backatthehotel: (Accomplished in six stages [syd])
[personal profile] backatthehotel
They're making us fight. I didn't do well. [His voice is tight with pain.]

I, uh. They were yelling. At me. Calling me.

...were we here before? I've never. I'd never.

When I lost. I tried to go to the medics... but the crowd. So they didn't, they just -- they just threw me to the side.

[A deep breath. A slight laboured rasp to it. A few long seconds, and he tries again.]

Is there anyone. Who knows how to splint broken fingers. I need instruction.


((Pink's New Vesuvius backstory is here, if anyone feels like enlightening him. cw for murder/suicide.))
backatthehotel: (Fading roots)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[The voice may sound familiar to some -- maybe they know their prog rock, or maybe they've just been here for a while. Probably not, though. Either way, there's two things clear about this whoever-he-is -- he's English, and he's having a really fucking rough time. Definitely been drinking, may have been crying not too long ago. There is a click of military bootheels, as he paces across the floor. Wherever he is, there's too much background noise, the wrong kind of background noise, for it to be the MAC.]

I'd heard, y'know? About blokes who'd disappear, be gone for years. Then pop -- [the sound of a bubble popping] -- they're back, and it's been, what, five minutes for 'em, back home? Never figured it'd happen to me, though.

May. Twenty-fucking-thirteen. I wasn't but gone... I don't know. An hour? Too long.

[The pacing stops. A cigarette is lit. Okay. Alright.]

...Floyd here. The past year, mates. What did I miss?

And. Does anyone know who might have my cat?
backatthehotel: (Or is it just a crazy dream?)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[And here's everyone's un-favourite rock star from the seventies, in his Superjail uniform and sitting on his little prison bed. Looking exhausted and bedraggled, like he's made an effort to look presentable but isn't quite capable. He smiles for the camera, and it isn't convincing at all. Shaky and worn.]

Word's been handed down from on high. Court date set. No bail. And if you didn't see that one coming...

[Then you're fucking dense, he very nearly says. But catches himself. He runs his fingers through his tangled hair, pulling it behind his ears. Then sitting up a bit straighter.]

I want to take this time to formally distance myself from the Blue Sky Foundation, and everyone associated with it. None of them were involved with anything I may have -- allegedly done. And neither them, nor the foundation, should have to suffer through connection to me. They do good work. It should be kept that way.

Stewardship of the organization has been passed, for now, to Mr. Ziggy Stardust. I hope that his being the one who turned me in should go some way toward convincing people that he's not got anything to do with my own troubles. If it doesn't, m'not sure what to do.

[He should end it there. But instead, he sighs, and pulls a long leg up to his chest.]

...it's funny. Innit. When shit like this happens. Who'll wait, and ask questions. And who'll just jump to the worst conclusions. Tells you a great bloody lot 'bout people.

Doesn't really matter, I suppose. Still be in here, either way. But it would've been nice.

[A shrug.]

That's all. Just thought I ought to say.

[[OOC: Since he's in prison, private and encrypted replies won't work! Anything that is said is open for consumption by the general public. Cops included. If you are a cop-mun or otherwise concerned citizen and see something you'd like to follow up on, just drop a line. :D ]]
backatthehotel: (Trade your heroes for ghosts [syd])
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[There are no sounds of combat, wherever Pink is. But there is still the bustle of activity, urgent shouting in the background and people running by. He may not be in the City anymore, but wherever he is, there's still a lot going on.

When he speaks up, his voice is hoarse, like he's been doing more screaming than he's used to, and smoking his vocal cords dry. Clipped. Urgent.]


Receiving reports of a bus full of civilians pinned down in Union Square. There's at least seventy people there. They need help. Heroes.

Please.


((OOC: So, this is the distress call setting up the ambush Pink has arranged with the Major. It'll be going down here, and is a grand opportunity for your characters to get captured or killed, if you've got that in mind!))
backatthehotel: (They're gonna love you)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[Hey, look who's back! It's the Nazi the other Nazi go to hell, you can't prove anything musician with the bad taste in footware! He's looking mighty chipper, isn't he? Apparently wherever he disappeared to this past week and a half, it wasn't that bad.]

So, here's a question. What do you do when you got a friend, a dear best mate, who apparently didn't feel the need to share an important milestone with you?

Beside public shaming, of course.

[He smirks and takes a sip of his beer, then a drag off his cigarette, blowing a series of smoke rings before he starts talking again. ]

Ziggy Stardust. I know it was your birthday. I got you presents. And if you give me a good enough reason why you didn't tell me about it, I might not even tell everyone how old you are.

[Oh! And since he's here...]

Molly, love. I got you some things, too.
backatthehotel: (All aboard for the American tour)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[The comm comes on to show a dark room. Pink sitting in a chair, quietly. Then soft music starts up, gentle lights rising in sync. It's another one of those, apparently. Except the way it's set up seems -- deliberate?]

Singing happens. It's all very serious. )

[Silence. Done. A few seconds, the creak of the chair as Pink gets up to switch the comm off. There's a quiet mutter.]

And that's how you do it.
backatthehotel: (We know where you've been)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
It's funny. I've never been an honest-to-god minority before.

Don't think I much care for it, to be honest.

[Takes a drag off his cigarette.]

I have a charity. Devoted to protecting the imPort community, 'specially the ones that ain't equipped for some of the business that goes down, here. Evacuation, relocation, room and board. I been doing what I can with it, on my own. But I'm just an entertainer.

I need folks who know about strategy. Logistics. For evacuation and transport out of emergency situations. And about the nasty little details of running a business, or a charity. A bookkeeper. And, I s'pose, someone for payroll, to keep all these paid. I'll put out a general call, if I don't get any takers. But I wanna offer up to the community, first.
backatthehotel: (Animals)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[ Encrypted separately to Lisbeth and Vic & Renee ]

I'm looking for a private investigator to research a certain person in the City, and his corporate holdings. I will need this to be kept discreet.

Are you interested?
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[So here's Pink, in a carefully tidied-up apartment (a black and white cat lounging on the back of the couch!), dressed up all neat and trim, those out-of-place military boots of his even polished shiny black. Goodness, does he look pleased with himself.]

So, you know, things go to hell 'round here sometimes, right? And not all of us, we ain't the type to stick around during. Nothing wrong with that. But not all of us have got the dosh to get out of the City on our own. I realised that, this past February. And I been working on a thing, since, to try and help with that.

I just got the last of the paperwork back. The Blue Sky Foundation is official.

ooc cut, words happened )

[This actually manages to be a charming sort of smile. Wow.]

To kick things off, we'll be hosting a fundraising event next Saturday, the fourteenth. It'll be forty dollars at the door, which includes a raffle entry to win some brilliant prizes. There'll also be refreshments by [local catering company] and Pinkberry Frozen Yogurt, a cash bar, and entertainment including myself, Ziggy Stardust, and Zatanna Zatara. It'll be a fantastic time for a fantastic cause.

And I hope to see as many of you there as can make it.

[Deep breath. In and out. Phew. And a soft laugh.]

On that note -- anyone looking for some part-time bookkeeping work? 'cause there's an opening.


Private to Molly Hooper )
backatthehotel: (Vegetable man [syd])
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[He's sitting on the couch, the communicator perched on the arm, trained on him. A cigarette in one hand, and a beer in the other. He takes some of both, before he speaks.]

I was married for eight years. 'til just a few days before I got here, actually. [A soft laugh.] And, I was off -- on tour, or recording, or writing, or just... off. A lot. But there was still someone there. When I wanted there to be.

We drifted apart, I s'pose. We'd been drifting for a while, looking back at it. But that doesn't mean we weren't ever happy. Didn't mean I didn't fucking love her. Didn't mean she couldn't have told me she wanted to leave me, instead of going off with some creep when I was on another bloody continent... Christ.

[He taps the ash off the cigarette, onto the floor, and takes another drag, staring up at the ceiling.]

And you know, I looked -- I was curious, stupid -- I looked, to see, if she'd ever been alive, here. And, not really. But someone a lot like her. [Quiet, for a moment, then, softly --] And she'd died eleven years ago. So, there was that.

[A sigh. He pulls his legs up onto the couch, sitting on them half-lotus style.]

I don't even know -- fuck, I'm half mad. And a full mess. I shouldn't have someone else. [Addressing his 'audience' more directly] Don't get in with musicians. Worst people on the planet.

But I miss her. And I wish I could've seen her one last time.
backatthehotel: (Blue velvet trousers)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
Got myself a new watch. Lost my old one, a while back. So that's nice.

[Pink shows off a Mickey Mouse watch. And less intentionally, a cheap hotel room and a nice little bit of a tan. Three guesses where he's been during all this Skrull stuff, and the first two don't count.]

I got to thinking, on the trip back. We were lucky. We wanted to leave, an' we could. But I know there's those that couldn't. No money, nowhere to go. Too young. None of those, things that should stop someone from being safe.

If I wanted to see about doing something about that -- a collective fund, maybe, I dunno, something for the kids... Anyone who knows how this place works, could help out. Interested?


Private to Alistair )


Private to Donna Troy )
backatthehotel: (We know where you've been)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
This is just fantastic, isn't it?

Christ.

I stuck around. I thought, people these days. They've got all these ideals, this high and mighty ultra-sensitive equality bullshit. This isn't gonna get that bad. [A flat laugh.] Stupid, right? I know. But I know better, now. I got a sense of where this is going. I've read my history. And I don't have the firepower to keep myself and mine intact, if anyone decides old Pink might be one of them. I'm out of this joint, 'til you lot all figure this out. Put your money where your bleeding hearts are, or round up all your little green-skins and put a bullet in their heads.

I don't really care so long as it's something. I know which one I'm expecting, though.


Private, Encrypted to Curtis & Nero )


Private to Oswald Cobblepot )
backatthehotel: (The Wall)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
Need recommendations for the following:

Furniture stores

Hardware stores

Cleaning service

Appliance repair

Tailor


Low to middle prices, but quality
backatthehotel: (Stem the evil tide)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[Pink's apartment has been trashed. Not just dirty or disorderly. Thoroughly, deliberately deconstructed, all his things stacked up all along the walls, leaving an open, empty space in the middle of the room. The wall in his music nook has had every piece of paper torn from it, every meticulously re-written song gone.

Pink himself sits, black-clad, in the middle of it all. His messy hair has been wetted and tied back, lending him a strange, severe air. And he's got a razor in his hands, turning it over thoughtfully as he speaks.]


That feeling. [His voice is completely, perfectly calm.] When you've forgotten something important. And then you remember it.

What do you do, after?
backatthehotel: (Empty spaces)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
Text, private to Tank )


The next day, another text )


[That night. Voice. Public.]

Hey. Anyone who knows Tank. Punky Aussie bird. You seen her round, lately? Tried to get in touch with her, ain't getting nothing but dead air.
backatthehotel: (Like the skin of a dying man)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
Mate.

[His voice is clipped. More urgency in it than you usually ever hear.]

You been keeping track of the news?
ziggy_stardust: (Default)
[personal profile] ziggy_stardust
[Terrible, wobbly video. Music and conversation. A bar? The screen steadies slightly, focusing on a grinning couple of rock stars, who both look like they've already had a few.]

Payday!

Yessss! Mm. Help us make the most of it?

[Ziggy, in his pure white, well fitted suit and white silk tie leans heavily on Pink’s shoulder and holds up his martini glass in a toast towards the camera, giggling all the while. Pink isn't nearly as well-dressed, just slacks and a nice black shirt and a glass of whisky, but he's just about as drunk, an arm slung over Ziggy's back in a friendly effort to keep the other bloke steady.]

We'll even buy the first round. It's a celebration.

Don’t make us celebrate alone, darlings. This deserves a real party.



((Joint post between Pink --[livejournal.com profile] backatthehotel-- and Ziggy --[livejournal.com profile] screwedupeyes))
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[Pink sits in a chair, in front of a wall covered with poems. All of them handwritten on notebook paper, and stuck to the wall with thumbtacks. In the background, the stereo plays, a madman wailing nonsense.]

Been figuring out a neat little trick. Thought you boys and girls might like to see.

[He leans over, and takes two pieces of paper from the wall. He holds them up for the camera, one in each hand. Each has, it seems, half of a poem on it.]

Watch closely...

[He puts the sheets together, and waits. Like they’ve been written out in invisible ink, the verses fade, gone in seconds, leaving him holding two blank sheets of paper. He tosses them to the floor.]

You’ve gotta know where you’re from to know where you’re going. If that’s not a saying, it should be.

Anyone out there who knows about music. What can you tell me about 'The Wall'?
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
There’s a sense of theft.

[He's sitting on the floor with a guitar in his lap, picking at the strings as he talks. (His right hand is a bit stiff, it seems, but he certainly knows what he's doing.) On a wall just in view behind him are tacked a series of notebook pages, thankfully too neat and sparse to be a proper wall-of-crazy.]

Your life. Everything you've worked for. Your career, your reputation. Your sense of -- of personhood, if you're real lucky. And you're just... expected to deal with it. You move on, or you try to, you start fucking over, 'cause you don't have a choice. You're told. No recourse to the law. To steal a phrase. [Bitter smile.] You don't wanna think about it too hard, 'cause it won't change anything. But that doesn't make it better.

[The playing seems to be coalescing into -- something, anyway, meandering variations on a particular riff.]

Not really going anywhere with this, if you were wondering. Though I have got a question.

If there's anyone who's been here for a while, who's an artist or performer -- 'specially if you're published -- you ever had problems with things disappearing on you?

Private to Oswald Cobblepot )

Private to Ziggy Stardust, a couple hours later )
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[Pink is doing his cross-legged-on-the-floor thing, as per usual. His apartment is a bit of a mess, with clothes and newspapers and those plastic CD wrappers strewn around. And a cardboard box full of beer cans. Classy.]

So, how 'bout those of us who'd actually like to get sent off somewhere, have a little vacation?

Any way to put in a request?
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
Been keeping a running list. Of places I've gotten kicked out of.

So far... [He reads from a small notebook.]

Three libraries. Smoking.
Two libraries. Shouting.

Two corner shops. Calling someone the wrong thing.

One record store. Smoking.
One record store. Shouting.
Two record stores. Asking stupid questions.
Two record stores. Being an import. One of them said something about 'ruining their favourite album.'

One music store. Arguing with the owner.

One computer store. Breaking things. Still don't know what I touched wrong.

One apple store. Which is apparently different. Staying there too long.


[A flat little smile.] Very friendly place, the future. Fitting right in.
backatthehotel: (Default)
[personal profile] backatthehotel
[The man broadcasting, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his MAC apartment, looks kind of like he might have just wandered in off the streets, not out of the Porter. He's somewhere in his mid-thirties, and is not only sporting a worn sweatshirt that looks recently scavenged from a Salvation Army store, but also a terrible rat's nest of a perm, and he's smoking a pack of cheap cigarettes like the sooner he finishes the sooner he'll wake up and find out that this is all just a bad trip.

The jackboots, the bandage on his right hand, and the shaved eyebrows just kind of add to the look.]


Two thousand and eleven. Thought I had a long night. But I didn't fucking think it was that long.

[He goes quiet briefly, watching his cigarette burn a bit further down as he tries to collect his thoughts.]

...or maybe I’m just back to being mad. Thought about that. Don’t think so, though. I wouldn’t’ve come up with two thousand and eleven.

So. Assuming this is real.

Two thousand and eleven. [No, he can’t get over that. Stfu.]

You've got these things walking and talking like they’re people, and madmen in costumes busting up the place. You've got little -- future screen things, that everyone's pouring their hearts out to. You've got four dollars for a gallon of petrol. That's, what? Sixteen a litre? [He waves his cigarette at the camera] I paid eleven dollars for these. And there's all this rubbish on the pack.

What the hell else do I need to be ready for, in two thousand and eleven? Do they still have vinyl albums? Eight tracks? Or is everything on cassette now?

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capeandcowl: (Default)
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