I'll find my soul as I go home, Tag: open!

There were some people who stayed in their own Family’s territory. Never ventured outside, locked their windows at night. Landon Turnbull was not one of these people. On the contrary, Landon invited trouble. Welcomed it with open arms. Trouble wrote stories. The worst day of Landon’s life would be the day total peace settled over London and unicorns danced on shimmering rainbows. Just the thought was enough to almost make him want to relieve his stomach of the expensive martini he’d been sipping all night. Almost. He took another sip as he pushed with way through the writhing crowd of hip-hop, doped-up, wide-tailed and bushy-eyed hipsters.

So maybe Landon was a smidgeon too old for this crowd. And he knew it. But this was nothing new to him…he had always felt just a little too old for this crowd. Could never quite understand the appeal of covering yourself in sticky, electric colored paint. Not Landon Turnbull, the boy who knew that the dinner fork went on the inside, the salad fork went on the outside, and the desert fork laid over the top of the plate. It wasn’t that he was particularly opposed to getting messy (though he was), it was more just that he couldn’t really let himself get “swept up in the spirit of the moment” like that. Or whatever spirit it was that made boys decide it was okay to let their hair get that long and natty. Something utterly demonic, no doubt…

It wasn’t the demons he’d come here for, anyway. At least, not in the religious sense. He’d gotten a tip that a British pop star was supposed to show her ugly face here tonight, incognito, of course, and so here he was, like a cat prowling an empty rat nest, waiting for those little whiskers to show. And if he was lucky, waiting for the little whiskers to get smashed out of her mind, cause a scene, and hopefully kiss someone’s boyfriend. Another sip from his drink, as his eyes scanned the sea of people, hunting.—

“Landon?” Despite the loud beat of the noise throbbing like blood through the veins in the walls, Landon made the mistake of turning to the sound of his name. The voice belonged to a woman by the name Cathy Perez, who looked very beautiful when she didn’t have that god awful sneer stamped on her face. She was big around these parts, hosted a lot of big events for big crowds. At least, she used to be big…until The London Pulse published a nasty little rumor about her. “It is you!” She snapped, now that she had his gaze. “You cowardly fucking little prick! What balls do you have, showing up around here—!”

A small wall of people separated them, and Landon used that to his advantage. He pointed at his ears, then shouted back at her, over the din of the noise, “Can’t hear you, darling. Lovely to see you, though.” And with that, he stepped away, turning his back from her and moving quickly away from the crowd, back towards the safety of the bar where he’d been perched for the majority of the night. He could still make out the shrill screeches of her wet blanket threats behind him. “Bloody cow,” he muttered to himself as he finished off his drink, setting it down on the bar with a couple pounds on the table. With that, he turned tail and headed for the loo.

He had only just started unbuckling his pants when two men pushed in as well, occupying the free urinals on either side of him. They were both stocky boys, built like lumberjacks, really, one about the same height as Landon, the other a good head taller. He felt the taller one’s eyes on him before he heard him say, “you know that girl out there?”

Urinal gossip. There was really no place Landon could go to escape it, could he? He drew gossip like moths to a flame. “Cathy Perez?” He said, nonchalantly over the sound of piss hitting porcelain.

“Yeah, her. What do you know about her?”

“The same thing everyone else knows.” Landon tucked himself back in his pants, glancing down to fit his belt back through the buckle. “She’s a social slut who whores herself around for the attention.”

“Why don’t you lay off it, mate?” said the guy on Landon’s other side.

He couldn’t help but give a snort of amusement at that. “Oh, what are you, her boyfriend?” One look from the man in question told Landon all he needed to know. He let out a bitter breath of a laugh, then said, simply, “Well, that’s just not fair.”

Fair or not, they were suddenly on him. Grabbing him, shoving him back into the wall. He was winded, but somehow not surprise—he’d had a twisting in his gut the moment they’d stepped in the room. He was paranoid enough to always anticipate the worst of a situation. He managed to hit the smaller guy across the face, but it was really just to bide his time—before too long, he was on the ground. And he wasn’t even fighting, not really, anyway. The familiar self-defensive gestures—protect the face, pull up the knees. He had some muscle, he could’ve knocked one of them to the ground and made a run for it. But it was hardly the first time Landon had gotten “jumped” by someone who was less-than-pleased with his writing, and hardly the last time it would happen. So he’d learned to, quite literally, roll with the punches. Never mind that there was a small part of him that secretly craved them—that rush of adrenaline, that quick breath, that metallic taste in his mouth. The feeling of being relegated to the floor, down where an arrogant prick like him belonged, under heavy heels and boot tips. Because those cold tiles, that sharp pain of being kicked while down, and that ugly burn of shame felt a little like home, a little like that Cogney boy who hated the scene and hated the bright lights and still woke himself up every other night shouting for his mum.

They didn’t stick around for long. Just enough to get him down and give him something to remember them by. The boyfriend left a few ugly words that were supposed to sound something like a threat, but Landon’s heart was beating in his ears to hard for him to hear a thing. He might’ve taunted them on for more if the last kick hadn’t scuffed him in the jaw and caught him in the windpipe, forcing Landon to choke and gasp on his breath as he pushed himself back up on his knees. Right. Just another day in the office for Landon Cogney-Turnbull.

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Notes: Open to anyone! Don't feel pressure to match the length, I just rambled.

Colin had seen many of the most wretched, vile places that graced the surface of this earth; starting out as a runt reporter, it came with the territory. The senior staff would always pin the most undesirable jobs on the interns, and he had certainly had his fair share of lowly, despicable tasks back in his day. Ethos brought back a fresh stream of memories from that time. Not that it was particularly dodgy in any way, but it wasn’t a place Colin would normally be caught dead in unless his job required it of him. Techno music? Neon lighting? His temples were throbbing - a tell-tale sign of a migraine underway – before he had even entered the building.

As it happened, Colin was meeting up with someone here whom he had long been hoping to get an interview with. No, it was not on line with the Watergate interviews of anything even remotely politically oriented or even somewhat useful. She was a popstar, the winner of one of those dime-a-dozen talent shows that were all the hype these days. There was nothing unusual about that – the young lady in question, however, had managed to attract the full attention of the media world with her wild, and quite blatant, drinking and drug habits. The typical case of fame-got-to-her-head and now life’s one long party without ever looking back. The tragic thing was, that she had a kid with Down’s Syndrom back at home that was being raised by its elderly grandma living on welfare … A real sob-story, in short. And one he hoped to get his hands on in a full hour-long, one on one interview with the young woman in question.

Now if he could only find her among the heap of neon-colored, sweaty, writhing bodies infesting the place. And that godawful music. The only time he felt like being aurally raped like this was … Well, never – but, he did have a fondness of rock and heavy metal when-ever he needed to clear his head; usually right before going on-air. This, however … This was torture.

After searching the place for what felt like an hour, Colin was starting to accept the fact that either he had been stood up, or his interviewee, true to fashion, had lost all sense of time and direction and was probably … Snorting coke off another woman’s chest in a completely different club. It could hardly come as a surprise.

Seeing as his evening could hardly get any worse, he decided he may as well stick around for another half an hour in the off chance that his popstar actually decided to turn up, and then maybe he would get a drink or five while he waited. He was nearing the bar (even that was a difficult feat, considering the crowd lined around the counter all fighting to flirt with the bartenders), when he felt another urge pressing on his bladder.

As he made a quick u-turn and approached the door to the men’s bathroom instead, he noted two burly-looking types making a swift exit from the room. He noted their sour expressions, but thought nothing of it, until the door swung open again and he walked in to see a man hunched over on the floor by the urinal.

His initial reaction was to rush to the man’s side, but after taking a step closer, he realised just who the sorry fellar was: Landon Turnbull, Owner of the sleaze magazine The London Pulse. And the person he begrudgingly thought of as friend. He halted in his tracks, and instead stepped around Turnbull who was still kneeling on the floor, and went straight on to the urinal, unzipped his trousers, and proceeded about his business, as if nothing was amiss.

“I do hope you remember to wash your hands after that. I don’t think this place has very high standards when it comes to sanitation.” He spoke offhandedly over his shoulder, not bothering to inquire about the well-being of the other man. He knew Landon’s tricks well enough, by now.

Despite the way his pulse thudded in his ears, Landon could hear the swing of the doors opening and closing. The initial sting of the pain was winding down, and he managed to push himself up off the ground, resting his back against the cold tiles of the wall. His tie had twisted over his shoulder and his first order of business was straightening it back out neatly down his chest, because that somehow seemed more important than assessing the minor injuries those two grunts had kicked into him. Besides, he was starting to feel it anyway with any shifted movement--the sharp pain in his gut when he twisted, the harsh burn that throbbed in his jaw and made him clench it. Fuck. He hoped that wouldn't leave a bruise. It was just all very unsightly and Landon didn't really have the time to apply women's makeup first thing in the morning to cover up the black and blue marks of the night before.

“I do hope you remember to wash your hands after that." Landon knew the voice before he spotted the face. Colin. Or, as most people knew him, the face of 10 o'clock news. He really did have the face for it, too--that manicured lawn of blonde hair, the clean shave, the "I'm the kind of man your parents want you to take home" smile. It was all very charming. Almost sickeningly so. Yet, despite himself, Landon had fallen for the charm just like every other soft little thing Colin managed to turn into a puddle of schoolgirl giggles. He liked the bloke. Even if, nine times out of ten, he was a pain in the ass. Like now. He knew Landon a little too well to indulge him in pity--after all, if you give a mouse a cookie. But that didn't mean Landon wasn't going to scowl miserably when Colin didn't do more than side-step Landon completely and head straight for the urinals.

"I don’t think this place has very high standards when it comes to sanitation,” Colin continued as he just barely recognized Landon's presence. Not that Landon wouldn't do the same--he knew he looked ridiculous, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, battered, but wearing a perfectly straight tie. It was just that Landon was sore and Colin made him feel petty on a normal night.

"You have an ugly cock." Landon spit his insult with a little blood into the urinal by his head. With that, he pushed himself to his feet, attempting to look slightly more human. Tongue running briefly along his teeth to make sure they were all in place. He moved himself over to the sinks, where he could get a proper look at himself. Nothing that couldn't be fixed, but really--did that bastard have to land the tip of his boot on Landon's jaw? A beating to the body he could take, but the face was something else entirely. Presentation was key, and right now Landon was really counting his lucky stars that Colin had been the one to find him. Or, at least, he should have been counting them. Instead, he turned on the tap, rinsing his hands and face, and took out his spite on the other man.

"What're you doing here anyway, going through a midlife crisis? I didn't realize 16 year old punk girls were your style." Landon splashed water over his face as he worked his mouth briefly, trying to stretch his jaw. A sharp pang of pain whipped up the side of his face, he winced. "Seeing as I suddenly look like the wrong end of a crack addict and your 16 year old can't sit at the bar anyway, I think you have to buy me a stiff drink." It wasn't like Landon couldn't pay for his drink. He could pay ten drinks for all the pretty girls at the bar, and he often did, just to show off. It was just that Colin was too often "the good boy", and Landon liked to make him suffer for it now and then.

An involuntary snort escaped him at Landon’s remark about his nether regions. Though obviously meant to scathe, the tone of the other man’s voice was enough to put a smile on his face – pitiful and deflated as it was. It seemed someone was suffering from a bruised ego … No doubt because said someone had just moments before had their arse handed to them by two dumb jocks … At least, Colin assumed so. It was always dumb jocks … Or dumb rednecks … Or dumb bodybuilders … Landon had a flair for attracting the attention of all the dumbest low-lives in the city. It came with his personality: Crude and unregretful. No one really liked hearing the truth about themselves, and especially not when it was served with little effort at tact or compassion. Although Landon could certainly be charming – Colin suspected that was the only reason he hadn’t wound up at the bottom of the Thames yet.

“ - There goes my plans of retiring from that News gig and becoming a world-famous porn star. Pity.”

He appreciated Mr. Turnbull’s forward manner. It was very refreshing given the bunch of brown-nosers Colin was usually surrounded by at his workplace; everyone fighting to climb the social ladder and using every conceivable means to advance their own positions … He could’ve told them it was all for naught, that nothing really changed no matter how high up you got, there would always be someone else more influential, more powerful above you who had the final say. Then again … That would ruin all the fun he was having with foiling his co-workers’ aspirations, and that would just be tragic.

He zipped his pants and moved to join Landon by the sinks. He grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and used it to turn the tap controlling the warm water. There was nothing Colin hated more than public toilets. He wasn’t a germofobe per se, but places such as this just made his spine tingle and his toes curl – probably because of the fact that about 95% of all surfaces in men’s restrooms were covered in urine stains, if one was to believe the statistics. So it was with great care to not touch any of said surfaces he now washed his hands.

“Please,” he replied at Landon’s taunting, as he tried to both make sure his tie didn’t get wet while also lathering his hands with soap. “Half the girls in there haven’t even developed breasts yet. I feel like a paedophile just being here. No, I’ve apparently been stood up. I was supposed to meet someone here for an interview.”

He finally finished and turned the tap again with another paper towel. As he proceeded to dry his hands, he finally turned and looked up at Landon, one brow furrowed as he assessed the damage.

“- And you? I assume you’re not just here for a date with those two chaps back there? They seemed pretty exclusive … And I know how you hate to be the third wheel.”

Noting Landon’s grimace as he attempted to stretch his jaw, Colin smirked. Just a little.

“I hate to say it, but no amount of alcohol is gonna save your sorry face. But, alright – let’s go, then. Drinks are on me. Though I doubt they even know how to pour a proper martini in this place.”

As Landon was dripping pinkish drops of water into the sink, he noticed Colin sidle up next to him, washing his hands. He briefly took note of every one of Colin's actions--first step, rip off a square of paper towel. Step two, turn the tap with the paper towel to avoid any contaminants. Step three, lather the hands thickly with soap, and rinse all while keeping the tie from getting wet. And all this was done without a second's thought or hesitation, instinctual. It came from a place of wealth and good upbringing--Colin Day was clearly out of his element in the dingy club bathroom and every single one of his movements said: I am better than this.

It wasn't so much his actions as it was the complete ease he did them with that made Landon grimace. He wanted that. That aristocratic air, the silver spoon in his mouth. And for the most part, Landon had that. He faked it well. He knew how to smile, how to wear his suits, how to say all the right things to the right people and insult those under your boot tips. But it was always a work in progress, and Landon knew there were little hints here and there that gave him away as the lying little cheat that he was. Paper towels to work the faucets. He'd have to remember that. For now, he flipped them with his bare hands and ripped a jagged swath of paper towel from the dispenser, patting his face dry.

Colin went on to tell him how he'd been stood up for an interview. Landon half wondered if it hadn't been the dog of a woman who'd gotten him in this mess in the first place, but he decided to hold his tongue. “--And you?"" Colin pressed. "I assume you’re not just here for a date with those two chaps back there? They seemed pretty exclusive … And I know how you hate to be the third wheel.”

"You know me. I follow the yellow shit road of chaos and mayhem." Landon hastily balled up his paper towel and tossed it in the trash. "Now about that drink."

Of course, Colin folded and offered to buy drinks. If there was a sympathetic bone in Landon's body, he was sure it was probably fractured somewhere in his nose along with the rest of the bruising. One more look in the mirror--his tie was in place, his white shirt was spotted with little wet spots from the water, and his face still looked like it'd been through the ringer even if he had stopped the bleeding. All the little details that would irk him until he'd had a couple drinks in him and forgot about the pain of a damaged white shirt.

Landon pushed himself out of the bathroom, back into the throng of the crowd. The music was thudding hard, you could feel it vibrating in the walls. The place was swamped with jailbait and pink hair and absurdly over-applied layers of mascara, giving Landon the impression he was surrounded by a clan of ill-intentioned raccoon babies. He elbowed them aside to get to the bar, which stood out like a haven. A mirage in the desert. Landon eased himself down on the barstool and let Colin order martinis for the both of them. "Hell hath no fury like a scorned fucking women. Remember that," Landon mused once they were both settled. "Though I can't imagine you have many a scorned women in your pocket. They leave your bedroom with a goodie-bag and a balloon animal, don't they?"