two. video.

Jul. 2nd, 2012 08:26 pm
douchess: (suave.)
[personal profile] douchess
Hello, fake New York.

[ Sterling Archer -- greatest secret agent (in at least one universe), god of sex, god of beautiful hair -- purrs the words. He lounges in a leather armchair with an empty glass in one hand and an unlabeled bottle of champagne in the other.

He wears a bath robe.

Something is missing in your life. You know it. I know it. And if you're a woman, aged 18 to 29, that something might just be yours truly. Sterling Archer. Secret agent.

[ He leans over casually, smoothly, and pours himself a drink. Then he sips. Savors. ]

Aah yes. Picture the warm, soothing bubbles of my hot-tub caressing your skin, that steaming liquid carrying away all your worries like some kind of magical train to ... [ uh ] ... worryville, never to be seen again. Afterwards, perhaps we could share a bottle of fine champagne. See where the night takes us.

If you don't fit into the above category, your life probably sucks assmonkeys and I'm sorry. But perhaps you could enjoy that fine champagne anyway.

[ Archer snaps his fingers and, at once, two scantily clad women emerge from off-screen. They gyrate, with some enthusiasm. ]

L'essence d'Archer. At $800 dollars a bottle, it's almost as good as having sex with me. Which is still totally an offer for you ladies, by the way. Caaan't afford these two forever.

[ The women continue to gyrate. ]

No offense.

Anyway, I'm also looking for a manservant. So, uh. Applications here. I guess.


one. voice.

May. 9th, 2012 04:11 pm
douchess: (ring ring idiot alert.)
[personal profile] douchess
[The low chatter of a restaurant. The clink of glasses.]

First order of business: don't work with cyborgs, maaaaaay make an exception for that one.

Second order of business: the important matter of my paycheck. I mean, seriously, 200 dollars a week? [No one tell him it's 200 dollars a month, okay.] This is Sterling Archer of ISIS, not Homeless Mc.Homeless Person of-- wherever. Jesus, I can't even replenish my supply Glennfiddich with--

[His head turns from the communicator.]

Oh, uh actually, if you could just send a bottle of Glennfiddich to my table? Yeah, the whole bottle.

[And back.]

--with that shitty-ass salary. Hey, Obi-Wan. Bzz bzz. You've only summoned the most dangerous secret agent in the whole world to help you with your vague as hell crisis. You could at least pay me something that doesn't feed pigeons.

And, uh, maybe bring Woodhouse, too, because I've already gotten kicked out of. Like. Five restaurants. You don't want me to starve to death. Right? Yeah?

Third order of business--


But seriously, does anyone else think the cyborg sounds kind of hot? I don't know how she greets all of you losers, but I'm sensing some real potential from her end, if you know what I mean. I mean, you should've heard her. Ha ha ha. Welcome to the city, Hero. Ha ha ha.


She totally wants me.

(ooc: please comment to the 4th walling permissions post before tagging!)


capeandcowl: (Default)

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