Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-11-24 10:08 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2017-11-24 10:08 pm
it had just happened that he asked the sorts of questions that got his guest to incriminate himself
It wasn’t done until it was completely done, and that meant sticking around to see a few things through. Wilford stopped by the bar to unwind and grab a meal, and then it was back to the studio to hover over the editing process to get the show to air that night. He stuck around for that too, watching it from one of the conference rooms with a television. Nobody bothered him during the show. It was like the entire building was empty during that hour. At 1080p, Wilford could see every little microexpression during the interview - every little thought to cross the guy’s mind. He’d disappeared as soon as the interview was over, probably never to be seen again after some of the things he’d admitted to doing. Wilford didn’t care what happened next though, because that wasn’t the point. The point was watching this nuisance back himself into a corner with no escape, with the knowledge that it was Wilford who made it happen.
The police had wanted to talk to Wilford afterwards, but Wilford didn’t seem to have much to say. It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interview; it had just happened that he asked the sorts of questions that got his guest to incriminate himself in front of a live studio audience. It hadn’t been planned out this way at all.
By the time the show was over, Wilford had made up his mind about what came next. He left the studio, got into his car, and drove straight home. Once inside, Buster ran off to do his own thing while Wilford kicked off his shoes toward the front door and went straight for the stereo. He dropped some Glenn Miller onto the turntable and sat down to just relax for a few minutes. He opened the end table beside his chair and pulled out one of the eyeglass cases he had stashed around, and dug around for the grinder that kept getting lost in with everything else. He ground up the sticky bud and rolled a joint he knew he wouldn’t be able to get through on his own. He got about three hits in before getting up to raid the fridge. He found a small collection of leftovers in Tupperware, gravitating toward the stuff that looked familiar and decidedly not German. He ate standing in the kitchen, using his fingers to pluck bits of chicken from the thick sauce like a heathen. When that was all gone, he looked for something else, but didn’t see anything he trusted. Tossing the empty Tupperware into the sink, Wilford grabbed a bottle of beer and headed back to his chair to drink, smoke, and fiddle with his phone. He finished the beer and got halfway through the joint before hitting the expected wall. He had enough energy left in him to make sure he could put his joint and the rest of the weed away without it burning the place down, and headed back to the bedroom he ostensibly had set up for the dog, leaving the music playing in the other room. Wilford’s sock drawer was home to a collection of pills, most of which had been tossed in and ignored. One bottle was desirable, and a quick rattle of it came with ill tidings. He opened it, and counted the pills inside. Six. He took three, knocking them back with the last dregs of his beer. Both bottles got set down on top of the dresser while Wilford fished out some pyjamas, using the last remaining energy he had to change into something more comfortable before crashing onto the bed and passing out.
The police had wanted to talk to Wilford afterwards, but Wilford didn’t seem to have much to say. It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interview; it had just happened that he asked the sorts of questions that got his guest to incriminate himself in front of a live studio audience. It hadn’t been planned out this way at all.
By the time the show was over, Wilford had made up his mind about what came next. He left the studio, got into his car, and drove straight home. Once inside, Buster ran off to do his own thing while Wilford kicked off his shoes toward the front door and went straight for the stereo. He dropped some Glenn Miller onto the turntable and sat down to just relax for a few minutes. He opened the end table beside his chair and pulled out one of the eyeglass cases he had stashed around, and dug around for the grinder that kept getting lost in with everything else. He ground up the sticky bud and rolled a joint he knew he wouldn’t be able to get through on his own. He got about three hits in before getting up to raid the fridge. He found a small collection of leftovers in Tupperware, gravitating toward the stuff that looked familiar and decidedly not German. He ate standing in the kitchen, using his fingers to pluck bits of chicken from the thick sauce like a heathen. When that was all gone, he looked for something else, but didn’t see anything he trusted. Tossing the empty Tupperware into the sink, Wilford grabbed a bottle of beer and headed back to his chair to drink, smoke, and fiddle with his phone. He finished the beer and got halfway through the joint before hitting the expected wall. He had enough energy left in him to make sure he could put his joint and the rest of the weed away without it burning the place down, and headed back to the bedroom he ostensibly had set up for the dog, leaving the music playing in the other room. Wilford’s sock drawer was home to a collection of pills, most of which had been tossed in and ignored. One bottle was desirable, and a quick rattle of it came with ill tidings. He opened it, and counted the pills inside. Six. He took three, knocking them back with the last dregs of his beer. Both bottles got set down on top of the dresser while Wilford fished out some pyjamas, using the last remaining energy he had to change into something more comfortable before crashing onto the bed and passing out.
no subject
A tap on the door gets him nothing. He bangs on the door instead. Still no answer. He gives up for a whole six hours, when Buster starts tugging him towards the door again.
"Wilford? I'm coming in," Autor says, and opens the door.
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He's breathing, if one looks closely enough. But even that seems to be optional right now.
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"If he dies, he'll just reset," Autor says to the dog, reaching up to tug on the animal's collar. "Come on, boy."
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He asserts this by stepping on Wilford's head a few times.
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He leaves the door open, and goes to make food for the dog, hoping that will entice him to leave Wilford alone.
no subject