Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-10-24 12:15 am
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-10-24 12:15 am
Man, you sure picked the wrong guy to dick over. I bet you feel real stupid
Wilford sat behind his enormous desk (oh, how he’d missed it) and watched his dog chew on his own foot over on the enormous leather sofa on the other side of the room. He’d missed the blue walls and the dark carpet, and even the idiotic vintage posters someone who had this dressing room before him had framed in light boxes. Light from the drawn blinds behind him cast thin little stripes across the carpet. His dressing room was one of the only places on the planet he actually wanted to spend time. It was comfortable in there. It actually felt lived in, even though the furnishings in it were just as new as everything in his house, which felt cold and uninviting even by his standards.
And it wasn’t just because of the incorporeal asshole who thought it still owned the place. Wilford didn’t like bills, and liked debt even less, so he’d paid for the whole thing outright. A cool two million on a house he ultimately hated anyway. There had to be something he could do to fix that, and to make the amount of money he spent on it sting less.
He could start with the obvious: a call to the estate agent.
When the man answered, he actually had the balls to sound surprised at Wilford calling.
“I hope you’re finding you still like the house,” he said, full of so much false sincerity, Wilford could almost taste it.
“Do you know, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” Wilford said, getting up to lock his door. He didn’t want any interruptions for this.
“Oh. Uh, what’s wrong?” the agent asked.
Wilford sat down next to his dog and got comfortable. “Oh, I think you know,” he said as Buster awkwardly climbed into his lap.
“I don’t—”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Wilford asked. “Because I know who you are. You’re the spineless fucker everyone in the country is going to know about. Now, exactly how many commissions have you made over the years from the house going back on the market? Does a cut of that go to whoever you’re paying off to bury the records each time, or was it a one-time kick-back?”
“What?” the agent asked, all that sincerity and confidence gone.
“Whoever you’ve got working with you is good, because don’t think for a second that I didn’t check for myself. Now I have an opening in this weekend’s show, and I’m sure my researchers can dig up more than what I’ve already pieced together.” He managed to avoid sounding like someone was stepping on his stomach as he talked, even though that’s exactly what was happening. As the agent stammered out another half-baked excuse, Wilford pushed Buster down so he was sitting still.
“There’s some kind of misunderstand. I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“You know my name. Google it,” Wilford said.
“I…”
There was a brief silence while something happened on the other end. Wilford ignored the obvious sounds of typing and made sure Buster was done being a pain in the ass instead.
“Mr Warfstache, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the agent said finally.
Wilford sighed and shook his head. “What do you think?” he asked Buster, not even trying to hide the fact that he was conferring with someone the agent couldn’t see. “He wants to work something out.”
Buster grumbled and licked Wilford’s wrist. Wilford didn’t know what that meant, but he knew what he wanted out of this.
“Tomorrow at noon. You’ll be at my studio. I’m sure you can find the address easily enough.” He hung up and tossed his phone down onto the sofa. “That’s one down. Where do you want to stay tonight?” he asked the dog.
Buster’s answer was as unhelpful as ever.
Billy didn’t seem especially pleased about having lodgers so soon after moving to LS, but he didn’t have too much of a choice. Not unless he wanted to go through the hassle of finding Wilford a hotel that would accommodate a dog.
“Is that the same dog you had back in DC?” Billy asked at one point, watching Buster try to lick a hole through the carpet. “I thought it died years ago.”
Back at the studio, while Wilford waited for his slimy estate agent to show up, he checked Howl for decent exorcists in his area. He had his pick of the litter, and called the three with the highest rating across the site. He wanted as much help as he could get with this one, because he’d pretty much exhausted his knowledge when the wok didn’t work.
Then the estate agent showed up, hiding his nervousness behind a placating smile. Wilford left his dressing room just long enough to point him in the direction of the smaller dressing room for guests, and to makeup. The smile vanished at once as he realised why he’d been called to the studio. This wasn’t a convenient and safe place to meet. It was going to be a public crucifixion. Wilford hadn’t been this excited for a filming in years.
“So you’re telling me that a three year old boy just disappeared from the dinner table?”
“I. That’s not been proven.”
“And what do you make of the accusations that several of your properties have had monsters lurking in the basements?”
“They’re ghosts; not monsters, okay. Nothing physical.”
Wilford could feel the already silent studio go even more quiet as the crew all collectively held their breath to keep from gasping at the admission. Even the estate agent realised what he’d said a moment too late.
“I mean. If they were. Which they’re not.”
“Now, when you say ghosts, are we talking the dearly departed, or something altogether more sinister?”
Wilford could positively burst from the amount of fun he was having with this interview. The look on the guy’s face alone was like Christmas. As Wilford left the set, feeling smug and satisfied with how the whole thing had gone, Kevin walked in from the wings and patted the agent on the shoulder.
“Man, you sure picked the wrong guy to dick over. I bet you feel real stupid,” he said before walking off again.
Having people in his space was uncomfortable as hell, but so was having some angry ghost motherfucker in his walls. Wilford stood by quietly while the setup to a bad joke walked through his rooms to get a feel for what was going on in the house, each in their own way. The priest went on chanting creepy Latin, the middle-aged witch taunted, and the medium burned sage and said soothing words. None of it made a damn bit of sense to Wilford, but he figured one of them was bound to get it right. Mostly, they got it wrong. Power surged, windows and doors rattled, and the whole damn house felt like a freezer. It was going to be a long night.
And it wasn’t just because of the incorporeal asshole who thought it still owned the place. Wilford didn’t like bills, and liked debt even less, so he’d paid for the whole thing outright. A cool two million on a house he ultimately hated anyway. There had to be something he could do to fix that, and to make the amount of money he spent on it sting less.
He could start with the obvious: a call to the estate agent.
When the man answered, he actually had the balls to sound surprised at Wilford calling.
“I hope you’re finding you still like the house,” he said, full of so much false sincerity, Wilford could almost taste it.
“Do you know, as a matter of fact, I’m not,” Wilford said, getting up to lock his door. He didn’t want any interruptions for this.
“Oh. Uh, what’s wrong?” the agent asked.
Wilford sat down next to his dog and got comfortable. “Oh, I think you know,” he said as Buster awkwardly climbed into his lap.
“I don’t—”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Wilford asked. “Because I know who you are. You’re the spineless fucker everyone in the country is going to know about. Now, exactly how many commissions have you made over the years from the house going back on the market? Does a cut of that go to whoever you’re paying off to bury the records each time, or was it a one-time kick-back?”
“What?” the agent asked, all that sincerity and confidence gone.
“Whoever you’ve got working with you is good, because don’t think for a second that I didn’t check for myself. Now I have an opening in this weekend’s show, and I’m sure my researchers can dig up more than what I’ve already pieced together.” He managed to avoid sounding like someone was stepping on his stomach as he talked, even though that’s exactly what was happening. As the agent stammered out another half-baked excuse, Wilford pushed Buster down so he was sitting still.
“There’s some kind of misunderstand. I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“You know my name. Google it,” Wilford said.
“I…”
There was a brief silence while something happened on the other end. Wilford ignored the obvious sounds of typing and made sure Buster was done being a pain in the ass instead.
“Mr Warfstache, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” the agent said finally.
Wilford sighed and shook his head. “What do you think?” he asked Buster, not even trying to hide the fact that he was conferring with someone the agent couldn’t see. “He wants to work something out.”
Buster grumbled and licked Wilford’s wrist. Wilford didn’t know what that meant, but he knew what he wanted out of this.
“Tomorrow at noon. You’ll be at my studio. I’m sure you can find the address easily enough.” He hung up and tossed his phone down onto the sofa. “That’s one down. Where do you want to stay tonight?” he asked the dog.
Buster’s answer was as unhelpful as ever.
Billy didn’t seem especially pleased about having lodgers so soon after moving to LS, but he didn’t have too much of a choice. Not unless he wanted to go through the hassle of finding Wilford a hotel that would accommodate a dog.
“Is that the same dog you had back in DC?” Billy asked at one point, watching Buster try to lick a hole through the carpet. “I thought it died years ago.”
Back at the studio, while Wilford waited for his slimy estate agent to show up, he checked Howl for decent exorcists in his area. He had his pick of the litter, and called the three with the highest rating across the site. He wanted as much help as he could get with this one, because he’d pretty much exhausted his knowledge when the wok didn’t work.
Then the estate agent showed up, hiding his nervousness behind a placating smile. Wilford left his dressing room just long enough to point him in the direction of the smaller dressing room for guests, and to makeup. The smile vanished at once as he realised why he’d been called to the studio. This wasn’t a convenient and safe place to meet. It was going to be a public crucifixion. Wilford hadn’t been this excited for a filming in years.
“So you’re telling me that a three year old boy just disappeared from the dinner table?”
“I. That’s not been proven.”
“And what do you make of the accusations that several of your properties have had monsters lurking in the basements?”
“They’re ghosts; not monsters, okay. Nothing physical.”
Wilford could feel the already silent studio go even more quiet as the crew all collectively held their breath to keep from gasping at the admission. Even the estate agent realised what he’d said a moment too late.
“I mean. If they were. Which they’re not.”
“Now, when you say ghosts, are we talking the dearly departed, or something altogether more sinister?”
Wilford could positively burst from the amount of fun he was having with this interview. The look on the guy’s face alone was like Christmas. As Wilford left the set, feeling smug and satisfied with how the whole thing had gone, Kevin walked in from the wings and patted the agent on the shoulder.
“Man, you sure picked the wrong guy to dick over. I bet you feel real stupid,” he said before walking off again.
Having people in his space was uncomfortable as hell, but so was having some angry ghost motherfucker in his walls. Wilford stood by quietly while the setup to a bad joke walked through his rooms to get a feel for what was going on in the house, each in their own way. The priest went on chanting creepy Latin, the middle-aged witch taunted, and the medium burned sage and said soothing words. None of it made a damn bit of sense to Wilford, but he figured one of them was bound to get it right. Mostly, they got it wrong. Power surged, windows and doors rattled, and the whole damn house felt like a freezer. It was going to be a long night.