24-04-2019, 01:18 PM
Leonard Whyte CBE leaned against the railing of the balcony of his suite, dried off and wearing a new, black suit. Yesterday's rains were gone, and the sun was about to rise in the distance off the balcony. Zevon's cover of "Back in the High Life Again" came from the TV inside the suite.
"You know something, Leonard? The last time I stayed up all night with a man your age, I ended up marrying him." Contessa Helena de San Finzione said, pacing back and forth in front of him. "It's almost been as much fun as that night, but I'm running out of ideas. I guess we don't really NEED the note. Even if I didn't have diplomatic immunity, the consul successfully argued that the hotel is San Finzione territory. I COULD just fucking flay you alive in the middle of the hotel ballroom and hire Morgan Freeman to narrate the whole thing as I go, while a full orchestra plays 'I've Got You Under My Skin.' I could put ads for it on TV, for every sick motherfucker who'd get off on watching me do it to come this Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! And nobody'd be able to do a fucking thing to stop me, but that note's so damn good! It seems a shame not to use it."
"Would it help at this point, Helen," Whyte asked. "If I said that I was sorry?"
Helen stopped and thought about it for a moment. Then she smiled.
"You know, Leonard? It just might. I mean, that IS one of the big problems with the world: nobody apologizes for anything anymore. They excuse, they justify, but nobody ever just admits a mistake and says they're sorry. And what kind of bitch would I be to turn my nose up at it? Forgiveness is such a rare commodity these days. Hell, I had a conversation with someone about it last night after the warehouse. And Troy has a saying about not punishing efforts to be nice, you know." She looked him up and down in his suit. "And I can think of a few ways you could still show ME how sorry you are, Leonard. Of course, I'm not the only one you'd need to apologize to."
"Ah, yes. Mr. & Mrs. Equals too, of course. Certainly."
"Them, for one." She told him, walking up to the man. "A nice card and a half-dozen donuts would go over well there. They like blueberry cake and the chocolate-covered old-fashioned. You're forgetting Susan again, though. For Susan, I'd say 'just the card.'"
"Untouchable, like Mr. Equals, huh? 'Thought that counts' and all that? Ok. And I'm sure your..." Whyte had to stop himself from making it an insult. "...Eastender would appreciate something for all his trouble, too."
"Five-thousand-dollar gift card for a home improvement store should cover him. Or just five-thousand dollars; whichever's easier. But again, there's still other people you need to apologize to first, Leonard."
Whyte nodded. She leaned in close.
"Of course, Contessa. Who else?"
Contessa Helena de San Finzione reached into the pocket of her jacket and grabbed the balisong knife she'd taken from one of the thugs back in San Finzione. She let out a soft, hot breath on Leonard Whyte's neck before thrusting it up between his ribs and into his heart.
"You need to go apologize..." She whispered to him. "To Raymond Chen."
Whyte let out a noise that was too high-pitched and weak to be called a squeal. Helena stabbed him again.
"And Helmet Guy!"
She pulled out the knife and thrust it into him repeatedly, shouting each word and punctuating them with another thrust, another twist, and another withdrawal.
"AND MORGAN! AND ALL! THE OTHER! PEOPLE! I KNOW! I'M MISSING!!"
With his life flowing down his legs and into his shoes, Leonard Whyte CBE stood helpless as Contessa Helena de San Finzione took a step back, dropped the knife, flattened her right palm, and bent her fingers. She took a step forward and put all her weight behind it as she rammed her palm into Leonard Whyte's chin. The force carried him over the railing, and he managed to let out a scream on the 50-story fall that took him through Seattle airspace and onto the pavement that was technically San Finzione territory below.
Helen picked up the knife and pocketed it as her phone indicated an incoming email.
She opened it and looked. She looked over the railing at the pool of Leonard fifty stories below.
"Hey, Leonard. They're announcing the Auction now! You got your..." She looked over and saw his phone back on the dining room table inside. She went and grabbed it, came back to the railing, and dropped it down to him on the pavement below. "Wouldn't want ya missing it on my account." She checked her own, got the time and location for the next evening, RSVPed, and put her phone away.
As the track changed in the suite, Helen lit another cigarette, reflecting that there was probably a lot of useful shit that could have been gotten off that phone. Then she remembered that it was still on San Finzione soil; and stuff like putting it back together was the sort of thing she had a Ministry of Science for. She walked out of the suite, past the bathwater from the bath they'd never turned off now flowing out into the hall, singing along with the song playing.
"Well, I went to the doctor. I said 'I'm feelin' kinda rough.' 'Lemme break it to ya, son: Your shit's fucked up."
She then remembered that she owned the hotel and would ultimately be the one paying for the water damage, went back, and turned off the bathtub. She picked up the tune from there and walked out again.
* * *
"You know something, Leonard? The last time I stayed up all night with a man your age, I ended up marrying him." Contessa Helena de San Finzione said, pacing back and forth in front of him. "It's almost been as much fun as that night, but I'm running out of ideas. I guess we don't really NEED the note. Even if I didn't have diplomatic immunity, the consul successfully argued that the hotel is San Finzione territory. I COULD just fucking flay you alive in the middle of the hotel ballroom and hire Morgan Freeman to narrate the whole thing as I go, while a full orchestra plays 'I've Got You Under My Skin.' I could put ads for it on TV, for every sick motherfucker who'd get off on watching me do it to come this Sunday, Sunday, SUNDAY! And nobody'd be able to do a fucking thing to stop me, but that note's so damn good! It seems a shame not to use it."
"Would it help at this point, Helen," Whyte asked. "If I said that I was sorry?"
Helen stopped and thought about it for a moment. Then she smiled.
"You know, Leonard? It just might. I mean, that IS one of the big problems with the world: nobody apologizes for anything anymore. They excuse, they justify, but nobody ever just admits a mistake and says they're sorry. And what kind of bitch would I be to turn my nose up at it? Forgiveness is such a rare commodity these days. Hell, I had a conversation with someone about it last night after the warehouse. And Troy has a saying about not punishing efforts to be nice, you know." She looked him up and down in his suit. "And I can think of a few ways you could still show ME how sorry you are, Leonard. Of course, I'm not the only one you'd need to apologize to."
"Ah, yes. Mr. & Mrs. Equals too, of course. Certainly."
"Them, for one." She told him, walking up to the man. "A nice card and a half-dozen donuts would go over well there. They like blueberry cake and the chocolate-covered old-fashioned. You're forgetting Susan again, though. For Susan, I'd say 'just the card.'"
"Untouchable, like Mr. Equals, huh? 'Thought that counts' and all that? Ok. And I'm sure your..." Whyte had to stop himself from making it an insult. "...Eastender would appreciate something for all his trouble, too."
"Five-thousand-dollar gift card for a home improvement store should cover him. Or just five-thousand dollars; whichever's easier. But again, there's still other people you need to apologize to first, Leonard."
Whyte nodded. She leaned in close.
"Of course, Contessa. Who else?"
Contessa Helena de San Finzione reached into the pocket of her jacket and grabbed the balisong knife she'd taken from one of the thugs back in San Finzione. She let out a soft, hot breath on Leonard Whyte's neck before thrusting it up between his ribs and into his heart.
"You need to go apologize..." She whispered to him. "To Raymond Chen."
Whyte let out a noise that was too high-pitched and weak to be called a squeal. Helena stabbed him again.
"And Helmet Guy!"
She pulled out the knife and thrust it into him repeatedly, shouting each word and punctuating them with another thrust, another twist, and another withdrawal.
"AND MORGAN! AND ALL! THE OTHER! PEOPLE! I KNOW! I'M MISSING!!"
With his life flowing down his legs and into his shoes, Leonard Whyte CBE stood helpless as Contessa Helena de San Finzione took a step back, dropped the knife, flattened her right palm, and bent her fingers. She took a step forward and put all her weight behind it as she rammed her palm into Leonard Whyte's chin. The force carried him over the railing, and he managed to let out a scream on the 50-story fall that took him through Seattle airspace and onto the pavement that was technically San Finzione territory below.
Helen picked up the knife and pocketed it as her phone indicated an incoming email.
She opened it and looked. She looked over the railing at the pool of Leonard fifty stories below.
"Hey, Leonard. They're announcing the Auction now! You got your..." She looked over and saw his phone back on the dining room table inside. She went and grabbed it, came back to the railing, and dropped it down to him on the pavement below. "Wouldn't want ya missing it on my account." She checked her own, got the time and location for the next evening, RSVPed, and put her phone away.
As the track changed in the suite, Helen lit another cigarette, reflecting that there was probably a lot of useful shit that could have been gotten off that phone. Then she remembered that it was still on San Finzione soil; and stuff like putting it back together was the sort of thing she had a Ministry of Science for. She walked out of the suite, past the bathwater from the bath they'd never turned off now flowing out into the hall, singing along with the song playing.
"Well, I went to the doctor. I said 'I'm feelin' kinda rough.' 'Lemme break it to ya, son: Your shit's fucked up."
She then remembered that she owned the hotel and would ultimately be the one paying for the water damage, went back, and turned off the bathtub. She picked up the tune from there and walked out again.
* * *
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