Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-05-29 01:39 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-05-29 01:39 pm
Showing Clay Around
The door opens into a bustling TV news station. Nobody seems to even notice that Wilford has stepped out of the conference room with someone who doesn't belong. There's a heated argument about frogs taking place somewhere across the room, and just a general sense of chaos.
"You packing?" Wilford asks as he quickly checks his phone for the time.
Not that it matters. In the light, his black eye is more than obvious, and he won't be going in front of a camera until it clears up enough to cover with makeup.
"You packing?" Wilford asks as he quickly checks his phone for the time.
Not that it matters. In the light, his black eye is more than obvious, and he won't be going in front of a camera until it clears up enough to cover with makeup.
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"What do you charge?" he asks.
He can take some of his money from the bar, but that has to last him a while. At least until he can get his boss fired.
Wilford starts up the car without issue (because at least the damn thing runs), and pulls out of the space. When he gets to the road, he tries to inch out, but people are too busy running the red light to actually let him onto the road.
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Clay braces himself, preferring to be in control.
When he see's people not paying attention to traffic laws he thinks he might not hate this world. They never made sense to him.
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Even he has to admit that his car is a heap of garbage.
Eventually, he gets sick of waiting for people who are ignoring him, and slams on his horn.
"Hold on," he says as he swings into traffic, cutting off a Mustang, which swerves into the next lane and barely avoids smashing into a Hummer.
"Fucking morons," Wilford mutters once he's actually on the road. He hates lunch time traffic.
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Clay agrees, most people are morons.
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In fact, most of the cars on the road have some amount of body damage to them. Scratches, missing panels, front ends that resemble accordions more than cars. The way one car jumps the centre median to catch a left-hand turn they missed probably explains why. Wilford barely seems to notice it, when it happens just in front of them.
"What are you in the mood for? We're a good distance from a lot right now."
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Suddenly he wonders, "Will my worlds money work here?" because he isn't in the habit of letting others pay for his food.
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"Let me see it," Wilford says.
If Clay's not going to be picky, then Wilford's going to go somewhere he knows he likes, so he takes a quick turn toward China Town.
"Wilford, by the way. What do I call you?"
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He digs into his pocket and shows Wilford a 20 dollar bill from his world.
he likes Chinese food.
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Wilford tries to get a good look at it without running them off the road. "Looks kind of off, but we'll see. I've passed worse off before."
He's not overly concerned about getting busted for counterfeit. If it looks decent enough, people tend to take it anyway.
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"What do you do here?"
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"I'm a reporter," Wilford says. "Trying to get away from all the damn kitten adoption days and shit like that."
All the boring filler stuff they make the junior reporters do.
"There any money in being a werewolf where you're from?"
There might be here. Wilford hasn't looked too much into it.
Sent from my iPhone
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"No, we get jobs like anyone else. In my world we keep humans from knowing that we exist." as a for instance, "I am a guest professor at a University this semester."
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"That's how I got bit."
Nobody here knows that though. It won't happen for another 12 years, but Wilford isn't exactly one for following other people's rules.
About six police cars zip past them with their sirens blaring, but Wilford doesn't seem to care. He just turns at the next light as if nothing were wrong.
"I guess it's easier to hide it if you're not being torn apart from the inside every full moon."
That tends to be how people here get noticed. It's a fairly predictable cycle.
Sent from my iPhone
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"We still need to Change. And control varies but the moon has nothing to do with our cycle."
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Wilford shakes his head. "You're small change," he says. It's not meant as an insult, but a simple statement of fact. Nobody will care about Clay one way or the other.
He pulls into a parking lot in front of an small building. None of the signage nearby is in English, but Wilford climbs out of his car awkwardly and makes sure his side is all locked up before heading toward something that looks like a restaurant.
"Nobody cares if you are or aren't. If you head out to the woods or go to one of the overnight clinics to run around in a cage, you're not going to bother anybody. It's the assholes that hang around the cities and start eating people's kids that get shot in the face."
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He can smell the food
"I would like to hunt and rogue Mutts would fit the bill." he offers.
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Clay is just all full of helpful offers. Wilford almost laughs. "That just might get you on the news," he says. "Might also get you shot."
It's not a no. If anything, Wilford would like to see it. It would probably be entertaining.
He heads into the restaurant and ignores the bi-lingual 'wait to be seated' sign. He grabs two menus from behind the podium and finds an empty table nearby.
"I'm sure there's no end of stupid fuckers thinking they can roam the suburbs and be fine. You'd probably have your work cut out for you."
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"Why would it get me shot?"
Clay takes a seat across from Wilfred.
"If it was easy anyone could do it." Perhaps he will head to the suburbs later.
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"It's open season on big, furry things roaming around in the dark."
Wilford understands the need to do something, though. Especially when you're stuck in a place where you can't do anything.
A young woman about Wilford's age steps up to their table. She doesn't look very happy.
"You're supposed to wait to be seated," she says.
"Yeah, but you know me," Wilford says.
"That's the problem."
Wilford rolls his eyes. He clearly doesn't think he's any kind of problem at all.
"Do you actually have money today?" The server asks. "I need to see it before I take your order."
He rolls his eyes again and pulls out his wallet to show her the cash he took from the bar. "Happy?"
"No. what do you want?" The question isn't directed at Wilford, but at Clay.
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Clay takes out his cash and hands it to her to see if she will take it. He needs to know before he orders.
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She shakes her head without even looking at it. "You've never bailed on the check, as far as I know," she says.
"Once," Wilford defends.
"Three times."
Wilford looks momentarily confused. He doesn't remember bailing the other two times.
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He points ,"I'll have this" he points randomly and its a chicken dish.
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Once the waitress finally gives Wilford her attention again, he rattles off an order in what just might be the world's worst Chinese.
It's even worse than his Korean, but he at last has the excuse of not being Chinese.
"Separate checks?" the server asks.
Wilford glances at Clay, and then nods. "Yeah."
The server quickly vanishes to put in their order and take care of customers she doesn't already hate.
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"Why do you need a gun if you aren't going to hunt?"
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Wilford wasn't aware Chinese food might smell different on another world.
"In case someone messes with me," he says.
A small group of men in expensive suits gets shown to a nearby table. They're immediately loud, like the kind of people who come out to restaurants like this to seem cultured. They seem to want everyone to know all about the big deal they just closed on, and are celebrating now.
"That how you hunt your Mutts? I would have thought you'd go in for a good, old-fashioned dog fight."
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