Bit of Boring Eight: Murder

NOTE: Isadora from generation nine, this is the third BoB featuring her, etc. etc. ☺

   “Wait, it is Isadora Vespa you wish me to give a job for?” The burly bar owner asked, his facing twisting into a look of displeasure.

   “Yes, sir.” Leo replied, crossing his fingers behind his back.

   “I’m very good at flirting with people and getting them to spend an outrageous amount of money on unneeded pensions.” She smiled, leaning forwards so her chest was on display.

   “You owe this bar money.”

   “I don’t have money.” She replied, blatantly. “I do have other things, though.” She winked at him, placing her hands on her hips, slowly running them south, in a V shape. “I’m sure there are special tasks I could do for you.”

   “I have a wife who just had twins boys. Matteo and Fabrizio. I do not need your skills. You pay your tab, I might give you a job.”

   “But I need it, badly, sir! Please, I might be deported.”

   “Debt, no job. No debt, maybe job. Now get out.”

   “I-” Isadora began protesting but, Leo, realizing that with her temper and disdain for rejection, would probably end up been banned from the bar and have him be fired.

   “Come on.” He took her arm and began dragging her to the outdoors.

   “What am I going to do?” She exclaimed, throwing herself onto the metal patio furniture. I don’t have any other options and with no references, it isn’t like anyone else will hire me.”

   “You don’t know that. Do you have a resume? We can go around the city and drop it off at every place in town, I’m sure someone’s bound to want a highly attractive, charismatic, strong will female.”

   “Thanks Leo...” She paused, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to repay the bar, okay?”

   “Okay.” He said, hesitant to believe her.

   “Then he’ll hire me.”

   “Dora, don’t get your hopes up. He’s been known to jerk people around. Let’s hope someone else will hire you.”

   “Yeah.” She sighed, standing up. “Let’s get started; I’ll go home, change into a nice pantsuit, print out my resume, then we can go.” She forced a smile onto her face, hoping that her tone conveyed more excitement then she actually felt.

___________________

   “Has anyone called yet?”

   “No.” Isadora replied, staring blankly at her television's screen. She’d resigned herself to the fact that, considering it had been two days since she dropper off her resume, she was probably going to be deported and have to shamefully return home to Colorado, lying to her mother about where her whereabouts for the past year and a few months were. “This is a good soap opera. Very dramatic.”

   “It’s in French.” He lifted an eyebrow, looking up from the newspaper at two daytime television actresses, who could pass for models, and were currently engaged in a topless therapy session. “Why aren’t they wearing clothes?”

   “It is art, yet you’re concerned with their bodies? Leo, that’s rather-”

   “Just a question.” He glanced back down at the help needed section. “Someone’s hiring a governess.”

   “I dislike dealing with young children; they’re rather pesky.”

   “You had younger siblings, though, didn’t you care for them?”

   “That’s precisely why I dislike the idea of being someone’s governess.”

   “You cannot afford to be choosey.”

   “Surely there is something half decent. Every grocer’s, quaint shop, library, boutique, restaurant, and office has seemed to reject me, so ignore those ads. Perhaps, there’s something more suited to my skills.”

   “What are your skills? What did you do at your old job?”

   “That doesn’t concern you.” She teased, knowing that if she was willing to be more open it would be appreciated; she was grateful to Leo for offering to help, yet a lingering feeling persisted, telling her to stay hidden, for if she didn’t, would he not lose interest in her?

   "How did you write your resume?"

   "Ah, you're rather questioning, has anyone every informed you of the fact?"

   "You have, a multitude of times." He mumbled, under his breath, as she sighed, rolling her eyes.

   "I embellish."

   "You lie?"

   "Doll, you're so negative, so pessimistic. It ages you."

   "How fit are you? Do you have decent stamina?"

   "I understand that you came to my door and spoke with me immediately after I slept with the landlord's son, however I fail to see how my stamina in bed is relevant to someone who claims to be uninterested in my sex life. If you believe that I'm going to go into deep detail with you right now, when I am on the midst of being deported, you're a goddamn fool."

   "That insult is still insulting."

   "Hence the name, doll."

   "You're offending deities, do you-" She stared at him, her eyes wide, dull. She was not bothering to pay attention to his lecture, so he promptly changed subjects. "The police are hiring."

   "My track record with them is lovely. Isn't like they interrupted my morning beverage at the bar."

   "Well... What about private detective?"

   "A PI?" She raised an eyebrow, attempting to refrain from laughing. "Why do I want to be a PI?"

   "It pays well."

   "You have my interest. Continue."

   "Alina Ermenegilda wants someone to investigate a murder."

   "Murder?" he couldn't read her face, decipher the expression. Perhaps she was deeply intrigued or applaud? "Are you qualified?"
   "Please." She snorted, chuckling softly. "Qualified? Is anyone really qualified for anything?"
   "People go through extensive training, earn doctoral degrees; they're qualified."
   "Leo." SHe groaned, rolling her eyes. "You're no fun... Now let's go invesitage a murder."
   "Wait, wh-?!" His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets, as she pranced away, towards her front door, giddy.

Bit of Boring Seven: Job

NOTE: I'd read the first Isadora and skim over the last few chapters of generation nine☺

   “Are you okay?” Leo asked, standing at Isadora’s door.

   “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” She stood, looking rather bored with the conversation, glancing at her chipped nail polish. “I need a manicure.”

   “You were arrested!” He exclaimed, shocked that she would be concerned with something as menial as fingernails.

   “I was not arrested, I was simply taken into custody. Besides, they released me within the hour. I’m utterly unscathed, Leo, see? Now, could you please go, it’s not a good time.”

   “You’re one to speak! My boss was furious that police came to the establishment, it’s tarnished our image as a safe, welcoming, family owned restaurant.”

   “You work at a bar that serves a few measly entrees, you’re not a restaurant. And that boss who claims to hire family only hired well endowed woman... And you, for some unearthly reason.”

   “My family owns a pizzeria, you knew that. My brother got it when my parents retired, though, and he managed to pull a few strings to get me that job.”

   “I didn’t know and frankly, I don’t care, now if you could scooch along like a little bunny, that would be wonderful.”

   “Why were you taken into custody?”

   “That question? Again. It isn’t even that intriguing.”

   “Are you coming back to bed?” A voice called out, from inside Isadora’s home.

   “Who is that?” Leo asked.

   “After the incident, I was craving thematic strippers. Sadly, I couldn’t find anywhere with decent rates, so I settled on the landlord’s son. I’m late on rent anyway, so this kills two birds with one stone.”

   “You’re-?! Why did you answer the door?”

   “You were knocking rather persistently. You’re lucky I found my robe, I was contemplating answering naked.”

   “What if it wasn’t me? What if it was the police again or some creep? You could have been-”

   “Please, you act as if we’re in some ghetto. I knew it was probably you, I just wanted to see you freak out.”

   “I’ve already seen without, you know, clothing.”

   “You’re ruining my fun.”

   “Sorry.” He murmured, staring down at his feet, flushed.

   “How about I meet you at the bar in, say... hmm... twenty minutes?”

   “Don’t rush.” He sarcastically replied.

   “Please, if you saw him, you’d understand. I’d invite you along, but it seems a tad awkward to, don’t you think?”

   “I’m going to go...”

_____________________

   “Nineteen minutes, thirty-four seconds.” She smiled, plopping down upon the same bar stool she’d sat upon earlier on that particular day.

   “Pardon?” Leo asked, as he wiped down the bar, glancing at her. Her hair was now in an up do and she’d changed into an outfit that differed from the one she’d worn when she’d been brought into police custody.

   “I said I’d meet you in twenty minutes, but I did it in less.”

   “Hardly.” He snorted. “So, the incident?”

   “That’s rather direct, is it not? I’d hardly call what I did with the landlord’s son an incident, though I do applaud you on not being so prudish.”

   “I meant the police incident, I don’t give a damn about y our sex life.”

   “Ah well, just so you know it’s in rather good shape. I’m telling you, all it takes is this horrid American accent of mine and a push up bra and I’m on top of the sheets with some brute who’ll get me out of having to pay the last four months’ rent.”

   “You were four months behind on rent?!”

   “Italian life is expensive, doll, especially without this thing I believe people have dubbed an income.”

   “Weren’t you working for... someone?” Isadora tended to skim over the details of her personal life; she’d gladly share with you the details of intercourse, or whatever childish scheme she’d whipped up to get back at the one of the elderly, local produce stand owners at the farmer’s market for commenting how she was a spitfire, sure to be an interesting wife one day. Perhaps it was due to her father being a man who blurred the line between being rather traditional and sexist when telling a young Isadora woman shouldn’t be aloud in the military, woman who, out of choice, were single parents were foolish, and CEO or doctor were titles for men, that caused her to rebel and take offense rather easily to comments about her gender.

   “I was. I haven’t been, for awhile.”

   “Define ‘awhile’.”

   “I believe it means something along the line of a short period of time.”

   “You knew what I meant.”

   “Now did I?”

   “How long have you been unemployed?”

   “Six months. When I sauntered into this very bar for the first time, I’d just been fired.”

   “Why?” He carefully asked, knowing that, because it was Isadora, it could very well be something he was better off not knowing.

   “Well, the day prior I was a bit late to work and I showed up in a navy pencil skirt and wrinkled, white blouse. There was some large affair occurring, some deal was about to be closed, and I’d apparently not dress appropriately. The boss said I should dress for the job I want, not the job I have, so I showed up with the leather, fishnets, and heels looking like the prostitute my brother knocked up when I was twelve the next day.  She made twice what I make, but apparently that’s offensive and I’m not supposed to give anyone lap dances, even if they shove a twenty euro note down my G-string.”

   “I... You know, it’s, surprisingly enough, the fact that your brother knocked a prostitute up, not the lap dances that surprise me.”

   “Number one, if you implied I’m a slut, I’m not, number two incest is horrifying, so if you were thinking I implied anything but that, don’t.”

   “I wasn’t ... Why did the police show up?”

   “I went to Italy on a work visa. I,” she paused, contemplating whether she should tell him why she took off to a foreign country, leaving every trace of her old life behind, “I, see, after my father and the incidents, I had to get away, so I lied to my mum, said I wanted to visit my Grammy in Rome, then managed to get a job here and a work visa.

   After I was fired for inappropriate sexualized conduct with some multimillion euro company's CEO, who didn’t close the deal with the company I worked for, because his wife got wind of everything, I managed to get a hold of a six month residence visa; if I could get a job within six months, I could regain my work visa and stay in Italy, but if I didn’t, I’d technically be living in Italy illegally, since I’m a US citizen, not an Italian one. The six months were up a week ago and I didn’t report to immigration offices at City Hall, so the police were notified.”

   “Wait, are you going to be deported?!’ He looked at her panicked. He knew she said that she didn’t trust him, yet he did. They’d done something together that left lingering feelings for some sort of formal, defined relationship, whether it be a simple, platonic friendship or something far less platonic. Her being deported would ruin any chances of him ever mustering up the courage to tell the capricious girl the truth.

   “Deported makes me sound like I sneaked past the border in the middle of the night while hiding in the back of a delivery van in a cardboard refrigerator box, I prefer the phrase going back to the States, just, ehem, involuntarily.”

   “Could you quickly find a job? I could beg my boss.”

   “I’d have to contact immigration, but it’s worth a shot.” She smiled, her eyes showing how grateful she was.

   “A shot is better than nothing.”

   “Speaking of shots, could you prepare me one? We could toast to my hopefully future good fortune.”

   “Sure...” He reluctantly sighed. “But it’s going on your tab.”

   “Fair enough.” With that, Leo prepared them shots, so they could encourage fate to give Isadora bit of good luck.

Bit of Boring Six: Isadora

NOTE: this feature's Xavier's mum from generation nine, so you might wanna skim the last three chapters, in case you would like a refresher.

   "And why should I trust you?” She raised an eyebrow, eying the short man who, based on the stubble across his face, needed to shave, fondly, over the counter.

   “I love you.”

   “Ah, please.” She rolled her eyes, fluffing her hair. “Love is, so, so... passe”

   “How’d you’re father screw up?”

   “An overused term we humbly use to justify guilting people into caring or staying. That’s what love is, doll.”

   “I’ve been promoted to doll now, have I? Why, compared to your past term of affection,  ‘you goddamn fool’, that must be a supreme term of endearment preserved only for those who you truly care for. I’m presuming you’re screw up of a father was only refereed to as a goddamn fool.”

   “And rightly so, I might add.”

   “C’mon, Isadora. Spill it.”

   “I’ll spill it as soon as you spill that bottle of gin into a glass.”

   “It’s ten after three.” He sighed, knowing that his curiosity to know about her past would win out, against his better judgement.

   Isadora was an attractive, strong willed female who found joy in putting herself at risk, just to simply defy the stereotypes she was often saddled with. The brunette didn’t seem to apprehend the irony of her relationship with him, however; it was eleven am, the bar wasn’t going to open for at least another five hours, the girl, dressed in fishnets, four inch heels, and leather, picked the lock of the door, slid onto a bar stool, and told him, the barkeep, to eff her. He aptly replied that he already had. She smiled, raised an eyebrow, introduced herself, and demanded a gin and tonic.

   “Screw up is such a crude word, I prefer was never there for me as a child and, in a drunken stupor, ended up groping my tutor.”

   “You had a tutor?” When they first met, she told him he’d never meet anyone wittier, he asked if she meant to say vainer. He’d assumed she was cunning enough to convince whichever teacher she’d had to pass her.

   “I was in high school, you goddamn fool. I was failing chemistry cause I called the teacher a sexist pig, he got P.O’d and gave me a C minus on my final, I offered to not tell his wife that he tried bondage with one of the cafeteria ladies if he raised it to a B, he dropped it to an F. Some preppy honors girl was assigned to me. My school thought I gave a damn about chem, they were-”

   “Goddamn fools. You need a new insult that’s less insulting to anyone who even slightly believes in a higher power.”

   “Look doll, I don’t care. My father swore up and down to be Catholic, went to mass and that crap, I didn’t, yet he’s in jail for sexually assaulting that prissy, minor, bitch tutor and I’m here.”

   “Circumstantial evidence.”

   “Look, you a bartender, a therapist, a priest, or what?”

   “I prefer to think of myself as a friend.”

   “I don’t trust you.”

   “Don’t have to, I trust you.”

   “You might be the only one.”

   “Someone has to be the first.” His first girlfriend, first serious girlfriend, broke up with him because she’d said he had a superhero complex. He was intrigued by those who were broken, she’d claimed, said he thought he could fix them. He never dated a phycology major again. 

   “Look, I dunno what they teach you in bartender training, but I’m not gonna pay for my drinks just cause you tried to sound deep.”

   “You owe me two hundred euros.”

   “How much is that in American?” She knew asking him to convert things into United States currency exasperated him.

   Leopoldo Cucinotta, whose family had perpetually dwelled in the fair sized, southern Italian city of Monte Vista, a rustic town that was built within the walls of ancient brick, was surrounded by hills, a few sprawling parks or family homes, and, if you ventured far enough, the beginning of the ocean thought since Isadora, a variation of the Italian name Isidora, had resided in Italy for the past eleven months, should be courteous enough to learn the exchange rates. At least her parents had been adamant about teaching their first generation American children, including their only daughter, who’d had the misfortune of being born into a traditional family with four sons, Italian.

   “Two-fifty.”

   “Dollars? I believe I have that much pocket change.”

   “Hundred. Two hundred-fifty dollars, which is quite a large sum considering that we’ve only known each other six months.”

   “Please, that’s about three three dollar, or two euros and forty cent pieces, drinks a month. Nothing impressive about that.”

   “Tell that to my boss. He perpetuates the stereotype.”

   “Is he an amazing lover who has a big family, says mamma mia often, lives with his parents, and eats pasta everyday?”

   “He’s rude.”

   “Ah, well that isn’t nearly as interesting.”

   “Regardless, you need to pay for your beverages.”

   “It’s cute that you think I will.”

   “I’m going to cut you off.”

   “I dare you.” She chuckled, raising an eyebrow, knowing he wouldn’t. They’d known each other six months, yet somehow, whether it be based off of Isadora’s wit and lack of boundaries, or Leopoldo’s need to decode any semi-mysterious woman who happened to waltz into his life, they’d become rather close.

   “I will.”

   “Leo you-”

   “Leopoldo, you know I don’t like nicknames.”

   “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate, since I’m too lazy to pronounce you’re full name. Now, if you would let me finish my point. You wou-”

   “Isadora Vespa.” A gruff voice stated, not questioning whether t the woman was who he thought she was. The man had managed to file into the room, silently. She didn’t bother turning to see who he was, she assumed it was some long forgotten acquaintance.

   “I’m quite busy, besides, isn't it rather rude to interrupt someone? I was about to make a point.” She mouthed some profanities concerning to voice to Leo who, despite being naturally tan, had paled a dramatic amount.

   “I wouldn’t-” He began whispering.

   “Leo! If you have something to say, simply spit it out.”

   “I wouldn’t say that to him.” His voice was still hushed, his face still pale.

   “Why? What can someone like him do to me?” She chuckled. “Now how about that drink?”

   “Ms. Vespa, I’m afraid you will have to come with me.”

   “No, I don’t.” She said, spinning around to see who the commanding figure was. Her sharp tongue was dulled, her wit subsided temporarily, as she saw the uniform.

   “Ms. Vespa, please come with me to the station. If you fail to cooperate, I will arrest you.”

   “Hm, well, you don’t happen to be a vary thematic stripper, do you?” She retorted, instead of holding her tongue and politely obeying. She stood up, smoothed her outfit, and, with a slight wave to Leo, who stood in shock wondering what mischief the self proclaimed rebel could have gotten herself into, sauntered off with the officer.

3,427!

ERMAHGAWD. In January you lovely readers created a new record for the most number of views this blog has ever received in one month and in February you did it again! Thank you so much; words cannot describe how ecstatic I am... I feel as if I thank you so much, I thank you when I reach a certain number of posts, when there's an even thousand number of views, when this blog reaches an anniversary... I just want you to know that I'm incredibly grateful and that I couldn't, wouldn't still be writing this legacy, the story of the Janes family, if it wasn't for each and everyone of you.

xx,
Jill

P.S. There's been ~700 views in just five days; that's at least 200, probably more about 400, more then average... And how many views my second legacy, With Love currently has... And yes, I'm shamelessly self promoting my other legacy, while being incredibly grateful that a lot of eye balls have seen my blog. ☺

NOTE: This was written on the fifth and I, ridiculously, forgot to publish it.

10.12: Eristlew, Makeovers, and Make Outs

    "Wow..." I whispered, glancing around at the vibrancy of the white structures, towering above us, the vibrancy of the psychedelic attire of the people who flew around on hover boards and with jet packs.
   "The future." Vance said, staggering backwards, hitting the machine. It made a sputtering noise, the equivalent to the coughing noises people make when there's something stuck in their throats. I spun around, to see the electricity that had turned a rainbow of colors, the blue, pink, lilac, yellow, lime light flickering, then stop, as the metal machine disappeared. "Fudge!" He shouted, as the realization dawned on me. We couldn't go back to the past the way we'd came.

   "Hawh!" I heard a man gasp, his eyes wide. "Time travelers... I've read about them in history books, the government's... Quick, come with me."
   "Wait, what?" I exclaimed. "Who are you?"
   "Eristlew, now hurry, before someone sees you."
   "Vance, why are you following him?"
   "Rye, what else-"
   "Shh! Time travel is outlawed; you can't be caught."

   "What do you mean, outlawed?" Vance asked, befuddled, as we followed him. "So people have traveled through time before?"

   "Of course they have." Eristlew said, looking at us, his eyes wide. "What, do you think this is two thousand five hundred thirty nine? Pfht. Have people traveled through time?"

   "Um, what year is it, precisely?" I asked, glancing around at the futuristic holograms, the insane colored hair, the inventions I was wishing existed in my present, not their's."

   "Two thousand seven hundred and six." He answered, nonchalantly, as if he was simply saying that dinner was ready or he'd taken out the trash.

   "Vance!" I whispered, my eyes wide. "We've traveled six hundred ninety one years into the future!" 

   "Which is apparently illegal. What do we do?"

   "I don't know; God, this is all I've wanted, but now that I'm here... This is a bad scifi movie in the making."

   "When, if, we're going back, right?"

   "I don't know; I mean, I think so, but the thing's gone, apparently the time machine doesn't actually transport itself through time, just the object on it, I guess it's more of a portal."

   "You two sound like two romas." He said, rolling his eyes. I suppose discontent and insults don't cease to exist in the future and humans live in a utopian society where everyone's cheerful and kind and equal. 

   "Romas?"

   "Robot maids. They're so terrible about gossiping when they think no one is listening." He shrugged. "Now we have to get you two clothing that isn't hideously outdated and fix your hair, I guess yours," he pointed to me, "Is already a crazy color, but yours, black? I mean, that color hasn't existed for at least two centuries."

   "Wait, do ginger's go extinct?!" I glanced at my hair, shocked. They said that we would; I'd just presumed that it wouldn't actually happen.

   "What's a ginger? Now, c'mon, before I get caught and get eed." We must have been giving him odd glances, because he sighed and began explaining what eed was. "Eed? Expelled, embarrassed, depleted. I'll lose my job, be taken from society, forced to go to the unknown deserts."
   "Ah... Ah, kay." I murmured, looking at Vance, who shrugged, as if to say do we really have a choice, might as well go with him.
   "I'll take you to my house, then call in an ianthe. A stylist. Do you two know anything about the twenty-eighth century?" We shook our heads, as we entered his home, a structure of glass and metal.

________________

   "Interesting..." I said, looking at Vance's makeover. The ianthe had died his hair a bright green color and given him a buzz cut, dyed and styled his eyebrows and peach fuzz, dressing him in matching metallic colors.
   "You look attractive."
   "Thanks; I feel like a clown, though." I smiled, spinning around in my light pink, pale turquoise, cotton candy colored dress, eccentric makeup painted onto my face, my hair cut, blown out, with pink dip dyed tips and peach highlights.
   "I have green hair, blue eyebrows, eye liner on, and am wearing leggings that are hugging all the wrong places; compared to me, you don't look nearlly as ridiculous."
   "Haha, true... Still, these shoes are killing my feet."

   "Why don't we get them off you." He suggested, stepping closer, placing his hands on my waist, spinning me, passionately kissing me.
   "We're in someone's guest bedroom; it'd be wrong." He looked at me, his eyes wide, like a love struck puppy. "Vance, I said it'd be wrong; I didn't say I didn't want to, I definitely do, I mean... These shoes are very uncomfortable, as is this dress."

   He pressed me against the wall, began kissing me, moving his hands up and down my body, nibbling at my ear, my neck. He pulled at my dress, as it cascaded down to the floor, landing in a pile of futuristic, indestructible fabric. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he moved his hands to my back, attempting to unfasten my bra.
   "Damn this twenty-eighth century lingrie."
   "Aww, honey."
   "It's what you were wearing at home?" He sighed, as I nodded. "It isn't like I'm paying attention to the wrapping, I'm paying to the package."

   With one sweep, he'd moved me from up against the concrete wall onto the bed. He lay down next to me, as I climbed on top, kissing him. Our lips collided, his soft, yet eager, his tongue-
   "Entering intimate mode."
   "What?" I exclaimed, pulling away. "Who said that?"
   "I... I think the bed did."
   "The bed?!" I glanced up, as the bed began playing soft, electronic jazz, pixelated pink hearts against a purple background creating a vessel of privacy. We began kissing again, pulling off the fabric that covered us, sinking into one another. I have to get, sex is considerably better when it occurs on a bed from the twenty-eighth century.

NOTE: This isn't related to the story, but Ryelynn's descents are super pale, redhead lesbian triplets who are all engaged/married to brunettes with orange skin... I thought it was a bit humorous. ☺