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Michael Pierson
We Who Are About to Die . . .
Wed Apr 26, 2006 13:43
71.33.61.163

David walked into the valley, with a stone clutched in his hand... he was only a boy, but he knew someone must take a stand. There will always be a valley, always mountains one must scale...

Michael stood in the center of the stage, bedecked in the most ridiculous blond wig he'd ever had the misfortune to wear, but this was a dress rehearsal, of sorts. Up until five minutes ago, he'd been the understudy for the role of Sir Percival Blakeney, known in France as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Clarence, the lead, had just been summarily fired for voicing his own opinion on a subject their director was currently ranting on.

"... And to top it off, apparently the fag my wife ran off with is richer than I am. Can you believe that? Some little pansy-ass like that wouldn't know what to do with the woman."

Rant, rant, rant. Honestly, Michael was wearying of the man's voice as a whole. Was it only now he noticed how nasally it was, tinged with the whine of a man who demands everything and gets nothing? The actors behind him were beginning to shift nervously. Almost midnight, and they were still in the middle of act one; that didn't bode well for the hour when they'd finally be allowed to venture forth from the theatre and catch what sleep they could. Opening night was Christmas Eve, and that a mere three days hence.

"Excuse me, Mister Roth--" Poor Michael. In speaking up, he centered the director's attention soley on himself.

"FIRED! NO ONE SPEAKS WHEN I AM TALKING."

Blink. A thousand times - blink. There was a complete and eerie hush descended now on the building in London's famed West End. It ended with laughter - Michael's naturally, a full-throated sound that danced jaggedly across the silence and fractured it into a thousand pieces. He was too tired - to argue, to plead, to do anything that handed this insane man more control over his life than already given.

"Alright. Good luck with the next lead."

And that was that. He gathered his trusty duffel bag and jacket, handing over the stupid wig on the way out of the theatre. The damp chill hit him full-force just outside, providing what might be considered a slap in the face, if only a proverbial one. It was an abnormally long walk to the transit station, the ride equally depressing. It wasn't until almost one in the morning when he finally drug himself into the flat he shared with his mother and her husband. It was large, nicely appointed with three bedrooms and two full baths, but the reserved air both clung to reminded him how accustomed to the more expressive Yanks he'd become.

Even after an entire year, the aura of America managed to hold sway.

"Your father called, dearest. He was most adamant that you ring him up as soon as you set foot in the door." Mrs Edwin Florette, formerly Pierson, called from the sitting room where she was engrossed in some period drama on BBC 2. Michael shrugged, assuming his pater simply wanted to wish him well for the holidays and went up to his room to find the appropriate number.

"Hey, Dad. It's Michael. What can I do for you ..."

Famous last words, he decided not twenty-four hours later. Just two days until Christmas found him taxing down a runway at New York's LaGuardia airport. Hugh had badgered him into returning for a theatre dedication on behalf of his deceased sister, something both yearned for and dreaded this entire twelve months of ... stasis. Aside from a few acting gigs and a stint at a video store that hadn't lasted more than two months, Michael had been living mostly off his mother's good graces.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, the infrequent flier told himself. Plenty of thirty-year olds stayed with the parentals. Of course, most of them then went on to get married and have children of their own to eventually continue the freeload tradition. He stopped thinking then, because of the headache. Alcohol was his vice, a crutch that had pulled him through some of the worst times in his life.

He'd had three scotches on the plane ride over, and a beer just before landing. Perhaps it was simply to watch past the bench he'd caught Sonnet and that rat bastard kissing on. The memory led him to a cab, and then a bar, and a second cab graciously poured him onto the sidewalk in front of his father's apartment building as the sun came up - practically blinding him with all the vicious glee of a planetary body. Or a really bright star. Fukk.

The first order of business was to sleep until noon, then take a shower and stuff one of Ben's delicious lunches down his throat. He was caught up on gossip over the last year, and had to wonder why the bloody Holmes clan figured so prominently in his father's life. It was irritating, especially when Hugh rather strongly suggested that a boquet of flowers in honor of the new baby would not go amiss.

It went amiss the moment he stepped through Lucy's front door an hour later.

She was entirely unpleased to see him, and so was her husband. Surprise, scorn, shock ... each emotion paraded proudly through their eyes, making him feel like a complete idiot for only following his father's suggestion. However, the infant was kind of cute and willing to refrain from spitting up. Michael found himself amending the 'all Holmes must die' mindset. Little James wasn't so bad after all, and he gurgled adorably in the actor's arms for all of the three minutes before Lucy took him away.

Michael felt the sudden loss acutely, and had to wonder if the Mafia (oh, he'd been briefed on everything) had done it on purpose. Right. Definately time to go. The roses he'd bought were still sitting in their gauze wrapper on the kitchen counter, he suspected they'd just be thrown away after he left - which was a real shame. Gathering his jacket, and thinking there were quite a few bars to quash the growing feeling that this was the biggest mistake of his life, the unwelcome guest made it to the door just as someone knocked on the other side.

Well, far be it from him to let the bitch open her own door -- so he flung it open and, well, recollections got a little hazy. Instinct took over at the mere sight of Devon's face, a fist sailing through the air to smash right against the bastard's nose. A return shot, as it were, for the event that had led to his retreat from American shores twelve months before. To the very day.

Without another word, Michael was striding down the steps in the direction of those pubs that would welcome his presence in a more social manner. All he had to do was get through the ceremony, do the gift exchange with his father and by New Years he'd be ... somewhere far, far away from the lunatics in New York.

Like Bermuda.

  • Stomping GroundsDevon Holmes, Mon Apr 24 22:24
    Oh God, he wasn’t going to make it. Adrenaline pushed through his body, forcing his legs to work that much harder, shoving him forward. Everything seemed to slow; he was stuck in molasses, and it was ... more
    • We Who Are About to Die . . . — Michael Pierson, Wed Apr 26 13:43
      • The ReturnDevon Holmes, Sun May 7 19:54
        Knock, knock, knock. Devon stood there, waiting patiently due to the strands of Broadway inspired music floating from an open second-level window. Well, if they couldn't hear him, there was always... more
        • A New EraMichael Pierson, Tue May 9 11:27
          "How is your mother faring?" Michael opened his eyes reluctantly, tempted to draw the covers over his face completely, and watched his father's face as the older gentleman settled comfortably into... more
          • Dude!Devon Holmes, Tue May 9 14:41
            Devon couldn’t believe he just did that. Strolling out to his rented SUV, the feeb settled himself behind the wheel. He’d wait five minutes to see if Michael really was going to come, before going... more
            • Dude, Part DeuxM Pierson, Thu Jun 1 10:22
              "Michael, you've a phone call." "Michael?" It took three tries before Hugh managed to rouse an unrepentedly hung over Brit, during which time Michael found himself annoyingly awake. Phone call. From... more
              • Homeward Bound!Bennett Holmes, Sat Jun 3 23:38
                “Psst… wakey wakey…” Nnnrgh! Bennett groaned, batting at the hand which was currently poking him in the side. He hated flying. Cramped seats, bad meals – sometimes – and people stared like they were... more
                • Surprises on StageCastelluccio | Holmes, Sun Jun 4 00:40
                  “That was weird.” “No shit.” John stared out the back door where Bennett Holmes and Laramie Sorensen went. It was likely a good thing Jaybird had been out at the doctor for the baby’s checkup,... more
                  • Home - Where My Thoughts EscapeSorensen, Thu Jun 8 10:11
                    Eight months on the road was hell, but Lara wasn't trying to complain. Not when pouring her soul into her voice and fingers became such a heady rush that Bennet had been forced to ease her off stage... more
                    • The Fire's Out AnywayCafferty | Pierson, Mon Jun 26 14:52
                      Who do you think you are? Barging in on me and my guitar Little girl -- hey The door is that way You better go you know The fire's out anyway Sean watched Caleb snark his way across the stage, words... more
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