Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-04-23 07:13 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-04-23 07:13 pm
Because I have got one hell of a lead, and it’s going to get us the hell out of this sinking ship
Wilford probably should not have left the dog at the bar. But going through the hassle of finding a place to keep the dog, or trying to hide it in his tiny DC apartment would be more time, money, and hassle than it would probably be worth. But he still should not have left the dog at the bar. Thor had assured him that it would be fine, and that no harm would come to the useless animal, but assurances from a stranger meant exactly nothing, especially when Wilford knew the power of spite in someone who believes they’ve been wronged. He knew it from himself well enough to have been able to recognise it in Jim Moriarty.
Well. If that fucker wanted to cross that line, he’d get to find out first hand just how much Wilford dislikes people messing with his things. And lucky for Jim, he’d probably get the chance to experience that, because Wilford actually had work to do, and the bar was fickle about showing up for him these days. And that in and of itself was a problem, beyond the dog. But also a problem to deal with when it arose.
As it was, Wilford had some decisions to make that were easier this time around, but still not as easy as he’d expected them to be. He liked his mohawk, and his fuck-you fashion, and apparently hadn’t actually outgrown any of it as much as he thought he had. But the fuck-you fashion to match his attitude was past its sell-by date, and had to go if he was going to pull this plan of his off. It was time to be a proper adult again. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the spare cash to have someone professional take care of it, so it was down to himself, a pair of clippers, and the bathroom mirror. It took some time, and a bit of careful patience, but eventually he got everything trimmed down to an even fade that didn’t leave his head completely shaved down. It still had a bit of a boot camp vibe to it, but at least it would grow out to something a little more decent within a few weeks. Usually that was a problem, but just this once it was a blessing. Now, all he had to do was go back to work, playing the role of the eager young reporter, and wait for the right cue to act. He hadn’t been able to save any notes or information, but he knew what he was looking for, and that it was getting close. He just had to be patient and play the game. He hadn’t been good at it the first time round. Maybe he’d have got better at it by this time.
He hadn’t got better. That, or people were more obnoxious this time round. Things couldn’t have changed that much so soon, so maybe he had just erased every memory of shit-talk and teasing over his sudden decision to lose the mohawk. When he got his next paycheck, he put every spare penny of it into some decent shirts, so he wasn’t constantly cycling through the same two. He got a pack of proper undershirts, so band art and beer logos weren’t showing through the light-coloured ones. He found a few more neckties he’d hated the first time around – either because of who gave them to him, the colour scheme, or both – and found they suited his tastes quite nicely this time. He hadn’t realised just how much the colour pink as a general concept had grown on him. And back at the station, he ignored the teasing and the “good-natured” ribbing from people who noticed what he was doing, and couldn’t stand the thought of him getting out of the trenches. He had something planned for every last one of them.
He got a new assignment. Then another. And another. And none as good as his first, only because the first had been a fluke. Nobody expected Holby to be the centre of controversy when they sent him there in a bizarre hazing stunt. Nobody expected the kitten circus to be the centre of controversy either, but this time they were right. Another shelter having an adoption day. A puppy that fell down a storm drain. The mysterious case of a cat with six different homes. All the crap they showed during the last three minutes, after everyone had turned the channel because the sports scores and weather reports had already been read. Fluff pieces to fill the time before the network switched back over to national programming.
Maybe it was a good thing the dog was at the bar, and Wilford wasn’t, because his patience for things cute and furry was a negative number before the end of the week.
Not that things were all bad, though even the things that were ostensibly good had a way of being horrible. Wilford was typing up a piece for the website when his boss showed up beside his cube, with that stupid, clueless grin on his face.
“Good news, buddy,” he said, putting his hand down with a smack on Wilford’s shoulder. “Finally got you that replacement.”
Wilford wanted to point out that he wasn’t the one who needed the replacement. He wanted to point out that he should have been given a raise for all the extra work he’d been doing in lieu of an actual replacement. But he knew how those scenarios ended, so he flash a painfully fake smile up at his boss.
“Oh? Tell me more,” he said.
Kevin stepped around the cube partition, looking over the space that was meant to be shared by three people, but which Wilford currently had to himself. Wilford had almost forgotten how stupid Kevin looked, with his poorly-maintained dye job. Bright blue roots shone through the jet black dye, and his eyebrows were an absolute mess.
“You two have fun,” the idiot boss said, before walking off. And once upon a time, that guy wondered why Wilford had fucked his wife. To anyone with half a brain, it was clear as day.
That was also a lesson in how not to behave around other people, and one which Wilford got loud and clear. After a few repetitions.
“Your mascara’s running,” Wilford said as Kevin took a seat on the other side of the large cube.
“What? Shit.” Kevin quickly dove into the satchel he’d had with him, and pulled out a small mirror to check for himself.
“You could have at least touched up your roots. You look like a goddamn moron,” Wilford said. “Did you actually do your interview looking like that?”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Kevin shot back as he tried to fix the mess his mascara was making on his face.
Wilford finally turned around properly from his computer to face Kevin. “Oh, fucking try me, bitch,” he said, arms crossed over his chest.
Kevin looked up and snorted in a way that completely gave away the fact that he was trying not to laugh and poked himself in the eye with his mascara wand, undermining whatever stance he was trying to make.
“Put that thing away and strip that shit out of your hair. You aren’t fooling anybody but yourself,” Wilford said.
Kevin did not put his makeup away, though he did stop to rub his eye, and smear what was already there even more. “Is that why you’re still in cube hell?”
It was Wilford’s turn to snort. “Didn’t you hear? You’re my replacement. I graduated to kitten circus hell.”
“What? No. I was told I was on the website team,” Kevin argued. “Who else is there?”
Wilford had an exaggerated think. “The webmaster’s actually off-site, but you knew that already, surely. And there’s… no, he quit last month. But there’s–uh. Oh. Just you. Congratulations.”
Kevin stared at him for a few long moments. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No, I’m fucking out of here.” Wilford quickly saved the article he was typing up to the network, and tossed the folder of notes across the cube to Kevin. “Which makes you head of the website department. Welcome to the worst fucking station in DC.”
Kevin stared down at the file where it landed on his keyboard. “Great,” he said flatly.
Wilford was not, in fact, out of anywhere, because he’d completely forgotten that he didn’t get moved to a different section along with his so-called promotion that still didn’t come with a pay raise. It meant he was stuck with Kevin, but at least this time around, he knew how to handle being in close proximity to him. Where harsh words didn’t work, a good kick to the knee did wonders. He also took great delight in sending Kevin off to someone else, to watch him irritate them right out of the building. If he’d known about that trick the first time around, it mightn’t have been so completely unbearable.
It took Kevin about two days before he came in with a brand new look, which also seemed to make things easier this time around. For some reason, people found it more difficult to tease him about his bright blue hair when it was out in the open, even if it had been bleached out and dyed a shade to closely match his natural colour. While Wilford did enjoy the teasing, it meant Kevin was less of a moody brat all the time, and a bit more like the irritating brat Kevin Wilford knew, and was able to predict.
And then he saw the little red flag he’d been waiting for. Kids disappeared all the time, but this was the one he remembered. This was the one with a witness nobody took seriously. According to the cops, the girl had run away. Case closed. Kids run away all the time. But Wilford knew that wasn’t true at all. He knew someone new had moved into the neighbourhood, and Wilford knew his signature.
He waited for the quiet lull between the lunch broadcast, and the 5pm broadcast to go find his new partner in crime, stuffing his face with a sandwich and playing with a portable video game.
“What time does it get dark?” Wilford asked him, leaning over the back of Billy’s chair to see what he was playing. There was a second half of the sandwich sitting in a Tupperware container, and Wilford helped himself to it.
“Uh. I don’t know. Six? Seven?” Billy said. “That was mine.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Billy shook his head and grabbed Wilford’s sleeve to keep him from wandering off. “Hang on. See me for what?”
“Don’t tell me you went to school to film orphaned kittens your whole life,” Wilford said.
It brought a look of mild indignation to Billy’s face, but Wilford already knew why. Billy had gone to school hoping to be a war correspondent. But a civilian or not, he was a towering giant of a man, and made an embarrassingly easy target for anyone wanting to stir up trouble.
“No. I didn’t,” he said.
“Good. Because I have got one hell of a lead, and it’s going to get us the hell out of this sinking ship,” Wilford said.
Billy looked at him suspiciously. “Why me?” he asked.
Wilford shrugged. “Because you want to.”
He walked away after that, leaving Billy to consider the choice. Last time, he hadn’t had the advantage of knowing which buttons to press, and it had taken him all day to hound him into submission. This time, Wilford knew he had him. When he went down to the garage at dusk, he wasn’t in the least surprised to see Billy hanging around nervously.
“Care to tell me where we’re going?” he asked.
Wilford hopped into the van and grinned. “To catch ourselves a monster.”
Well. If that fucker wanted to cross that line, he’d get to find out first hand just how much Wilford dislikes people messing with his things. And lucky for Jim, he’d probably get the chance to experience that, because Wilford actually had work to do, and the bar was fickle about showing up for him these days. And that in and of itself was a problem, beyond the dog. But also a problem to deal with when it arose.
As it was, Wilford had some decisions to make that were easier this time around, but still not as easy as he’d expected them to be. He liked his mohawk, and his fuck-you fashion, and apparently hadn’t actually outgrown any of it as much as he thought he had. But the fuck-you fashion to match his attitude was past its sell-by date, and had to go if he was going to pull this plan of his off. It was time to be a proper adult again. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the spare cash to have someone professional take care of it, so it was down to himself, a pair of clippers, and the bathroom mirror. It took some time, and a bit of careful patience, but eventually he got everything trimmed down to an even fade that didn’t leave his head completely shaved down. It still had a bit of a boot camp vibe to it, but at least it would grow out to something a little more decent within a few weeks. Usually that was a problem, but just this once it was a blessing. Now, all he had to do was go back to work, playing the role of the eager young reporter, and wait for the right cue to act. He hadn’t been able to save any notes or information, but he knew what he was looking for, and that it was getting close. He just had to be patient and play the game. He hadn’t been good at it the first time round. Maybe he’d have got better at it by this time.
He hadn’t got better. That, or people were more obnoxious this time round. Things couldn’t have changed that much so soon, so maybe he had just erased every memory of shit-talk and teasing over his sudden decision to lose the mohawk. When he got his next paycheck, he put every spare penny of it into some decent shirts, so he wasn’t constantly cycling through the same two. He got a pack of proper undershirts, so band art and beer logos weren’t showing through the light-coloured ones. He found a few more neckties he’d hated the first time around – either because of who gave them to him, the colour scheme, or both – and found they suited his tastes quite nicely this time. He hadn’t realised just how much the colour pink as a general concept had grown on him. And back at the station, he ignored the teasing and the “good-natured” ribbing from people who noticed what he was doing, and couldn’t stand the thought of him getting out of the trenches. He had something planned for every last one of them.
He got a new assignment. Then another. And another. And none as good as his first, only because the first had been a fluke. Nobody expected Holby to be the centre of controversy when they sent him there in a bizarre hazing stunt. Nobody expected the kitten circus to be the centre of controversy either, but this time they were right. Another shelter having an adoption day. A puppy that fell down a storm drain. The mysterious case of a cat with six different homes. All the crap they showed during the last three minutes, after everyone had turned the channel because the sports scores and weather reports had already been read. Fluff pieces to fill the time before the network switched back over to national programming.
Maybe it was a good thing the dog was at the bar, and Wilford wasn’t, because his patience for things cute and furry was a negative number before the end of the week.
Not that things were all bad, though even the things that were ostensibly good had a way of being horrible. Wilford was typing up a piece for the website when his boss showed up beside his cube, with that stupid, clueless grin on his face.
“Good news, buddy,” he said, putting his hand down with a smack on Wilford’s shoulder. “Finally got you that replacement.”
Wilford wanted to point out that he wasn’t the one who needed the replacement. He wanted to point out that he should have been given a raise for all the extra work he’d been doing in lieu of an actual replacement. But he knew how those scenarios ended, so he flash a painfully fake smile up at his boss.
“Oh? Tell me more,” he said.
Kevin stepped around the cube partition, looking over the space that was meant to be shared by three people, but which Wilford currently had to himself. Wilford had almost forgotten how stupid Kevin looked, with his poorly-maintained dye job. Bright blue roots shone through the jet black dye, and his eyebrows were an absolute mess.
“You two have fun,” the idiot boss said, before walking off. And once upon a time, that guy wondered why Wilford had fucked his wife. To anyone with half a brain, it was clear as day.
That was also a lesson in how not to behave around other people, and one which Wilford got loud and clear. After a few repetitions.
“Your mascara’s running,” Wilford said as Kevin took a seat on the other side of the large cube.
“What? Shit.” Kevin quickly dove into the satchel he’d had with him, and pulled out a small mirror to check for himself.
“You could have at least touched up your roots. You look like a goddamn moron,” Wilford said. “Did you actually do your interview looking like that?”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Kevin shot back as he tried to fix the mess his mascara was making on his face.
Wilford finally turned around properly from his computer to face Kevin. “Oh, fucking try me, bitch,” he said, arms crossed over his chest.
Kevin looked up and snorted in a way that completely gave away the fact that he was trying not to laugh and poked himself in the eye with his mascara wand, undermining whatever stance he was trying to make.
“Put that thing away and strip that shit out of your hair. You aren’t fooling anybody but yourself,” Wilford said.
Kevin did not put his makeup away, though he did stop to rub his eye, and smear what was already there even more. “Is that why you’re still in cube hell?”
It was Wilford’s turn to snort. “Didn’t you hear? You’re my replacement. I graduated to kitten circus hell.”
“What? No. I was told I was on the website team,” Kevin argued. “Who else is there?”
Wilford had an exaggerated think. “The webmaster’s actually off-site, but you knew that already, surely. And there’s… no, he quit last month. But there’s–uh. Oh. Just you. Congratulations.”
Kevin stared at him for a few long moments. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No, I’m fucking out of here.” Wilford quickly saved the article he was typing up to the network, and tossed the folder of notes across the cube to Kevin. “Which makes you head of the website department. Welcome to the worst fucking station in DC.”
Kevin stared down at the file where it landed on his keyboard. “Great,” he said flatly.
Wilford was not, in fact, out of anywhere, because he’d completely forgotten that he didn’t get moved to a different section along with his so-called promotion that still didn’t come with a pay raise. It meant he was stuck with Kevin, but at least this time around, he knew how to handle being in close proximity to him. Where harsh words didn’t work, a good kick to the knee did wonders. He also took great delight in sending Kevin off to someone else, to watch him irritate them right out of the building. If he’d known about that trick the first time around, it mightn’t have been so completely unbearable.
It took Kevin about two days before he came in with a brand new look, which also seemed to make things easier this time around. For some reason, people found it more difficult to tease him about his bright blue hair when it was out in the open, even if it had been bleached out and dyed a shade to closely match his natural colour. While Wilford did enjoy the teasing, it meant Kevin was less of a moody brat all the time, and a bit more like the irritating brat Kevin Wilford knew, and was able to predict.
And then he saw the little red flag he’d been waiting for. Kids disappeared all the time, but this was the one he remembered. This was the one with a witness nobody took seriously. According to the cops, the girl had run away. Case closed. Kids run away all the time. But Wilford knew that wasn’t true at all. He knew someone new had moved into the neighbourhood, and Wilford knew his signature.
He waited for the quiet lull between the lunch broadcast, and the 5pm broadcast to go find his new partner in crime, stuffing his face with a sandwich and playing with a portable video game.
“What time does it get dark?” Wilford asked him, leaning over the back of Billy’s chair to see what he was playing. There was a second half of the sandwich sitting in a Tupperware container, and Wilford helped himself to it.
“Uh. I don’t know. Six? Seven?” Billy said. “That was mine.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Billy shook his head and grabbed Wilford’s sleeve to keep him from wandering off. “Hang on. See me for what?”
“Don’t tell me you went to school to film orphaned kittens your whole life,” Wilford said.
It brought a look of mild indignation to Billy’s face, but Wilford already knew why. Billy had gone to school hoping to be a war correspondent. But a civilian or not, he was a towering giant of a man, and made an embarrassingly easy target for anyone wanting to stir up trouble.
“No. I didn’t,” he said.
“Good. Because I have got one hell of a lead, and it’s going to get us the hell out of this sinking ship,” Wilford said.
Billy looked at him suspiciously. “Why me?” he asked.
Wilford shrugged. “Because you want to.”
He walked away after that, leaving Billy to consider the choice. Last time, he hadn’t had the advantage of knowing which buttons to press, and it had taken him all day to hound him into submission. This time, Wilford knew he had him. When he went down to the garage at dusk, he wasn’t in the least surprised to see Billy hanging around nervously.
“Care to tell me where we’re going?” he asked.
Wilford hopped into the van and grinned. “To catch ourselves a monster.”