Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-01-04 02:31 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-01-04 02:31 pm
Amongst the chatter in the background, Wilford could hear Nichola trying to be quiet, and failing
Wilford wasn’t surprised when Billy never made it into the studio. That was fine. Billy was on a mission Wilford hadn’t felt like dealing with. His own personal standards didn’t tend to be very high, but getting rid of stray dogs was beneath even him. He didn’t even care what Billy did with it. It was his job now, and that’s all that mattered.
He went over the morning reports by himself. Mandy had made good use of his few hours of unemployment and did some extra digging on Bigby. Kevin’s unemployment didn’t last nearly long enough, but a new lead on something else forced Wilford to call him back earlier than he’d planned. Such a shame. He didn’t want to be in the building when Kevin came back. On his way out the door to go find lunch somewhere, he passed by their new sound tech nervously handing in his medical clearance, while asking a thousand questions about “what now?” What now should have been obvious: get back to work. Letting someone else deal with it, Wilford left. As soon as he stepped outside, he regretted it. The wall of hot, sticky air hit him like a freight train. Wilford considered locking himself in his dressing room until much later, but only briefly. Going home was suddenly his priority. He’d have lunch there, in the air-conditioned comfort of his living room.
If the parking lot was hot, his car was literal hell — his own personal oven left broiling under the San Andreas sun. The air conditioner was quick to kick into gear, but not quick enough. The car didn’t even feel habitable until he hit Vinewood Blvd, but at least by then, it was a straight shot out to Mirror Park.
Once he was home, after battling lunch rush traffic, Wilford went straight for the control on the wall and dropped it to its absolute lowest setting. It was too hot too cook. It was too hot to even eat, so instead of finding something for lunch, Wilford collapsed into his chair and waited for a heatstroke death to take him. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the air conditioner kick in, wondering how in the hell anyone lived in Los Santos. Human beings were not designed to survive these temperatures. It was impossible.
Wilford didn’t know how long he sat there, avoiding doing anything that might take even the smallest amount of energy. When his phone rang, he let it go until just before voice mail would pick up. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see Billy’s name on his screen.
“What?” he said when he answered the call.
“Where’d you run off to? I came into the studio to find you, and they’re all saying you left,” Billy said. In the background, Wilford could hear a group of people laughing in the way people do when they’re trying not to laugh. He didn’t even want to know.
“Who’s asking?” he said.
“Well. Me, I thought,” Billy said.
Amongst the chatter in the background, Wilford could hear Nichola trying to be quiet, and failing.
“You fuckers better not be hot-boxing my dressing room again,” he warned.
That was all he needed, for his personal space to reek of weed for the next foreseeable future. Annoying fucking bastards, the lot of them.
“I’m at home. What do you need?” he asked with a sigh. At least if Billy was with him, he wouldn’t be stinking up the studio.
“I just needed to drop some stuff off with you,” Billy said.
More laughter in the background. Wilford rolled his eyes and hung up. Everybody was so hateful, and it was too damn hot to deal with any of it. He just wished the rest of the idiots at the studio felt the same.
Eventually, once the house started to feel like the inside of a refrigerator, Wilford remembered what he’d come home to do in the first place. He looked over to the kitchen, figuring he might as well actually get on the task of lunch. Before he even got to his feet though, he was suddenly distracted by the sound of a key opening his front door. Wilford didn’t bother getting up, but as soon as he stepped through the door with a red and white dog in his arms, Wilford was on his feet and ready to shove him right back out the door.
“What the fuck is that?” he demanded as Billy kicked the door shut and walked over to put the dog down on the sofa, but it didn’t stay there for very long. As soon as it was free, it jumped down and ran underneath the kitchen table, to hide against the wall. Great.
“You said to take care of it. You did mean take it to the vet, right?” Billy asked.
“Of course I didn’t mean take it to the fucking vet!” Wilford shouted. “I meant take it out to the fucking desert or something!”
He looked back at the dog where it cowered under the table. It looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by a combine harvester.
“What the fuck is wrong with its face?” he asked.
Billy bent down to look at the dog as well. “You mean the road rash, or the mange?” he asked. “The vet says it looks like he was hit by a car. It’s amazing he didn’t break anything.”
“I’m gonna break your fucking neck. Get it out of here,” Wilford demanded. He threw open the front door, letting the house heat right back up like an oven while he waited for Billy to go fetch the dog and leave. He did not fetch the dog, even if he did turn toward the door.
“Do me a favour and at least knock Kevin out of the pool,” he said. “He’s got two hundred on twenty four hours.”
Billy left him with that, laughing to himself as he closed the door behind himself. After that, Wilford just had to take a moment to himself, trying not to kick anything out of rage. He hadn’t listened to the bullshit that was going on behind Billy, but now he understood it. He understood it, and he hated it.
He wanted to shoot the dog, but that would mean having to deal with the mess. And throwing it outside wouldn’t solve a damn thing either. But, if nothing else, he could screw Kevin out of $200, and then just drop it off on the Boulevard outside the studio. Sighing, and not sure what else to do, Wilford tried to not implode from the rage at being used as a fucking pawn like this, and went to go see what he had in the kitchen.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to eat too,” he grumbled as he pulled some chicken that really needed to be used from the bottom drawer of the fridge. The chicken was going to go bad anyway, so why the hell not? Wilford grabbed a knife from the block and diced up the chicken breast into small pieces, using the table as a giant work surface. He could hear the dog whimpering and licking at its wounds under the table, going out of his way to ignore it. With the chicken diced up, it went into a frying pan, while Wilford tried to figure out what to make with it. There was a pack of glass noodles in the cupboard, so stir fry it was. But he wasn’t going to waste everything else on the dog, so he portioned about half of the chicken out onto a plate, and put it down on the floor for the dog, while he went on preparing a proper meal for himself.
God, he hated animals. Now he was stuck with one in his house.
He went over the morning reports by himself. Mandy had made good use of his few hours of unemployment and did some extra digging on Bigby. Kevin’s unemployment didn’t last nearly long enough, but a new lead on something else forced Wilford to call him back earlier than he’d planned. Such a shame. He didn’t want to be in the building when Kevin came back. On his way out the door to go find lunch somewhere, he passed by their new sound tech nervously handing in his medical clearance, while asking a thousand questions about “what now?” What now should have been obvious: get back to work. Letting someone else deal with it, Wilford left. As soon as he stepped outside, he regretted it. The wall of hot, sticky air hit him like a freight train. Wilford considered locking himself in his dressing room until much later, but only briefly. Going home was suddenly his priority. He’d have lunch there, in the air-conditioned comfort of his living room.
If the parking lot was hot, his car was literal hell — his own personal oven left broiling under the San Andreas sun. The air conditioner was quick to kick into gear, but not quick enough. The car didn’t even feel habitable until he hit Vinewood Blvd, but at least by then, it was a straight shot out to Mirror Park.
Once he was home, after battling lunch rush traffic, Wilford went straight for the control on the wall and dropped it to its absolute lowest setting. It was too hot too cook. It was too hot to even eat, so instead of finding something for lunch, Wilford collapsed into his chair and waited for a heatstroke death to take him. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the air conditioner kick in, wondering how in the hell anyone lived in Los Santos. Human beings were not designed to survive these temperatures. It was impossible.
Wilford didn’t know how long he sat there, avoiding doing anything that might take even the smallest amount of energy. When his phone rang, he let it go until just before voice mail would pick up. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see Billy’s name on his screen.
“What?” he said when he answered the call.
“Where’d you run off to? I came into the studio to find you, and they’re all saying you left,” Billy said. In the background, Wilford could hear a group of people laughing in the way people do when they’re trying not to laugh. He didn’t even want to know.
“Who’s asking?” he said.
“Well. Me, I thought,” Billy said.
Amongst the chatter in the background, Wilford could hear Nichola trying to be quiet, and failing.
“You fuckers better not be hot-boxing my dressing room again,” he warned.
That was all he needed, for his personal space to reek of weed for the next foreseeable future. Annoying fucking bastards, the lot of them.
“I’m at home. What do you need?” he asked with a sigh. At least if Billy was with him, he wouldn’t be stinking up the studio.
“I just needed to drop some stuff off with you,” Billy said.
More laughter in the background. Wilford rolled his eyes and hung up. Everybody was so hateful, and it was too damn hot to deal with any of it. He just wished the rest of the idiots at the studio felt the same.
Eventually, once the house started to feel like the inside of a refrigerator, Wilford remembered what he’d come home to do in the first place. He looked over to the kitchen, figuring he might as well actually get on the task of lunch. Before he even got to his feet though, he was suddenly distracted by the sound of a key opening his front door. Wilford didn’t bother getting up, but as soon as he stepped through the door with a red and white dog in his arms, Wilford was on his feet and ready to shove him right back out the door.
“What the fuck is that?” he demanded as Billy kicked the door shut and walked over to put the dog down on the sofa, but it didn’t stay there for very long. As soon as it was free, it jumped down and ran underneath the kitchen table, to hide against the wall. Great.
“You said to take care of it. You did mean take it to the vet, right?” Billy asked.
“Of course I didn’t mean take it to the fucking vet!” Wilford shouted. “I meant take it out to the fucking desert or something!”
He looked back at the dog where it cowered under the table. It looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by a combine harvester.
“What the fuck is wrong with its face?” he asked.
Billy bent down to look at the dog as well. “You mean the road rash, or the mange?” he asked. “The vet says it looks like he was hit by a car. It’s amazing he didn’t break anything.”
“I’m gonna break your fucking neck. Get it out of here,” Wilford demanded. He threw open the front door, letting the house heat right back up like an oven while he waited for Billy to go fetch the dog and leave. He did not fetch the dog, even if he did turn toward the door.
“Do me a favour and at least knock Kevin out of the pool,” he said. “He’s got two hundred on twenty four hours.”
Billy left him with that, laughing to himself as he closed the door behind himself. After that, Wilford just had to take a moment to himself, trying not to kick anything out of rage. He hadn’t listened to the bullshit that was going on behind Billy, but now he understood it. He understood it, and he hated it.
He wanted to shoot the dog, but that would mean having to deal with the mess. And throwing it outside wouldn’t solve a damn thing either. But, if nothing else, he could screw Kevin out of $200, and then just drop it off on the Boulevard outside the studio. Sighing, and not sure what else to do, Wilford tried to not implode from the rage at being used as a fucking pawn like this, and went to go see what he had in the kitchen.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting to eat too,” he grumbled as he pulled some chicken that really needed to be used from the bottom drawer of the fridge. The chicken was going to go bad anyway, so why the hell not? Wilford grabbed a knife from the block and diced up the chicken breast into small pieces, using the table as a giant work surface. He could hear the dog whimpering and licking at its wounds under the table, going out of his way to ignore it. With the chicken diced up, it went into a frying pan, while Wilford tried to figure out what to make with it. There was a pack of glass noodles in the cupboard, so stir fry it was. But he wasn’t going to waste everything else on the dog, so he portioned about half of the chicken out onto a plate, and put it down on the floor for the dog, while he went on preparing a proper meal for himself.
God, he hated animals. Now he was stuck with one in his house.