Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-10-24 08:49 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-10-24 08:49 pm
Sir, you can’t have your dog up there
Wilford scrolled through his text messages, barely listening to the grovelling pleas coming from somewhere behind his computer monitor. He could have moved it out of the way to facilitate an even dialogue, but he didn’t want to.
“We’ll buy the house back,” the agent said, quickly running out of options.
“I like the house.” It was a lie. He hated it. But the agent didn’t get to know that. “He likes it.” He pointed at his dog, down on the floor licking the balls he no longer had.
“We’ll reimburse you,” the agent offered desperately.
Wilford finally leaned around the enormous monitor to look at the idiot on the other side of his desk. “And deal with whatever fucked up monkey business that would do to my taxes?” he asked.
“Mr Warfstache, please. You can’t run this story. What do we have to do to convince you?”
“Just what kind of journalist do you think I am?” Wilford asked. “I have standards, unlike some people in this room.”
There were only the two of them in the room, but the agent still looked around as if hoping to spot someone else. While he floundered helplessly, Wilford whistled through his teeth. A second later, Billy opened the door and stood next to it like some enormous bouncer.
“Get this clown out of here and call the cops,” Wilford said. “I hate him. I don’t want to see him again.”
Billy didn’t even wait for the agent to react. He walked over to Wilford’s desk and picked up the phone, immediately dialling an outside line. He got as far as identifying himself as a showrunner at their station before the agent got the point and ran for the door. Once he was gone, Wilford handed Billy the man’s business card.
“I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” he said, getting up and heading for the door while Billy waited to speak to a detective.
It was still a novelty to not have to fight bees to get into his car. He’d had just enough time to get used to it before he went and reset, which made it all the more enjoyable now. He opened the back door of the big, black Oracle so Buster could climb in, before getting behind the wheel and cranking up the AC as high as it would go. The drive home was longer than it had been when he’d lived in Mirror Park, which was another thing to hate about the new house. All those winding, narrow roads up into the hills were going to be an adventure the first time it decided to rain.
The house didn’t have a gate around it, but it was set back far off the road, hidden behind tall bushes and palm trees. The neighbours all seemed to want to mind their own business, and nobody had complained about the dog yet, but maybe they were just too afraid of coming over to the house that was full of ghosts.
But it was quiet now. The priest and the witch and the medium seemed to have done something, because the house didn’t feel so unwelcomingly cold. It only seemed dark because it was so empty, and not like there was a shadow over the whole thing. Their numbers were all still stuck to the fridge in case he needed them to come back, but somehow Wilford thought they might have got it right the first time.
He let the dog run through the house, skittering along on the wooden floors, while he went upstairs to go change into something decent. He'd only brought to San Andreas what he could fit into luggage before being charged for it, which basically amounted to his clothes, a few of his favourite guns, his toothbrush and his clippers. All his old case notes, he'd shipped to himself in enormous boxes that were still stacked in another room somewhere. In between buying the house and moving in, he bought a few department store pieces of furniture, which were all mis-matched and ugly as hell. Buster had found the dirty laundry and piled some of it onto the bed, in what was already becoming his own personal nest. The dresser was too small, and better suited for a child than for a grown man, so half of the clean clothes eventually seemed to wind up on the floor anyway, since Wilford had completely neglected to get hangers. Hangers would solve so many problems, while ultimately solving none at all. The problems all stemmed from the same root cause: he'd spent too much money on a house with too many rooms and too many windows, just because the neighbours had a few extra feet of distance between them. He had blankets nailed over the windows in the bedroom, even though they looked out over the top of view-blocking palms, just because the very idea of that many windows in a bedroom made everything feel like it was on display. Even with the blankets nailed to the wall, he still went into the bathroom to change.
He came back out, feeling marginally more comfortable in his own skin to find the dog spread out on his back in his nest of blankets and dirty laundry. Between the dog and the mess he'd created, there was no room for Wilford if he did want to lie down and try to take a nap. Which was feeling likely after the week he’d had. But the sofa was ridiculously small, and clearing off the bed looked like effort.
“This sucks,” he declared, getting Buster’s attention. “Find your leash. Let's go.”
Buster hopped down off the bed and ran in front of Wilford to get down the stairs first. By the time Wilford got down the stairs, Buster was already dancing at the front door with the bright pink leash in his mouth. Wilford took it and opened the door so they could head back down the stairs and into the car.
Shopping was hell at the best of times. Shopping for things to go into a house Wilford didn’t even want was torture in hell. He’d found the store on a recommendation from someone else at the network, and found himself immediately overwhelmed at the sea of furniture in front of him.
Right. One thing at a time. First, a bed that didn’t seem more at home in a teenager’s bedroom. Which was… what, exactly? He frankly had no idea. All of the hard work with his dressing room had already been done. He’d brought in the desk, chairs, and sofa, because he knew what he wanted. Nichola picked the coffee table after the fact.
That’s who he needed right now. Someone who actually knew what the hell to do. He unclipped Buster’s leash and sighed.
“Go find something you like,” he said as he pulled his phone from his pocket, sending out a simple text.
HELP
Knowing it would take a few minutes for a response, he followed after his dog, just in time to see him jump onto the biggest mattress Wilford had ever seen in his life. Someone else had also seen it, and was rushing over making alarmed little noises.
“Sir, you can’t have your dog up there.”
Wilford looked at the salesman, and then at his dog. “Why not? He’s the one going to be using it.”
“That’s the display model,” the salesman said.
“The what?”
By the time Nichola arrived to rescue him, they’d moved on from the dog on the bed, and onto the dog drooling on the bed. She took one look at the situation and shook her head in despair.
“We’ll buy the house back,” the agent said, quickly running out of options.
“I like the house.” It was a lie. He hated it. But the agent didn’t get to know that. “He likes it.” He pointed at his dog, down on the floor licking the balls he no longer had.
“We’ll reimburse you,” the agent offered desperately.
Wilford finally leaned around the enormous monitor to look at the idiot on the other side of his desk. “And deal with whatever fucked up monkey business that would do to my taxes?” he asked.
“Mr Warfstache, please. You can’t run this story. What do we have to do to convince you?”
“Just what kind of journalist do you think I am?” Wilford asked. “I have standards, unlike some people in this room.”
There were only the two of them in the room, but the agent still looked around as if hoping to spot someone else. While he floundered helplessly, Wilford whistled through his teeth. A second later, Billy opened the door and stood next to it like some enormous bouncer.
“Get this clown out of here and call the cops,” Wilford said. “I hate him. I don’t want to see him again.”
Billy didn’t even wait for the agent to react. He walked over to Wilford’s desk and picked up the phone, immediately dialling an outside line. He got as far as identifying himself as a showrunner at their station before the agent got the point and ran for the door. Once he was gone, Wilford handed Billy the man’s business card.
“I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” he said, getting up and heading for the door while Billy waited to speak to a detective.
It was still a novelty to not have to fight bees to get into his car. He’d had just enough time to get used to it before he went and reset, which made it all the more enjoyable now. He opened the back door of the big, black Oracle so Buster could climb in, before getting behind the wheel and cranking up the AC as high as it would go. The drive home was longer than it had been when he’d lived in Mirror Park, which was another thing to hate about the new house. All those winding, narrow roads up into the hills were going to be an adventure the first time it decided to rain.
The house didn’t have a gate around it, but it was set back far off the road, hidden behind tall bushes and palm trees. The neighbours all seemed to want to mind their own business, and nobody had complained about the dog yet, but maybe they were just too afraid of coming over to the house that was full of ghosts.
But it was quiet now. The priest and the witch and the medium seemed to have done something, because the house didn’t feel so unwelcomingly cold. It only seemed dark because it was so empty, and not like there was a shadow over the whole thing. Their numbers were all still stuck to the fridge in case he needed them to come back, but somehow Wilford thought they might have got it right the first time.
He let the dog run through the house, skittering along on the wooden floors, while he went upstairs to go change into something decent. He'd only brought to San Andreas what he could fit into luggage before being charged for it, which basically amounted to his clothes, a few of his favourite guns, his toothbrush and his clippers. All his old case notes, he'd shipped to himself in enormous boxes that were still stacked in another room somewhere. In between buying the house and moving in, he bought a few department store pieces of furniture, which were all mis-matched and ugly as hell. Buster had found the dirty laundry and piled some of it onto the bed, in what was already becoming his own personal nest. The dresser was too small, and better suited for a child than for a grown man, so half of the clean clothes eventually seemed to wind up on the floor anyway, since Wilford had completely neglected to get hangers. Hangers would solve so many problems, while ultimately solving none at all. The problems all stemmed from the same root cause: he'd spent too much money on a house with too many rooms and too many windows, just because the neighbours had a few extra feet of distance between them. He had blankets nailed over the windows in the bedroom, even though they looked out over the top of view-blocking palms, just because the very idea of that many windows in a bedroom made everything feel like it was on display. Even with the blankets nailed to the wall, he still went into the bathroom to change.
He came back out, feeling marginally more comfortable in his own skin to find the dog spread out on his back in his nest of blankets and dirty laundry. Between the dog and the mess he'd created, there was no room for Wilford if he did want to lie down and try to take a nap. Which was feeling likely after the week he’d had. But the sofa was ridiculously small, and clearing off the bed looked like effort.
“This sucks,” he declared, getting Buster’s attention. “Find your leash. Let's go.”
Buster hopped down off the bed and ran in front of Wilford to get down the stairs first. By the time Wilford got down the stairs, Buster was already dancing at the front door with the bright pink leash in his mouth. Wilford took it and opened the door so they could head back down the stairs and into the car.
Shopping was hell at the best of times. Shopping for things to go into a house Wilford didn’t even want was torture in hell. He’d found the store on a recommendation from someone else at the network, and found himself immediately overwhelmed at the sea of furniture in front of him.
Right. One thing at a time. First, a bed that didn’t seem more at home in a teenager’s bedroom. Which was… what, exactly? He frankly had no idea. All of the hard work with his dressing room had already been done. He’d brought in the desk, chairs, and sofa, because he knew what he wanted. Nichola picked the coffee table after the fact.
That’s who he needed right now. Someone who actually knew what the hell to do. He unclipped Buster’s leash and sighed.
“Go find something you like,” he said as he pulled his phone from his pocket, sending out a simple text.
HELP
Knowing it would take a few minutes for a response, he followed after his dog, just in time to see him jump onto the biggest mattress Wilford had ever seen in his life. Someone else had also seen it, and was rushing over making alarmed little noises.
“Sir, you can’t have your dog up there.”
Wilford looked at the salesman, and then at his dog. “Why not? He’s the one going to be using it.”
“That’s the display model,” the salesman said.
“The what?”
By the time Nichola arrived to rescue him, they’d moved on from the dog on the bed, and onto the dog drooling on the bed. She took one look at the situation and shook her head in despair.