knightsoflegend | new orleans ♔ so everybody just follow me cuz we need a little controversy

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new orleans ♔ so everybody just follow me cuz we need a little controversy

♬ Rock and Roll Lifestyle - Cake

WHO || Martha, Des, Finnick, Kat, Dumage [closed]
WHAT || The Knights check out NOVA Records to try and find out more information about co-owner Chad Becksworth and his connection to the Brotherhood of the Enlightenment/Jade/the Talisman
WHERE || NOVA Records HQ, New Orleans, LA
WHEN || Tuesday, May 1st, 2012; daytime
HOW || Actionspam

[ The offices of NOVA Records seem to be a hoppin' place. Fancy dressed execs and stylish people who look important and wear hoity sunglasses stream in and out of the glass doors, and no one seems to pay the group any particular mind when they walk into the large, spacious white lobby. A large square pool dominates this side of the room, the NOVA label emblazoned on the tiles below the water. A side staircase leads to an upper balcony, but most traffic seems to be to and from the elevator banks on the right side of the room, and into the hallways back behind the large black front desk.

At the desk sits a redheaded secretary, with perfectly curled long hair and too-red lipstick. A security guard stands against the wall behind her, staring straight ahead, a gun visible on his hip. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ "Finnick," she repeats, as if committing that to memory. "One moment, please." Her hand moves to the phone, and she buzzes in something on speakerphone. "Mr. Becksworth? I have a ... Finnick here to see you."

A very unconcerned sounding voice drifts out of the speaker: "Who the fuck ordered that guy? Send him packing."

It seems to occur to her too late that speakerphone might not have been a good idea, and she casts a sheepish look up at the five of them, flashing an awkward smile, before leaning closer to the phone to say more quietly: "I think you'll want to see him, sir."

"I don't pay you to think, sweetcheeks. Tell him too bad. I'm in Fiji. Indefinite vacation."

She hesitates a bit, but then points to the phone, with a shrug.

"I'm sorry," she says, "It seems he's not in."

Kat moves forward, folding her arms indignantly.]

We'll wait.

[ The secretary doesn't seem to know what to say to that, pointing helplessly at the phone. "He, er, said indefinitely."]

[Des casually pushes his way to the desk and leans on it, planting his elbows so he can be on eye level with Ms. Secretary.] Lady, I realize he's a busy man. And he's probably getting a ton of wannabe teen heartthrobs storming his office, but I saw the way you looked at him when he walked in. [He straightens and pulls Finnick over and clasps his hand under his chin to pinch his cheeks.] Look at this face. If this face walks outta this joint and goes to the next guy who just so happens to not be on vacation? Who's your boss gonna be pissed at? Himself, for giving you the order. Or you, for not going with your gut. [He frees Finnick.]

Choose wisely. [NAT 20 DIPLOMACY CHECK.

EAT IT.]

I have had a lot of offers. [He leans in with Des and uses his ~seductive voice~.] Are you sure we can't arrange something?

[diplomacy check 22. change your panties gurl.]

[ Her jaw drops when he leans closer, and she gets caught up in staring at him ~oo mr finnick oo~ before seeming to rouse herself out of her reverie and just nod dumbly, gesturing at the door.

"He's um... right in there."]

[ Dumage gives a triumphant smirk, and starts steering Finnick that way. ]

See? That wasn't so terribly hard.

[ She shoves open the door, revealing the interior of a very spacious office, done in broad strokes of black and white, and replete with funky furniture, a full sized bar on one wall, a pool table, jukebox, gold records lining the walls, a few grammys haphazardly scattered on a shelf, and a big clear desk in the middle of the room, where a dark haired guy in a white suit lounges. He looks to be about thirty or so, and appears perfectly human.

He looks up in obvious surprise at the entrance, but less with any indication of being affronted, so much as just entirely bewildered by the fact that anyone would just be walking in unannounced. His eyes slide from one of them to the next as they keep filing in. ]

... Annnnd what the hell is the Macy Day's parade doing in my office?

[Des purses his lips and whistles.] So. This is what "not being in" looks like. I expected more mini golf with Solo cups. [He nudges Dumage forward in a 'your up' gesture. He'll come in if she crit fails her bluff check. HE CAN'T DO ALL THE WORK. GOD. Plus Dumage has a vagina.

Vaginas are very persuasive.]

[ Burt clucks his tongue, leaning back and snapping a finger in Des' direction. ] Actually, I use solid gold ashtrays for that shit, but good guess.

We could hardly expect anything less. [ Dumage takes her cue and sliiides forward, one hand on her hip. ] You'll have to forgive his complete lack of manners.

Actually, I tend to shy away from forgiveness. [ He waves a hand at his neck. ] Sticks in my throat. Doctor's orders. [ And his eyes rake shamelessly up and down Dumage. ] Well, hello. Can I interest you in spending some quality time in Fiji? [ He gestures at the mini-bar across the way. ] I've even got some of those little umbrellas, we could really class the fuck out of it. You and me. Tete a tete. What do you say?

As delightful as that sounds, darling, we're here on business. I can assure you we only need a few moments of your--

[ Annnd with Dumage's less than impressive Diplomacy check, he cuts her right off. ] I'm gonna stop you right there before you get the fuck ahead of yourself and say "time", because I can assure you, sweetheart, that my time is way more money than you can afford. In fact, my left nutsack probably has a net worth of your whole little cadre here combined, so how 'bout this: [ He slips one hand under the receiver of the phone beside him, pulling it off the hook and hitting the speaker button. A voice immediately says: "Mr. Becksworth?" and he continues without taking so much as a beat. ]

Yeah, Clint, hey, how's it hangin'. Listen, why don't you have security get their fucking asses in gear and do their job for once in their lives. I've got some walk-ins and I think it's been made p-r-e-t-t-y fucking clear that I don't do walk-ins, so send an officer or three up, why don't you? Good? Good.

[ His finger slides off the button, but after only a moment, he clicks it again, holding it there. ] ... Make one a surprise stripper. [ Annnd he disconnects once more, before looking at the group again. ]

Alright, with their less than stellar record, I'm guessing you've got five minutes, tops.

Wow me.

[ Finnick figures now is not the time to ask if the bar actually is Fiji (HE CAN'T HELP HIS UPBRINGING, OKAY).

He sure was hoping it wouldn't come to this, though. Just because I make fun of him and call him the Sparkling Diamond in brackets doesn't mean he's Nicole Kidman ...

He'll keep acting cool tho. ] I guess that means you'll want me to sing, doesn't it?

[please say no.]

[ Finnick speaking up peels Burt's attention off Dumage's curves, and he... actually does a double-take. ]

Now that is what I call some flawless fucking bone structure. [ In moments, he's on his feet, steering around the table, and gesturing towards Finnick. ] C'mere. Don't be shy. Unless that's your image, in which case, let's keep it 'shy but will be fuck you crazy in the bedroom'. [ He comes to a halt in front of him, squinting as he slowly looks at him from various angles. ] ...Move over Timberlake, we've got a live one.

Let's hear it.

[Yeah all this objectification is about par for the course for Finnick's life. Which is probably a good thing in this instance, because if nothing else he is spectacularly good at it. He comes close as per request, and lets Burt take in his beauty.

He doesn't actually ... know any songs anyone here would be familiar with. .o. Oh well it'll just seem like he ~wrote it himself~. He launches into some crappy Capitol pop song that's about as deep and meaningful as Ke$ha's discography. He gets a 14, which means he sounds about as talented as Ke$ha too. Just think of the wonders of autotune!]

Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't blow your load all over my carpet, I just cleaned these. Or... someone else a lot poorer who speaks more Spanish did. Same thing. [ He holds his hand up to cut Finnick off. ]

Ever meet an autotuner, kid? Man's best fucking friend. Best thing to happen to the mainstream music industry since lip syncing.

[ He pushes Finnick aside, as if he's done with his life for the moment, turning to the others. ]

Who's the manager? [ His gaze rakes across them, and he points at each one of the women in turn. ]

... too sexy... too angry... too - if I were to use the phrase "Nubian princess" would that be offensive or charming? Fucking 21st century PC bullshit, can't keep up. I'm aiming for a compliment here. [ He turns from Martha to consider Des. ] You. Fluffy. What's your story? [ Immediately, he waves a dismissive hand. ] Scratch that, no one cares. Come on, have a seat, shut the door. You just earned yourselves an extra five minutes in Fiji. [ He turns around, heading back towards his desk. ]

Damn. I had a good one too. [He snaps his fingers sardonically and then plops down.] Look, buddy. We picked this kid off the streets. He was a one-way ticket to being a contender on those prissy little pop idol shows, driving all the little tweens to burn up Mommy and Daddy's phone lines while they wept openly every Tuesday night over how beautiful he is. So here I am thinking, "Do I really want Seacrest rubbing all over this kid? Or do I want to cut out the middle man?"

[Shrug] Personally, if you tell us no, I'm all for throwing him back into the shark-infested reality show waters. Wouldn't you hate to be the guy who almost signed him?

[/drops nat 20's like it's hot.]

You severely overestimate my capacity for regret. [ But. ]

Tell you what. [ He nods his head towards Kat, towards the bar. ] Mix us some drinks, sugar, the men have to have some words. [ And he looks past Des to Finnick once more. ] You got a name, kid?

Suck my dick. [ Kat: Master of Undercover Diplomacy. ]

[Wow um ok Kat. Maybe if Finnick is sexy enough Burt won't notice Kat being a femnazi. He'll just take a seat and sit all sprawled out like a whore. And, use his sex kitten voice to say] Finnick.

[ Burt grins wildly at her comment, nodding towards Finnick. ] Think everybody in this room would rather suck his, if we're getting a choice of phalluses. [ Annnnd he's going to ignore her feminazi life now, yep. Which will probably just piss her off more but w/e. ]

I meant your real name.

[omg wtf. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH PANEM'S NAMING SYSTEM OKAY. the one where they just name their children based off their profession/whatever is sitting next to them when they give birth. But whatever. He's flexible /insert double entendre.]

I had it changed.

Stick with me, and it'll not only be changed, but buried in a nuclear disposal unit and launched into space.

Alright, fine Finnick. Let's cut to the chase.

[ He spreads his hands across the glass surface, opening his palms upwards and shrugging. ]

I can light a fire so far up the ass of your star that it'll blow its colon out. And that, my friend, will make you one filthy fucking rich son of a whore.

Here's the thing: this whole money can't buy happiness shit? Goddamn horse manure. Happiness is over-fucking-rated. Big tip: the goal of life has zero to do with happiness. Why? Because man's inherently a greedy piece of shit. Find me a happy man that's got nothing to bitch about, and I'll eat my fucking grammy collection and shit you some gold bars.

What people want, more than anything, is to be entertained. And that's not about them being happy, it's about watching other fuckers live it up in a world that's more glamorous, more important, more sexy, more balls to the wall epicthan this shithole we live in could ever hope to be. Heroes, villains, happy fucking endings, life ruining career wrecking swan dives, and full cycle redemption and rehab: that's the shit dreams are made of.

It's not reality, it's more than that. It's everything we wish reality was, so that every fucking thing we do can mean something. We manufacture that beautiful thing called hope - the American dream. God. Whatever you wanna call it. Meaning to every shitbag's existence. People don't want reality, because reality...fucking bites. So here's the deal: you sign with us, you're not signing up to be a singer. You're signing up to be a goddamn modern day deity, by doing whatever the fuck I tell you to do, going where I point you to go, and selling what I want you to sell. And between the two of us, we can pour a little meaning into this world. But I don't go half ass, and I don't let my boys either. You're in, you're all in.

[Oh Burt. You. Have. No. Idea. His words resonate, and not in a good way. Because it's true, he knows that it's true, and it's sickening and a little disheartening to have to hear it all over again in a place where he thought it was ~different~. And here he was, in the exact same position he was in at home. The flirty mindgame shit so far was okay, it was nothing, but this felt like the exact same "sell us your soul" situation that Snow put him in. (At least Burt was prettier ... ??)

But, it's just a game. And it's a game he excels at. So even though he's having PTSD inside, he can keep his act together and pretend he no curr.]

Whatever you want. You can be assured I won't disappoint.

[Why the fuck were they even here again???]

[ As Burt leans across the table to extend his hand for a shake, Kat darts forward, lowering her hand between them. ]

Not so fast. Why should we sign up with you, instead of your brother? [ At least someone remembers why we're here. ]

[ His expression immediately alters, darkening with something much more than annoyance. ]

Because he's enough of a douchenozzle to make me look like the fucking Snuggle bear? Chad's a definitive cuntsicle and, I might add, on the fast track to the loony bin lately.

[Sing-song] I smell hot gossip.

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