[SCENE] Jake, Lana and the Judge in "The Blackout"
Jake: *Jake had not been doing well financially, especially with his alcohol problem, and the earthquake did not help. After clearing his head in rehab for a few weeks, he looked over his funds and realized he can no longer afford to stay in his apartment. Fortunately, Lana stepped in and offered to let him stay in her home until the Gust has been renovated and he's able to put his life back in order.*
Jake: *It's mid-afternoon, and Jake is clearing a bookshelf in his bedroom of books and other miscellaneous things, packing them into a box*
Lana: *Lana is in his room, helping to pack all of his things, going through drawers and collecting knick-knacks for a smaller box. After feeling satisfied that she has gathered everything of note from Jake's bedside, she moves to his closet, stooped in front of it as she opens the door. It is several seconds before she speaks* ...Jake?
Jake: *plops a large hardcover book into the box and moves onto a lower shelf* Yeah?
Lana: *looks over her shoulder and considers him with one eyebrow cocked* What's this? *turns, holding up a large, garish trophy topped by two gold-painted figures in a dancing embrace; writ large at the bottom is "LORD AND LADYS OF THE DANCE". Below this is the name of the trophy winners: Jake Marshall and something so badly scratched as to be illegible*
Jake: *turns to see what Lana is talking about, and freezes entirely for a second before he stands up* Ah... My dance trophy. How could I forget? *he doesn't sound thrilled* Haven't told you about that yet, huh?
Lana: ...No. *hefts it; it's cheap, but still pretty weighty* I didn't know you danced.
Jake: That's one hunk of gold I could do without... *walks up to it, taking the trophy in his hands* Can't bring myself to toss it, though. It's important that I keep this, you see. It marks a major point in my life.
Lana: *pushes the box next to her aside and stands up, stepping over to his bed and sitting down on it* Well, I think we're due for a break. Care to share the story?
Jake: Sure thing. *studies the dancing figures* Was about two years ago, if memory serves me correct. I was in that bar nearby the court house, feeling sorry for myself per usual...
* * *
Jake: *Sometime in 2018, Jake sits in a bar nursing another glass of whiskey. It's been roughly a year since he finished serving his sentence after the State vs. Skye trial, and his drinking habits have since escalated to an unhealthy level. Buzzed from the alcohol, he stares at the counter blankly*
Judge: *a body sits next to him; dark robes drape off of him askew, and his speech is slurred* Bartender, I would like another scotch, please. Single malt. No ice. *he hiccups; he apparently has not noticed Jake*
Jake: *it takes a moment for the man's voice to register in his brain; he turns his head, and when he recognizes the man, he sits up straight and proper nearly out of instinct* ...! Your Honour!
Judge: *looks over blearily; he's only had a couple of drinks but it's already getting to his head* Err.... Officer Marshall?
Jake: *gives a weak smirk* You got half of it right. You and I no longer have no ties.
Judge: Ties. Pfffft. Pft! Pfft. *his drink is slid towards him and he catches it without looking* Pft. *he takes a sip and his face immediately screws up; this is a man who hates the taste of alcohol*
Jake: *staaaares...and continues* What're you doin' in this waterin' hole, anyhow? This don't seem like the kinda place I'd run into you in.
Judge: I, am, ah... *sips and coughs and sets the glass down* Oh blast this stuff! *hack* I am having a tiff with the little wife.
Jake: A tiff, huh..? *turns in his seat to face the Judge as he takes a sip of whiskey* What's gotten into the missus? If you don't mind my askin'.
Judge: *takes a moment to stare off into space* I don't know
Jake: *his eyebrow raises slightly* What do you mean you don't know?
Judge: *turns around to look Jake in the face, eyes wide, albeit bleary* I. Don't. Know. *takes a sip; screws up his face; sets down the glass while smacking his lips* I'm sure it was about something. I think it was about something. But I am no longer so sure! Perhaps we are fighting about nothing at all! *sighs and turns back to the bar* I have never understood my own wife.
Jake: *grins knowingly* Ah, I see now! One o' those situations. I tell you, it's the mystery surroundin' 'em that makes men like us attracted to the opposite sex.
Judge: Pft. Maybe. *almost sips - but stops just before the moment of truth* I don't know. Seems like so many problems come from talking to women. I don't even know why I'm depressed, except for the sake of a woman.
Jake: Soon as we let women into our lives, they grab hold of our reigns before we know it... *sips* They are powerful, dangerous creatures.
Judge: *nods - this seems most sagely to his drunken reasoning* I have to agree with you. That's why it's good for men to get together with other men, at least from time to time. Re-affirm our own place on the food chain.
Jake: Mmhmm. *pauses and looks down in his glass, propping himself up with an elbow on the counter* It took losin' my title for me to realize I oughta be doin' more of that.
Judge: *takes a long sip, barely coughing at all this time, looking at Jake out of the corner of his eye* Women troubles. Fah. *pauses for a bit* ....Head Prosecutor Skye, right? Chief? I forget what the title of that office is. The big cheese.
Jake: *tilting his head back, he finishes off the glass and sets it on the counter, gesturing for another* She's in jail.
Judge: *sighs raggedly* I remember when my wife was put in prison.
Jake: *blinks at him* ...What for?
Judge: Rioting. *sips, waving to the bartender* Bring me a lemon, a knife, and a saltshaker, please. *turns back to Jake* She was in one of the curfew riots in Hollywood in 1966. Apparently knocked three police officers unconscious with a wooden shoe. And then me. That's why I wasn't arrested.
Jake: *a low whistle -- any other time, he'd find this awkward, but he's too inebriated to care. Seeing this side of the Judge interests him, and he encourages it* You go for the wild, untamable types, Your Honour? Never woulda guessed.
Judge: Hey now! Hey. Hey. *sips* I used to be pretty wild myself. I was one of the protesters in Washington after the Kent State shootings. My wife wasn't with me at the time. She was ... where the Hell was she, exactly? I don't know. *waves his hand dismissively, then slams back the rest of the scotch; when he puts the glass down he coughs uncontrollably*
Jake: You don't say! *receives another round -- he takes a drink from it immediately, grinning at the old man* From wieldin' a protest sign to wieldin' a gavel... A fighter for justice at heart. Wouldn't be surprised if you were a lady killer.
Judge: *puts his hand up, shaking his head as he coughs* No, no - I never really understood women. My wife is the only one who's ever thought much of me. *the lemon, knife, and salt are placed in front of him, and he takes the knife and lemon in his hands, beginning to quarter the latter* I've always been more comfortable in the Boys Club, at any rate.
Jake: I bet you a horse's salt there's been more 'n just yer wife. *takes a sip; this unexpected meeting is helping lift his spirits* Why, in my court appearances, I seen a few fine ladies makin' eyes at Your Honour. Ever noticed?
Judge: Oh. Uhm. *he slices the quarters into eighths, and it takes a second for what Marshall says to process, but after that second the red on his face deepens and he grins* I suppose I didn't!
Jake: Good that you didn't, too -- they like that. *chuckles lightly* You're a large presence... the centerpiece of the room. An untouchable force. Don't need to wear no ten-gallon hat or carry a weapon to have authority o'er everyone within yer sights. Drives 'em crazy... Get what I mean?
Judge: ...Hm! *seeming immensely pleased with this, the Judge carefully cuts the pulp from the rind of the lemons, and begins to dump salt on the pieces* How about another drink on me, Marshall?
Jake: I accept your generous offer. *brings his glass to his lips... and then an idea crosses his mind -- one only a night of drinking could've brought about* Say, when's the last time you went on a pub crawl?
Judge: *blinks several times, then sets down the salt shaker and picks up a salt-encrusted piece of lemon before popping it into his mouth. He almost literally convulses, his face puckering so completely it no longer looks entirely like a face, and then with a POP he returns to his normal expression* Forty-five years.
Jake: Forty-five years? Lord. *shakes his head, then points at the Judge with two fingers* Hombre, what you need is a good time.
Judge: *pops another lemon wedge into his mouth; this time there is no apparent reaction as he chews and swallows* ...I think you're right!
Jake: You can get me another round-- at another trough. And then another one. And then... well, you get the idea. *takes a few large gulps, finishing most of it off. He wipes his mouth; his tone is conspirative* An' I'll show you how even in your age, you've still got it.
Judge: *looks at Jake, slow comprehension dawning... and then grins, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows set inwards, and for the first time since becoming a judge he actually looks devious* All right, Mr. Marshall. Do lead the way, and we'll find out what we've got.
Jake: As they say -- mothers, lock up yer daughters. *grinning widely as though he made a clever joke, he tosses a 20 onto the counter and stands up, taking a moment to find his balance* How much firewater can you handle?
Judge: *pops two more lemon wedges into his mouth* As much as a man a third my age, I figure.
Jake: *nudges up on the rim of his hat* And how many ladies can you handle at once?
Judge: *his devious look disappears* Uhm... As many as ... as many as I can!
Jake: *slaps a hand on the man's shoulder, either out of a jovial gesture or to support himself* That's what I like t'hear. Now, finish those off 'n' rattle your hocks -- we're fair to middlin' and no longer picayunin' in here. Let's go knock round!
Judge: *shovels the lemon wedges into his mouth, slamming a bill on the bar - he has no idea how big it is, but it is way more than his tab - and swallows, pointing to the door* Lead the way, Mr. Marshall!
Jake: Yeehaw! *heads for the exit, blood pumping with alcohol-induced excitement. Fortunately for him, he's still sober enough to walk in a straight line towards the door*
Judge: *the judge totters after him, just as enthused - he's actually chortling as he rounds the door, envisioning what they might be doing soon*
Time passes...
Jake: *Several hours after the two left that particular bar, Jake opens his eyes and finds himself in a place he does not recognize. The side of his head is flat against a table streaked with morning light pouring in through the venetian blinds of the window next to him. When his eyes focus, he sees salt and pepper shakers and a generic silver napkin dispenser. Lifting his head, he winces; he had fallen asleep seated with his arms on the table, and it hurts to move. He props himself up slowly, taking great care straightening out his joints*
Jake: *There's an awful taste in his mouth, but more importantly, there's something in there -- between his clenched teeth, to be specific -- and he spits it out. A single red rose stem falls onto the table. Brushing his hair away from his face, he feels crumbs of varying textures in there. Shifting his feet, he feels some sort of weight on them -- when he glances down to investigate, his view is obstructed by his poncho that is inexplicably tied around his waist. Finally, he lifts his aching head far up enough to see he's not alone*
Judge: *the Judge is sitting across from him, eyes wide, sipping from a cup of coffee. He has not slept up to this point, and it's obvious from his dishevelled appearance and red eyes. There are rose petals in his beard, and glitter on top of his bald head; he of course is not visible from the waist down* Good morning, Marshall.
Jake: *tiredly squnting and looking around in a daze, it finally clicks in his brain that he's sitting at the booth of a 24 hour diner with the Judge... and he has no idea why* Uh... mornin'... Your Honour. *brushing back more of his stringy hair, he spies the analog clock on the wall and it takes some effort for him to read it* Two-- no... Six? Ten past six...?
Judge: Ten past six in the morning. You sure know how to have a party, Marshall. *flags down a waitress* Bring my friend a cup of coffee with a lot of sugar and two glasses of water. *turns back to Jake as she walks off* it went a lot further than I expected.
Jake: *stares at the Judge, trying to make sense of it all. He shifts his body slightly so the sunlight isn't hitting him -- it worsens his headache* Party? ...With you?
Judge: Good. Probably better if we don't talk about this again. I don't think anyone recognized me last night - a feather boa and doing your beard up will do that - but if anyone made the connection we'd be in trouble. *takes another gulp of his coffee, blinking emptily - it's clear he's running on caffeine and not much else* I trust you'll keep all of this under your hat. ...Which should be in the men's bathroom.
Jake: *a couple of beats pass before he waves his hand above his head, confirming that he is indeed hatless. He winces again, clutching his head* Can't remember a thing...
Judge: *reaches down and from the seat beside him he pulls up a trophy: large, garish, ridiculous, with a man and woman in gold paint dancing atop it. The plaque on it reads "LORD AND LADYS OF THE DANCE". Jake's name is engraved beneath that, and below that there is only a lot of scratches* I took the liberty of removing my own name.
Jake: *gazes at the terrible trophy, speechless. After a moment, he glances back to the Judge* ...First, second or third?
Judge: I'm sorry. What?
Jake: *gives the trophy a poke, testing its weight* Is this... for first place or-- *winces and rubs his forehead* ...Nevermind. It ain't important.
Judge: Second. First place included tailor-made outfits for the both of us. We threw the competition in the last move because the coupon was for a suit and a dress. Regardless. Here's the trophy. Keep it. *rises without moving out of the booth* We will not speak of this again. Understand?
Jake: *still dazed and dumbfounded, not looking at the Judge* ...Got it, Your Honour. *falls silent, trying to recount everything he did last night. He remembers going to the bar, drinking... and nothing more after that. He stares at the trophy again in disbelief*
Judge: Good. Keep your head, Mr. Marshall, and you'll be fine. *steps out of the booth and walks towards the exit - he's stepping daintily, owing to the heels he's wearing, and where his legs emerge from his robes it's pretty clear he's wearing fishnet stockings*
Jake: *turns to the Judge when he hears the unmistakable clacking of women's heels against the floor. The sight is not pretty, yet he can't tear his eyes away, even long after the old man is gone. When the waitress brings the drinks the Judge ordered, Jake takes a well-needed gulp of water* Huhn. Second. ...Not bad.
* * *
Jake: *back to the present, Jake finishes telling his story* ...and that was the first time I ever blacked out from too much drinking, and the point at which I realized I might have a dreadful problem on my hands.
Lana: *Lana looks from the trophy, to Jake, to the trophy, to Jake again* Fishnets?
Jake: Fishnets. I'm assuming he got them from whatever venue we went to. *pauses* Assuming.
Lana: ...So I should find a box for the trophy?
Jake: *runs a thumb over his name on the plaque* ...Yep.
Lana: All right. *rises, giving his shoulder a squeeze and smiling* If worse comes to worse, I suppose you can give dancing lessons. *walks out briskly, not looking back, still smiling*
Jake: *looks upon her somewhat hopefully* With you in fishnets?
Lana: *wags her finger over her shoulder before turning the corner - though she pointedly does not say no*
Jake: *smiles to himself, speaking quietly* I'll be your pardner any day of the week. *gently setting the trophy down on the bed, he returns to his bookshelf to resume packing*
OOC banter snippet:
space: I'll be YOUR pardner any day of the week
Cam: I'd make a metaphor but it would end up a lot more grossly sexual