Oh, Gairid...

[rebness]

The plot bunnies attacked me mercilessly after this post by gairid. She suggested I give into them. I did, and this short, silly spec arose like a phoenix from the ashes of a vicious bunny attack…



For Gairid


“I’m not at all happy with this, Lestat.”

“Louis!”, said Lestat, looking up from the rear of the car to fix me with an incredulous look, “I murder people nightly, I am a most excellent fiend and I steal cable, and you’re bothered about this?”

I rolled my eyes and looked about the little garage, throwing a wistful glance at the Louisiana night outside. I could be out there, staring at gaslamps or in a little café reading, rather than breaking into garages like some common hoodlum. “It’s as if you’re trying to add every crime and experience to your repertoire as possible.”

“Someone has to beat Casanova.”

“Please, Lestat. Just leave it. I only said I thought it was rather fetching when we saw it, not that I wanted you to follow them home and try to steal what they rightfully bought over you.”

“I asked them politely, Louis. I offered good cash for it at auction—“

“And you didn’t win, Monsieur Moneybags.”

”Because they held the auction during the day!” He grunted as he fiddled with one of the bolts holding the metal in place. “How was I supposed to instruct my lawyer when I was in the death sleep!”

“You could have offered to buy it from them.”

“I did! But they started whining that they bought it because they’re the initials of their horrible little children, and then they asked me how much I was willing to pay, and how they really had a dream of moving to Florida, and now it offends me to offer money for it.”

“The dastards!” I gasped.

“Screw you.” He stuck out his tongue as he undid the last screw.

I frowned as he pulled the piece of metal off in one smooth movement. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Also, there’s a dog.”

Lestat looked up at me. “Don’t tell me it’s not romantic. And what do you mean, ‘there’s a dog?’”

“I mean,” I said, nodding past him, “there’s a dog. An angry dog.”

He whipped around and jumped in shock at the frankly massive Dobermann that was taking slow, menacing steps towards him, its ears pricked forward and a low, angry whine emitting from its mouth. “The hell!” he exclaimed, jumping up quickly. The dog bared its teeth, and let out an angry bark.

“Lestat!” I hissed, “do something before it wakes the whole neighbourhood!” Sure enough, I could hear movements from upstairs as the owners of the house responded to their dog’s alarming bark.

He scowled. “You do something!”

“It’s not after me,” I pointed out, watching as he backed out of the garage, the dog following with menacing steps.

Lestat flailed. “Good dog. Nice dog. Who’s a nice little doggy, then?”

I raised an eyebrow as the dog barked once more, before running out after him. I followed suit. I had rather expected the scene before me; the dog laid out on the grass, its eyes closed, its breathing shallow, whilst Lestat stood over it triumphantly. I glared at him. “You didn’t hurt the dog!”

“Of course I didn’t, Mojo-thrower. I just hypnotised it. Now all we have to do is—“

”Freeze right there, assholes!”

I sighed heavily as Lestat stared down the nose of a rifle wielded by a pyjama-clad man emerging from the front porch. My maker remained remarkably calm as the man pointed the rifle down at what he was holding. “That’s mine!” he roared.

Lestat sniffed. “Don’t get all annoyed about it. I was going to reimburse you. Sort of.”

“You cheeky little shit! Give it back, now.”

“But I want it,” said Lestat with a kind of wide-eyed innocence. I shook my head.

“Lestat, I think you should—“

”Well done, Louis! Now he knows my name!”

“Our names, now!” I retorted.

“Lestat?” gasped the man, “you’re the one who harassed my wife—“

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur! I’m all for being egalitarian, but your wife is hardly for my taste.”

“—for that thing!” The man snapped. “Don’t insult my wife, you French clown.”

“Louis, he called me a clown!”

“Lestat, he has a gun.”

”I ought to pop him.”

“I’ll ‘pop’ you if you try anything, sonny.” The man raised his weapon again. “Martha! Martha,” he called, “get the cops!”

“Who is it, Jim?”

The man turned his head to the direction of his wife’s shouting from inside the house, “Martha, will you get the cops, for Chrissakes—“

I didn’t hear the rest, because in one swift, rather painful movement, I was suddenly several hundred feet in the Louisiana night, clutching hold of Lestat’s neck for dear life. He was roaring with laughter. I growled at him. “You could have given me some warning!”

“What did you want me to say?” he chuckled, “'Louis, I think it’s time that I grabbed hold of you and flew off?' He would have shot before I’d finished the sentence!”

I groaned as the familiar lights of the French Quarter came rushing up to meet us. “Lestat, you moron! He said he was going to call the police!”

He smirked as we descended towards Rue Royale. He let me go as we touched the ground and handed the offending piece of metal to me, patting me on the head condescendingly. “You just make yourself at home, Louis. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I didn’t have a chance to reprimand him further before he disappeared again. I scowled, glaring down at the piece of metal we had nearly been shot for, of all things, and made my way to the car. At least I could nag him as he worked.

***

The plan was perfect. He gritted his teeth with suppressed fury as I gestured angrily, running through all the reasons why he was the damndest creature. “Louis,” he snapped, looking up from the Spider he had bought me a year or so before, “I’m trying to fix this to the car and I can’t concentrate with your whining!”

”I’m not whining! I just want to know what you did to that poor man!”

“I just mesmerised him. He’ll have forgotten it by morning.”

“I’m writing him a cheque,” I snapped, “because what you did was wrong.”

“Yes, yes. Pass me the screwdriver, will you?”

I handed him the tool, but didn’t let him divert me from my nagging session. “And besides, he’d probably already reported it to the authorities!”

“I’ll hack their database and change the details. I’m, how would you say… down with the kids.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

“You’re despicable.”

”That’s why you love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“Yes, you do. The number plate says so.” He sat back happily. “There!”

I shook my head and pulled him up. He stepped back and took hold of my hand, grinning. I looked at the car and the offending number plate, the embarrassingly sweet sentiment of it, at him, and back at the number plate again. “Louisiana” was written in a modern, flaring red, but the letters of the plate itself were what made me feel at once scandalised and happy: LDPDL – DL. All that effort for something so small. It was so typically Lestat.

I turned to him, wrinkling my nose. “There is something really wrong with you.”

He kissed me, grinning further when he saw my pleased smile. “I like it, too.”


The end.

Comments

[rebness.livejournal.com]

Agreed. >:)