight. "really," juels grit her teeth against the lingering loyalty she had for the gator-offering terrorist, still struggling with the idea that renton was ready to give up the ghost in a flash of sobriety and familiar obsession. "i don't know why you still care."

still crunched into a crouch, a sober hand rattled across his scalp. "me either.."

"renton," the witchbaby paused, slowly turning her chin towards him as he rose painfully from the earth like a decay bloom sunflower. "jesus christ, renton, did you get her pregnant?"

her question nearly knocked him right back on his ass, head hunkering down between two sloping shoulders that had turned in on his chest.

"no! fuck no!" swamprot eyes were manic for a moment, blood and lungs seizing up at the idea. he tried steadying juels in his focus, eyelids flinching hard. "no."

juels eschewed her brother's fit by watching a blond cocker spaniel wolf down a pile of dog shit.

"then i don't know why you're worried." and she feigned a sympathetic sigh, arm dropping from it's knot around her belly to scrub tyson's bristled back as he bumped against her ankles with a broad snout. "did you ever think she might be done with you?"

"..wot?" turning his shoulders out, renton's flatline lips faultered, focus dropping off juels just incase she could see his eyes flicker wild mustang white as his stomach turned.

"done with you." impatience lurched over her tongue, seasick, eyes gashing up as she clamped onto his elbow. "maybe she's pulling a renton on you."

she could feel a tremor seizing his bones, and tightened her grip, mouth falling open in an exubrent grin.

"wouldn't that be poetic?"

<font color="#ffffff" size="1">[ July 31, 2007 07:47 PM: Message edited by: black cats and cunnilingus ]</font>

[cutthroat]

the sun was throbbing in a thick swelter, birds were singing, and pre-teen boys were slinging dope just down the street from the stoops of a crumbling tenement building on the sleazy side of the tracks, where hollywood had set up camp with her red plastic cup of gin, a ghetto blaster blaring david bowie's station to station, and a little bucket full of sidewalk chalk. most of the pieces had been ground down to dirt-flecked nubs, tossed carelessly across the sweaty shalt of her shoulders and she had a chunk of red balled in her fist as she rocked back on her heels, long rail-thin thighs and calves folded over on top of one another in a predatory crouch as she surveyed her progress with a squint over the smokeplume of her cigarette.

somewhere down the street, a car horn barked and you could hear sirens.

the Thin White Duke jangled on the brixton briefcase, milk-white curls spilt over splintered concrete slabs as she flung herself back onto the asphalt canvas, and she was the thin white dutchess, with whipcords of muscle draped down the long dangerous swerve of her back clenching up as she laid down broad, frantic strokes of red chalk. filling in filthy gray space surrounding a psychotic looking russian circus bear unicycling inside one ring of a half-drawn three ring circus that included the requisite bearded lady and tortured looking lion shot through a ring of fire from a fat little cannon.

the moon in the fabricated bloodsky above the triple-ring chalk circus was a perfect half circle, and she started scratching sloppy modern hieroglyphics underneath it in sootblack.

occasionally, she'd lift her chin to give bloat-eyed looks of insult to someone walking by if they got too close, punctuating her scribble-fisted frenzy with slugs of gin and sucks on her cigarette. the heat pressed in on her lungs and bleached out her ribs, fattened her mellow streak and made threads of sweat leak from her temples. made her go soft when a gang of skinny kids in hand-me-down jean shorts and goodwill t-shirts scattered across the edge of her sidewalk mural in a scatter of cheap sneakers and knobby-knees.

"elvis!" a tall kid with coal-colored skin and an orange double-pop was spared any foulflung spittle, because instead she was rocking back on her heels with a big smile. jagged at the edges, cut by the broken teeth of some slow-release psychadelic. "share the wealth, brother." and tattooed hands flapped greedily.

"i'm not your brother." jittering all livewire with youth underneath an oversized nets jersey, elvis pinched two slimey sticks and cracked the popsicle apart. "your brother looks like a zombie."

"yeah, yeah." two-tone eyes rolled as the she accepted her half of the popsicle, immediately swabbing it against her gums as her free hand made gestures to the mural underneath them.

"what do you think?"

the kid frowned at the chalk-scratchings and shrugged, suckling on his ice treat.

"it's ok." his fuzzy little eyebrows dropped in scrutiny, leveling the ninety-pound wreck. "but you did one just like it on jefferson."

"that one was practice, elvis. don't be such a fucking smartass." hollywood shot elvis a glare, chomped off her last bit of popsicle and snatched his from his dangling hand. it was just hanging there, like a ripe piece of fruit.

"stay in school, elvis." she made quick work of his popsicle, too, plucking at sugar-sticky strands of hair clinging to her cheek with lead-boned hands as she rolled the last sliver of orange sludge off the stick and under her tongue.. "now, fuck off."

[cutthroat]

maybe if any of the twenty two TVs (in assorted sizes, shapes and makes) stacked in stereo against the far wall of her bare-brick loft screened anything more than a 24 hour low whine of static and the home shopping network, juels could've spent her evening indulging in some high end knowledge dropping and presidential debate instead of sunning herself under the sterile glare of half a dozen heat lamps that hung on snarled wires from her exposed ceiling. maybe she would've learned something. but she let the twilight minutes marquee past in a flutterflap of thick gray smoke and glossy magazine pages, occasionally unscrewing a joint from her lips to drool perfect smoke circles from her lips while she commiserated on the newest Giuseppe editorial. dorothy was stretched near one of the floor to ceiling windows in a fashion similar to it's mama's-- all long and languid, blood like lead slowly humping through a degenerate veinwork. but the shrill catcall of a telephone made the gator snap her tail in irritation and made the Soviet buck coke-carved hips off the scrap of terrycloth towel between her and the imitation beach beneath her.

the business line.

"the fuck.."

that phone, it hadn't rang in months. it's singsong alarm had eventually died completely after awhile, frequent rings becoming occasional blips, days turning to weeks and Jason slowly turning gray in the earth. long limbs unfolded slowly, a hurricane of obese bleach-bombed curls swaying across the slant of her shoulders, but she was kicking up sand once she was upright, grabbing for the receiver.

trying to choke down a strange lump in her throat.

"...hello?" whothefuckisthis?!? she tried not to bark down the line.

from the other end of the wire, a polished voice broke on the edge of uncertainty.

"ah, yes, hi... i was given this number by an associate of mine, jason marcus. he said if i was ever in town and in need of some company, i should give you a call."

the milk-skinned darling made herself steel against the fumble of emotions that suddenly battered against her heart..just saying his name. she found herself frowning, wondering where the fuck they were coming from, she was so sure she'd murdered the ability to make feelings like that by now.

"jason marcus gave you this number? when?" half spooked by the finely tailored ghost that had suddenly appeared in her mind's eye and half irritated at the fact she apparently got passed around like a hot trading card, she almost interrupted herself.

"no, nevermind. what hotel are you staying at?" instinct seemed to kick on too soon, it seemed like the ringing phone had turned it on like some sort of Pavlovian response; ring-a-ding making her blood stop and shudder and her stomach knot in an almost forgotten excitement. "shit," slurring around her cigarette, the bikini-clad wildcat turned towards her open stretch of windows looking over the city and smirked.. she'd been out of the game awhile, and had forgotten how far a little politeness and some general niceties could go.

"am i moving to fast for you," she paused, and with no name, she used the industry standard. ".. john?"

"that would be the waldorf, in the penthouse suite, i should be there in.. fifteen minutes, give or take. and not at all, although i'd prefer if you call me lee."

"oh. hot shit." the gatormama commented around her cigarette, slitting her eyes against the whips of smoke that rose from her lips, turning back to the telephone table near the edge of her homemade beach. "fifteen minutes, lee? should i meet you out front? oh," reminded suddenly of how fiercely her old clients defended their anonymity, she corrected herself, pinching the telephone receiver between her ear as a narrow shoulder, a hand bending behind her back to fondle the bows out of her bikini's string.

"nevermind, i'll just meet you at your room." pausing on a moment of disappointment that she couldn't make some cute comment like 'I'll be the one in the silver dress,' she seemed to fumble with the telephone and the conversation traveling across it. as a general rule, juels had a hard time telling people, anybody, goodbye.

it was just so final.

"fifteen minutes. waldorf." she reminded herself, took one last drag off her cigarette and slammed the phone down on it's cradle.