Silly one-shot. Shelly de Killer and his client engage in a more personal sort of conversation. Major spoilers for Farewell, My Turnabout.
“Shelly, my man,” Engarde announced, refilling his second glass of brandy with a flourish, “There is a certain matter that I need some consultation on.”
Shelly de Killer had already begun to rise from his seat, with the contact sealed; his mouth twitched in faint disapproval at his client’s spectacular failure to address him by the chosen alias of the night. Nonetheless, he relaxed again, hands folded neatly on the table before his own emptied glass.
“And that matter would be, Mr. Engarde?”
“Well, you see,” Engarde said slowly, drawing out every word for dramatic emphasis, “I’m sure you know this as well as anyone else, dude, but you know, a man’s got needs. You follow me?”
De Killer nodded. He was quite knowledgeable regarding the subject of a man’s needs. Oxygen, for instance, was a particularly useful necessity that could be most easily and exquisitely cut off should the occasion arise. Nutrients, as well, should there be some reason to kill a man in a slower, more torturous manner. And though it wasn’t his preference, he could name some dozen easily targeted internal organs that most would find themselves in an immediate and pressing dilemma if damaged.
Engarde’s eyes were alight with his fervor, speaking more rapidly, encouraged by the assassin’s show of comprehension.
“And let’s say there’s a certain person regularly around who is perfectly capable of fulfilling these needs but for some bizzaro reason opts not to.” He shook his head, crossing his arms, visibly baffled. “I mean, what the hell, right? Just look at this handsome face. Even you would tap this if you had the chance, don’t deny it.”
De Killer paused. He felt an acute headache coming on. “Mr. Engarde, I am afraid I am not quite familiar with the bizarre vernacular with which--”
“Adrian, man, I’m talkin’ about Adrian!” Engarde gesticulated wildly to emphasize his point, as though this would magically create recognition towards the name. “Killer looks, I’m telling you, but man, what a stick up that finely toned ass.” He frowned, suddenly, struck with a thought. “Uh, that’s an idiom, dude. Not sayin’ Adrian looks like you. Totally doesn’t, in point of fact. FYI.”
As Engarde waited for a response, de Killer took a well-earned moment to polish his beloved monocle, digesting the perfectly unnecessary additional knowledge he now had about his client’s private habits. He could see that if he didn’t take his leave soon, it was going to be a dreadfully long night. His client leaned back, eyebrows quirked, brushing an invisible speck of dust off the cuffs of his racing jacket.
“So, like, what’s your take, dude?”
“So you are attempting to seduce this… Adrian.”
“Dude, like, how many times do I gotta say it?”
He considered for a long moment, replacing the monocle. Then, finally:
“…I cannot say that this is my field of expertise, Mr. Engarde.”
“What are you sayin’?” He leaned forward with a very earnest sort of leer. It was this same show of characteristics that had convinced de Killer that he was trustworthy enough to provide service for. However, as far as day-to-day interaction was concerned, he found he was left reminiscing to his experiences conversing with some of his prior, more refined associates. And possibly plants. “Aren’t you guys supposed to, like, I dunno, be able to play all kinds of crazy mind tricks on your targets? That’s what all the movies say. I should know, I’ve acted in some of ’em, I'm like a total veritable expert on the subject by now. So I know you’re hiding a killer mind beam or dude even like a mind ray behind those cheesy stitches, dude, so don’t tell me you can’t give provide a guy some thought as to how to acquire a choice piece of tail.”
A moment of weighted deliberation passed in which Shelly de Killer carefully choose his next words.
“I assure you that I am quite sincere when I say I have little advice to offer you on these particular concerns.”
Engarde let out a contemplative, sullen sort of hmph. At the very least, he seemed sharp enough to detect the finality set in that statement.
“Geez,” he said, lips turning downwards in a disappointed pout, “You mean it? What are you good for then?” His eyes lit, enlightenment dawning on his features with a snap of the fingers. “Oh, right. Killing people. Nevermind, my bad.”
At that, de Killer rose sharply from his seat, his patience now outright tried. Well-meaning and riddled with unnatural lusts though the action star might be, he was not about to allow him to compromise his anonymity by way of foolish verbal meandering in a place like this. “Mr. Engarde--”
“Whatever, man. I see how it is. It was a mistake to ask your type in the first place.” Engarde waved him off, draining his glass in a few choice swallows. “See you in a week. I can work out a way to get laid all by my lonesome.” He tilted the glass forward in his hands, casting it a mournful look. “Lonesome, dude. I’m telling you.”
Taking this as a dismissal at last, de Killer quietly donned his coat and gloves, exiting the bar and welcoming the relative peace of the night outside. He had the fulfillment of a contract to prepare, and his client’s personal preferences were of no concern to him, extravagantly deviant though they might be. Adrian, indeed.
No matter. Whatever happened to, he believed the expression was, float one’s boat.