Claude Bérubé (
downplaying) wrote2014-04-02 05:32 pm
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Entry tags:
(( LOG : liquor ))
[Characters:] Claude & Jean Louis
[Date:] 31.12.2017 / 01.01.2018
[Summary:] Oh God, they are so drunk.
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[He's drunk. So drunk. He's not stupid, he feels it in his fingers, he feels it in his toes... Nevertheless, he abandons Vincent in Mireille's otherwise wholly engaging company, in order to cross the room to where Jean Louis has just poured himself another shot of their most expensive whiskey (a gift he's brought himself) and sit down next to the other man. Vincent's boss. Their once so highly profiled State Minister. Icarus fell, huh?]
You better have brought us something good.
[He gestures to the bottle of whiskey, half-empty already next to Jean Louis' full glass.]
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It's excellent. I don't buy...
[Pause as he searches for a better word than 'crap'. Because he's not ten years old. His brain won't cooperate, however, and he ends up just staring at the glass in front of him some more.]
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[Claude is happy to be of service and fill in with the missing terminology as the silence begins stretching into awkwardness. Looking Jean Louis up and down, he realises immediately that the man is even more drunk (drunker?) than he is himself which is never a good sign, except in this case it might be - because if Jean Louis Duroc is relaxed enough in their company to drink himself under, then they've done something right.
Also, he could answer and include Vincent in the conversation, their one common link, but he has other plans and besides, where would the fun be in that? He's up for a challenge.]
Hey, tell me something... Do you think I could ask you a question you haven't heard before?
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Hardly. [He sips his whiskey. Again.] But go on, let's have a laugh.
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Sexy, really.]
Okay. Why are you a good politician?
[The question, of course, is whether Jean Louis is a good politician, but that's not the deal right now. The deal is how broad his shoulders look in that dark shirt of his... Yum.]
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To be very honest, I'm not sure good is the right word. [Anisette is a good politician. Jean-Paul will be good, in time. Potos is not a good politician. None of it applicable to him, at the base of it.] But I'm efficient and, more importantly, I keep my promises to my voters. It's not really about being good, Claude, it's about being trustworthy.
[He takes a pause for another sip. And a breath, probably.]
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You sound rehearsed, Jean Louis. I bet it's a question people have asked you a hundred times before or am I wrong?
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No, they definitely have. [He shrugs, the movement just a bit more casual than usually.] Apparently, people are very confused as to why they keep voting for me.
[Said with a chuckle. People are, as always, sheep.]
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It really is just a matter of time. Next time, we're kicking out the LSP, no doubt about it.
[And won't that be satisfying. They've been watching Potos make terrible decisions for far too long.]
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[Inch. Iiiiiinch. The legs of their chairs are touching now. Claude lets his eyes run down Jean Louis' face, down over his somewhat coarse features. His olive skin. The broadness of his upper arms in that shirt of his. A whole other deal than this terrible whiskey, quality or not. Vincent won't mind, will he? After all, he takes no interest in the man himself - Heaven knows why not, he takes an interest in so many other men, some of them far worse than Jean Louis - so Claude's sure he can be allowed a little latitude tonight. Only New Year's once a year.]
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I'd make you a list if all his decisions weren't so forgettable. The man's not even trying, it's ridiculous.
[He shakes his head, sipping his whiskey again. And again. Every time he blinks, the world takes an extra second to stabilise itself; but well. It's good alcohol, what can he say.]
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Of course he is. That's what makes it so sad.
[Have mercy on him, Left Wing Gods. He'll vote for you again come the next elections.]
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No, Potos is simply too old for politics. He was marginally less annoying - [His words slur a bit at that - too many syllables] - ten years ago.
[Granted, the man wasn't actually head of state back then. Someone else was. Someone much better suited. Dear God, why hasn't someone voted him back in power yet? It's a waste.]
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When you were still the man holding the reins, right?
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Things were better. [His expression darkens a fraction.] What's worse, I doubt the voters have had enough of the LSP. The polls don't lie.
[His glass is almost empty now. He looks its contents over, thinking about filling it up again. He's already drunk, though. And security isn't overly good tonight, what with Marcel out, probably sleeping his way through the whole underground. Decisions, decisions.]
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[A beat. He's drunk, so the anger still lingering after Vincent's and his prolonged crisis surges a bit faster, rising in his throat like a heartburn. He tampers it down again, making good use of the beat it created. The pause. Turning it rhetorical.]
I am sorry about that, naturally.
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[He doesn't really care whether or not Claude's sorry about something that wasn't, ultimately, his decision. Mireille did that. To the polls. The months following that book were... difficult between them. To put it mildly. Pouring himself another glass, he remembers something and smiles. Thinly.]
It was quite a circus, wasn't it? Vincent certainly did his best, taking the sting out of your little stunt.
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[It doesn't make him stop smiling. Rather, it makes his smile broaden and he leans in another inch and then another on top of it, so that he's actually close enough to the other man to be able to smell his cologne. Mmn. Expensive stuff. Just as rotten as his whiskey, but nice to look at, isn't that the best way to sum Jean Louis Duroc up?
His little stunt. Fuck him. Yes, please.]
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Least of all you. [This time, it's not a glance but a solid look, eyes narrowed and mouth curved upwards in a slight smile.] You must have been expecting the backlash from the beginning, of course. Ambition and ruthlessness are so very similar.
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I wrote the book to change people's view on Mireille. How they view you as a result -- Yeah, I suppose I couldn't care less.
[A shrug and a smile. If Jean Louis can be charming being an arsehole, so can he.]
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Mireille's image is probably beyond saving. [He laughs. It's not a very pleasant sound but neither is it thoroughly mocking. After all, she's his wife. He doesn't want her to be unhappy. In general.] I could have told you, Claude. Next time, keep yourself better informed.
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You know. Mireille and I spent a lot of time talking about you. I think I'm decently well informed.
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Meaning what?
[Deciding that the verbal implications outweigh the physical ones (he's not sure what to think about that in any case), he doesn't move, eyes narrowing to slits.]
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So. Claude goes in for the kill. Reaching out his free hand and placing it, quite squarely, on Jean Louis' thigh. Far up. Faaaar up.]
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Expression freezing into something caught between surprise and a ton of belated realisations (about this entire conversation, from start to finish), he stares at Claude with something close to actual horror. He's so drunk, however, that it takes him several additional seconds to react, setting the whiskey glass on the table with a dull thud, hand shaking only slightly, thank you.]
Excuse me.
[And that's him, pushing his chair out. And away. Far, far away, managing by some miracle not to topple it over in the process.]
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The man's hot, but disgusting. Funny how a mix like that only works when you're too drunk to stand (and no, he's not going to make the attempt). He really hopes they lose the elections this year. Really, really hopes.
Sorry Vincent.]