12-04-2019, 02:47 PM
Back at the Equals house, Contessa Helena de San Finzione and Julie Equals sat in front of the living room television, watching news of the attack on the hotel, smoke pouring out of the fire exits on the roof, and sounds of gunfire coming from within. Troy Equals came from the kitchen with a tray bearing cups of hot cocoa and a topical skin patch. A moist towelette and a dry washcloth were also on the tray. Helen smoked, and Julie fought the urge to reach over and grab one.
He set the tray on the coffee table between the two ladies, taking a seat on Helen's left side. Troy then pulled up her skirt, opened the towelette, and started rubbing the large, purpling patch of skin on the outside of her thigh to remove the Lidocaine cream that Maisson had applied. Helen winced as she picked up her cocoa, watching smoke coming from the roof of the building she owned, where innocents and people she cared for personally were in danger.
"Sorry." Troy said. "Alcohol." He dried off the bruised area and peeled the plastic off of the dermal patch. "Reminded Dr. Tenente Maisson that because of your history with cocaine, you're probably Lidocaine/Novocain Resistant. He recommended a Diclofenac patch; a little stronger, still non-narcotic."
"Am I fuckin' Harry Potter here, Troilus? Does everything have to be about my past and do my plots rely heavily on other people not knowing Latin?"
"Drink your cocoa, Petalouda." Troy told her, recognizing Helen attempting to play off how worried she was about everyone downtown. "Tried to make it the way you like it."
Helen picked up the cup and sipped. It was wonderful. The right recipe, the right ingredients, the correct temperature, the technique handed down to Troy from The Master; he'd even made it for her unrequested when they came back to the house, and brought it to her, so it had been made with just as much love as the Original. He saw her smile stop short of the point that the drink used to bring to her face when the man who'd first made it for her had been alive to do so. Troy understood why, and accepted it.
Since his parents and Propappou had died, there had been certain foods that Troy occasionally missed, but couldn't bring himself to order in restaurants, attempt at home, or ask Julie if she would make for him; because no one would ever get them right again. Someone could certainly make pancakes with Bisquick and cook up homemade syrup from one of the various flavored extracts in the pantry; coconut being a particular favorite, right there on the stove alongside the pancakes. Someone could top the stack with a perfect fried egg, the yolk unbroken so he can dip his pancake bites that always absorbed the syrup in just the right way into it, and fry up a couple of strips of bacon perfect for dunking in the syrup, but it would never be his mother's. Just like the cocoa he'd made for her was wonderful, and tasted just like Propappou's, but would never entirely be right, because there was no more "right."
On TV, the news continued re-phrasing the few pieces of information they had on the incident: That shots had been fired and sounds of explosions had come from the upper floors of the Seattle Hotel de San Finzione, that there was speculation that it may have something to do with an attack on a Chinese delegation a couple of hours earlier, that Contessa Helena de San Finzione was supposedly staying in the penthouse while attending STRANGERS, and that there was no word on her condition, but a helicopter had been seen from a distance leaving the hotel in the direction of the building that housed San Finzione's Seattle Consulate. The only thing the ambassador told the press was that the Consulate was closed for the rest of the day, and no further comment would be given at this time.
"I have to make an appearance now." Helen said as her phone rang with the ambassador's tone and she looked in her purse for it. "Everyone's going to be asking where I am. Twenty bucks and a loose-lipped janitor will tell the press that I'm not at the Consulate, and then they'll start wondering where or who I might hole up with in Seattle. FUCK!" Helen set down the cocoa and dug with both hands in the purse until she produced the phone. "I might actually have to GO to STRANGERS now!"
"After all this," Julie said. "I'd think they'd cancel it."
Helen stood up to answer the call. Her left leg buckled a little as she stood, but she recovered. She grabbed her cigarettes and headed for the back porch as Troy sat closer to his wife.
"They won't." He told her. "All that money and power for the city and state to risk pissing off? They'll declare martial law and gas people out of their homes like last time before asking the delegates 'Hey, would you mind keeping the shooting down a bit?'"
Helen came back in from the porch and her call, still smoking, trying to walk off the pain in her leg.
He set the tray on the coffee table between the two ladies, taking a seat on Helen's left side. Troy then pulled up her skirt, opened the towelette, and started rubbing the large, purpling patch of skin on the outside of her thigh to remove the Lidocaine cream that Maisson had applied. Helen winced as she picked up her cocoa, watching smoke coming from the roof of the building she owned, where innocents and people she cared for personally were in danger.
"Sorry." Troy said. "Alcohol." He dried off the bruised area and peeled the plastic off of the dermal patch. "Reminded Dr. Tenente Maisson that because of your history with cocaine, you're probably Lidocaine/Novocain Resistant. He recommended a Diclofenac patch; a little stronger, still non-narcotic."
"Am I fuckin' Harry Potter here, Troilus? Does everything have to be about my past and do my plots rely heavily on other people not knowing Latin?"
"Drink your cocoa, Petalouda." Troy told her, recognizing Helen attempting to play off how worried she was about everyone downtown. "Tried to make it the way you like it."
Helen picked up the cup and sipped. It was wonderful. The right recipe, the right ingredients, the correct temperature, the technique handed down to Troy from The Master; he'd even made it for her unrequested when they came back to the house, and brought it to her, so it had been made with just as much love as the Original. He saw her smile stop short of the point that the drink used to bring to her face when the man who'd first made it for her had been alive to do so. Troy understood why, and accepted it.
Since his parents and Propappou had died, there had been certain foods that Troy occasionally missed, but couldn't bring himself to order in restaurants, attempt at home, or ask Julie if she would make for him; because no one would ever get them right again. Someone could certainly make pancakes with Bisquick and cook up homemade syrup from one of the various flavored extracts in the pantry; coconut being a particular favorite, right there on the stove alongside the pancakes. Someone could top the stack with a perfect fried egg, the yolk unbroken so he can dip his pancake bites that always absorbed the syrup in just the right way into it, and fry up a couple of strips of bacon perfect for dunking in the syrup, but it would never be his mother's. Just like the cocoa he'd made for her was wonderful, and tasted just like Propappou's, but would never entirely be right, because there was no more "right."
On TV, the news continued re-phrasing the few pieces of information they had on the incident: That shots had been fired and sounds of explosions had come from the upper floors of the Seattle Hotel de San Finzione, that there was speculation that it may have something to do with an attack on a Chinese delegation a couple of hours earlier, that Contessa Helena de San Finzione was supposedly staying in the penthouse while attending STRANGERS, and that there was no word on her condition, but a helicopter had been seen from a distance leaving the hotel in the direction of the building that housed San Finzione's Seattle Consulate. The only thing the ambassador told the press was that the Consulate was closed for the rest of the day, and no further comment would be given at this time.
"I have to make an appearance now." Helen said as her phone rang with the ambassador's tone and she looked in her purse for it. "Everyone's going to be asking where I am. Twenty bucks and a loose-lipped janitor will tell the press that I'm not at the Consulate, and then they'll start wondering where or who I might hole up with in Seattle. FUCK!" Helen set down the cocoa and dug with both hands in the purse until she produced the phone. "I might actually have to GO to STRANGERS now!"
"After all this," Julie said. "I'd think they'd cancel it."
Helen stood up to answer the call. Her left leg buckled a little as she stood, but she recovered. She grabbed her cigarettes and headed for the back porch as Troy sat closer to his wife.
"They won't." He told her. "All that money and power for the city and state to risk pissing off? They'll declare martial law and gas people out of their homes like last time before asking the delegates 'Hey, would you mind keeping the shooting down a bit?'"
Helen came back in from the porch and her call, still smoking, trying to walk off the pain in her leg.
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