Hound of the d'Urbervilles (sort of)

[bittenhand]

What the hell did I go through all that for if you're going to put me back under the heel of another criminal mastermind? And a woman like that!

... I didn't mean it like that. You know damn well what I meant. It's a different sort of danger. I don't think I like this sort of danger. I never got the sense my balls were specifically at risk with the professor or even the tigers. And they weren't, so stop laughing.

Comments

[doveborn]

A woman like what?

[ well, a woman who's not even trying to pretend she isn't a little entertained. she's allowed to play her cards a little less close to her chest here. ]

[bittenhand]

[ Silent fuming. Of course this would happen. ]

[doveborn]

[ mildly: ] John, really.

[bittenhand]

What? [ ... So that was unnecessarily explosive, but it's defensive bluster. ]

This is exactly what you want, isn't it? And I do my job, don't I? Christ. Out of the frying pan.

[doveborn]

[ unfazed. she's always too steady, though, when her tone rises or falls it's like it's a performance to put other people at ease. ]

Oh, I've no complaints, which is why you are paid as handsomely as you are. We do keep busy, on our little island.

[bittenhand]

[ He settles slowly, not actually (or not audibly) grumbling but still managing to give the appearance that he is. ]

Too small.

[doveborn]

In myriad ways.

[ queen-to-english translation: GOD, SERIOUSLY. she's used to having an entire empire to control! Entire continents! ]

whoa hey MORE D'URBERVILLES FANS :')

[sebastian]

Know the feeling, chummy. One minute you're working for one mad sod, the next, you're working for an even madder sort. Infuriating, ain't it? Too bad we don't have much of a say in any of it.

Hold up a moment then, though. Tigers? What experience do you have with tigers?

HELLO c:

[bittenhand]

[ He makes an annoyed grunt of agreement to the first part, but seems reluctant to answer the question. ]

It's complicated, all right? Technically, none. Just forget it. I don't want letterbombs from those nuts at PETA.

[sebastian]

You've got me all wrong, mate. Unless you're talking about the risk of trying to feed the toothy little fuckers at a zoo, I've a feeling our opinions are very similar on tigers. Pretty beasts, they are. Could tell you a few stories about the damn things, but we might be here 'till next Tuesday.

So go on then. Tell your story. Promise I won't tell anyone about it. [ what a LIE

actually it's sort of true because let's be honest, who is he going to tell? FiFi? The Prof? Please. ]

[bittenhand]

If I could fucking remember enough for a story, I'd be glad to, but like I said, it's complicated. It wasn't exactly me who dealt with the tigers. Still, I'm almost certain no tiger ever went specifically for my balls. That match up with your experience?

[sebastian]

What, you like one of those amnesiacs? Poor luck, that. Seems like you had an interesting run of things, even if it wasn't you dealing with the tigers.

Not exactly. For one, I have gotten all close and personal with a magnificent old bitch named Kali's Kitten, and she wasn't so much of a bollocks-breaker as she was a nipple thief, mangy old hellcat. Still, doesn't sound like you have any love for the giant furry blighters.

[bittenhand]

[ In the truest spirit of resenting what he doesn't and can't have, Sebastian scowls at hearing the description of Kali's Kitten, which rings a bell somewhere deep. That must've been him, or is the real him — not this pathetic existence on the island. ]

I'd prefer them to what I've got.

[sebastian]

[ Poor old chum. Count your lucky stars that you're not stuck in an underwater Ayn Rand fantasy with two other versions of yourself and two Irish versions of the professor. Best just forget about the whole tiger ordeal. ]

And what's that, then? You sound like a miserable sort. Go on, tell Uncle Basher why your life's so bad.

[bittenhand]

[ WOW all that and Ayn Rand's Atlantis? He will just go back to his island now. ]

Fuck all is what I've got. I'm bored and I know something's wrong but I don't know what because I can't remember I'm supposed to be some nineteenth century dippy-sounding asshole.

[sebastian]

[ hey chummy old pal wanna trade please trade with him jesus christ his life is an irreparable mess. Oh yeah, and he's missing his pinkies too, thanks to one of the aforementioned Moriartys. ]

You? A Victorian? Nah, chummy, you're not short enough to be one of those. You can't be some 19th century 'dippy-sounding arsehole' because you're not a half-metre tall, and you don't have side whiskers or some other stupid choice in facial hair.

See, I'm two metres even, but in this shitehole of a fucking Verne novel I'm trapped in, there's another version of myself from the 19th century, and he is short as a bloody oompa loompa. Terrible choice in facial hair too, but apparently all the rage for his time. Ahead of the curve.

As for the boredom, I suggest target practice. Or a drinking contest. [ A pause, and he shrugs a bit. ] Maybe even a night out with a pretty little young thing? Or all three. Drink, shoot, shag. In any order you like, usually does the trick for me.