Post by Killian King on Jul 3, 2016 23:12:00 GMT -5
No. 72 Queen St
Downtown Charleston, Sc
A befuddled brow arches over the perplexed look as one Killian King makes a face. His bright blue eyes washing over the script of what appears to be a menu. It's black leather bound border encasing yellow pages made to look older, and add an additional rustic charm. His expression sharing aspects of a man who's viewing the ghoulish images a triple murder suicide before a set of slender pale finger trips wrap over the top of the menu and slowly drag it from his face.
His puzzled lips purse together to form the attempt at words.
“What exactly... is a grit?” he asks of his company?
The svelte hand lowering the menu to the table top as she shuts it. Eden Morgan answers his inquiry.
“It's a form of stone ground cornmeal...”
“So... polenta?” He interrupts once more.
Blues music faintly echos in the background mixed with the sound of slowly churning ceiling fan directly above them.
“And what wine... exactly pairs best with said grit?” He asks casually.
Killian looks across the table into the piercing steely blue eyes of his companion, who bites her lip in an attempted expression made to hide her laugh.
“You're enjoying this far too much...” Killian concedes as he surrenders the menu to her grasp.
“I am” she adds with a smirk.
He let slip a troubled sigh. Though unspoken, at a glance she clearly enjoyed watching him writhe dragged from out of his comfort zone.
“You'll have no sick pleasures in bearing witness to me sampling American cuisine... Because I'm perfectly capable of trying new things... I'll have the roasted duck.” Killian notifies the now awaiting server in a white seersucker suit.
The waiter nods and begins to jot down the order via his pen and paper.
“He'll not have the roasted duck..” Eden interrupts.
The waiter quickly nodding and erasing the previously suggested dictation. A surprised look forthcoming over Killian's face.
“I shall not be having the roasted duck...” Killian instructs the young man as if giving the order for himself. “...And Why shan't I be having the roasted duck?” asks Killian directing his query toward Eden at this point.
“It's not American enough... you need something drenched in southern culture and history.”
A look of disdain piles onto the already stricken face of “England's Greatest Export”.
“You're going to ask me to try Alligator, aren't you? Your raging American obsession with eating things that normally eat you.”
“Not quite...” she adds waving him off and looking toward the waiter.
“He'll have the biscuits and gravy.” She ends with a smile, as she wraps her fingers around the stem of her wine glass and motions it toward her lips. A smile behind the glass and a glance toward Killian whom looks like he's just heard the observed chorus of a fart in church.
“Biscuits and whatnow?” Her Majesty's Most Beloved Grappler hastily exclaims.
Eden laughs at his look of horror, as she tries to change the subject.
“So what's Hugs and Fisticuff's plan of action, going into the Prison Break match,?” Eden ponders aloud as she leans back in her chair.
“I thought we'd perhaps go with the ol, don't lose and pin the other chap plan.” Killian states with an assuring look.
A sigh slips from her lips as she rolls her eyes.
“Sadly the only person who is of any viable concern is Jet. If anything the one who's heart seems to be in this match besides myself and Alan, is your Last Boy Scout himself. Everyone else is so preoccupied with themselves and their other matches that they hold no significant sway over the outcome. Robert's is worried about his Championship match, Dredd is concerned with taking said title from Robert's and that other guy....”
Killian snaps his fingers as if the last known contender in this match escapes him.
“Hastings” she adds.
“That's the one...” Killian looks relieved upon her correction as if she had caught him and saved him from slight embarrassment.
“Seriously, you forgot the name of the one man in this match who has stated his sole purpose in this event is to make you bleed?” Eden reminds him. Reminding him being a kind stretch of the use of the word, as it all seems to clearly be news to him.
“Really?” she adds watching him from across the table.
The rattle of ice slipping wetly from the confides of a tumbler sound off a beads of condensation slip from the body of the glass that held some make or fashion of bourbon at Killian's fingertips.
“You expect me to recall everyone I've ever pissed off at a whim, who's personally threatened me?” Killian chimes in.
“...I expect you to recall the ones you've made it personal with.” she communicates.
Killian shrugs softly, a still relaxed and calm demeanor tattooed over his ice cold expression.
“Then perhaps it was only personal for one of us...” Killian adds.
A moment of stunned silence as Eden Morgan watches him.
“Because he hates me with an unbridled passion I should give him any amount of my time? Hastings was the proverbial one night stand, I was merely poking fun and he took it serious... He's another ex opponent who's decided to claim himself as my nemesis. As if he'd be so lucky to know what to do with me one he's caught up with me.” Killian adds. “Everyone has a brilliant plan, up until they get punched in the mouth...”
She looks amused at his antics as he continues.
“You respect Jet..” she states, the sound of a question in more then an accusing way.
“Perhaps... but not near as much as he respects himself, Killian states.
“You're one to talk...” she leans in laughingly.
“Cheers, but I'm a sex symbol... he's a bloody fucking cartoon come to life.” Killian answers dryly.
An entertained brow slowly arches over her face as she continues. “...You're a sex...”
Their conversation cut short, as they find themselves interrupted. A plate is set down in front of Killian, a snicker rises from the opposite side of the table as Eden watches his face grow slowly into a look of disdain and equal concern. Killian slowly looks up toward her, cause a small burst of laughter to erupt.
“Why... why are these scones covered in Alfredo sauce?” Killian inquires as he places his napkin slowly and even more suspiciously. Poking at the dish with his fork.
“This is meant for prisoners, isn't it?” He asks looking up toward her.
“Shut up, I've watched you eat baked beans for breakfast...” She proclaims.
Killian shoots her a glare. “You shut your gob, woman. It's the breakfast of champions!”
Eden shakes her head softly, her eyes still on Killian, who is still wafting waves of the dishes fragrance toward him as he ciphers through the experience.
“I suppose we're lucky that my brother didn't try and promote you this weekend with someone running through the streets yelling that the British were coming.”
“Killian glances up again toward her. “He approached me about it... thankfully.”
“Thankfully?” she questioned.
“Thankfully... because Paul Revere despite your bastardized history was racing from town to town to warn everyone that "The Regulars are coming!" You know, because, you were all still British at that point, so it wouldn't have made much sense for him to yell "The British are coming!"...
Eden rolls her eyes and laughs softly. “Let's get out of here...” she says.
Killian rises to his feet and places his napkin upon the table having signed off on the check.
“Shall I get that to go for you?” A waiter calls out.
“You may certainly not!” Exclaims Killian.
“Then you have a Happy Forth of July...” calls the server.
“Yes, yes... and a happy treason day to you as well you ungrateful colonial bastards.”
They both exit into the night air of the downtown streets as they leave the server looking confused.
Downtown Charleston, Sc
A befuddled brow arches over the perplexed look as one Killian King makes a face. His bright blue eyes washing over the script of what appears to be a menu. It's black leather bound border encasing yellow pages made to look older, and add an additional rustic charm. His expression sharing aspects of a man who's viewing the ghoulish images a triple murder suicide before a set of slender pale finger trips wrap over the top of the menu and slowly drag it from his face.
His puzzled lips purse together to form the attempt at words.
“What exactly... is a grit?” he asks of his company?
The svelte hand lowering the menu to the table top as she shuts it. Eden Morgan answers his inquiry.
“It's a form of stone ground cornmeal...”
“So... polenta?” He interrupts once more.
Blues music faintly echos in the background mixed with the sound of slowly churning ceiling fan directly above them.
“And what wine... exactly pairs best with said grit?” He asks casually.
Killian looks across the table into the piercing steely blue eyes of his companion, who bites her lip in an attempted expression made to hide her laugh.
“You're enjoying this far too much...” Killian concedes as he surrenders the menu to her grasp.
“I am” she adds with a smirk.
He let slip a troubled sigh. Though unspoken, at a glance she clearly enjoyed watching him writhe dragged from out of his comfort zone.
“You'll have no sick pleasures in bearing witness to me sampling American cuisine... Because I'm perfectly capable of trying new things... I'll have the roasted duck.” Killian notifies the now awaiting server in a white seersucker suit.
The waiter nods and begins to jot down the order via his pen and paper.
“He'll not have the roasted duck..” Eden interrupts.
The waiter quickly nodding and erasing the previously suggested dictation. A surprised look forthcoming over Killian's face.
“I shall not be having the roasted duck...” Killian instructs the young man as if giving the order for himself. “...And Why shan't I be having the roasted duck?” asks Killian directing his query toward Eden at this point.
“It's not American enough... you need something drenched in southern culture and history.”
A look of disdain piles onto the already stricken face of “England's Greatest Export”.
“You're going to ask me to try Alligator, aren't you? Your raging American obsession with eating things that normally eat you.”
“Not quite...” she adds waving him off and looking toward the waiter.
“He'll have the biscuits and gravy.” She ends with a smile, as she wraps her fingers around the stem of her wine glass and motions it toward her lips. A smile behind the glass and a glance toward Killian whom looks like he's just heard the observed chorus of a fart in church.
“Biscuits and whatnow?” Her Majesty's Most Beloved Grappler hastily exclaims.
Eden laughs at his look of horror, as she tries to change the subject.
“So what's Hugs and Fisticuff's plan of action, going into the Prison Break match,?” Eden ponders aloud as she leans back in her chair.
“I thought we'd perhaps go with the ol, don't lose and pin the other chap plan.” Killian states with an assuring look.
A sigh slips from her lips as she rolls her eyes.
“Sadly the only person who is of any viable concern is Jet. If anything the one who's heart seems to be in this match besides myself and Alan, is your Last Boy Scout himself. Everyone else is so preoccupied with themselves and their other matches that they hold no significant sway over the outcome. Robert's is worried about his Championship match, Dredd is concerned with taking said title from Robert's and that other guy....”
Killian snaps his fingers as if the last known contender in this match escapes him.
“Hastings” she adds.
“That's the one...” Killian looks relieved upon her correction as if she had caught him and saved him from slight embarrassment.
“Seriously, you forgot the name of the one man in this match who has stated his sole purpose in this event is to make you bleed?” Eden reminds him. Reminding him being a kind stretch of the use of the word, as it all seems to clearly be news to him.
“Really?” she adds watching him from across the table.
The rattle of ice slipping wetly from the confides of a tumbler sound off a beads of condensation slip from the body of the glass that held some make or fashion of bourbon at Killian's fingertips.
“You expect me to recall everyone I've ever pissed off at a whim, who's personally threatened me?” Killian chimes in.
“...I expect you to recall the ones you've made it personal with.” she communicates.
Killian shrugs softly, a still relaxed and calm demeanor tattooed over his ice cold expression.
“Then perhaps it was only personal for one of us...” Killian adds.
A moment of stunned silence as Eden Morgan watches him.
“Because he hates me with an unbridled passion I should give him any amount of my time? Hastings was the proverbial one night stand, I was merely poking fun and he took it serious... He's another ex opponent who's decided to claim himself as my nemesis. As if he'd be so lucky to know what to do with me one he's caught up with me.” Killian adds. “Everyone has a brilliant plan, up until they get punched in the mouth...”
She looks amused at his antics as he continues.
“You respect Jet..” she states, the sound of a question in more then an accusing way.
“Perhaps... but not near as much as he respects himself, Killian states.
“You're one to talk...” she leans in laughingly.
“Cheers, but I'm a sex symbol... he's a bloody fucking cartoon come to life.” Killian answers dryly.
An entertained brow slowly arches over her face as she continues. “...You're a sex...”
Their conversation cut short, as they find themselves interrupted. A plate is set down in front of Killian, a snicker rises from the opposite side of the table as Eden watches his face grow slowly into a look of disdain and equal concern. Killian slowly looks up toward her, cause a small burst of laughter to erupt.
“Why... why are these scones covered in Alfredo sauce?” Killian inquires as he places his napkin slowly and even more suspiciously. Poking at the dish with his fork.
“This is meant for prisoners, isn't it?” He asks looking up toward her.
“Shut up, I've watched you eat baked beans for breakfast...” She proclaims.
Killian shoots her a glare. “You shut your gob, woman. It's the breakfast of champions!”
Eden shakes her head softly, her eyes still on Killian, who is still wafting waves of the dishes fragrance toward him as he ciphers through the experience.
“I suppose we're lucky that my brother didn't try and promote you this weekend with someone running through the streets yelling that the British were coming.”
“Killian glances up again toward her. “He approached me about it... thankfully.”
“Thankfully?” she questioned.
“Thankfully... because Paul Revere despite your bastardized history was racing from town to town to warn everyone that "The Regulars are coming!" You know, because, you were all still British at that point, so it wouldn't have made much sense for him to yell "The British are coming!"...
Eden rolls her eyes and laughs softly. “Let's get out of here...” she says.
Killian rises to his feet and places his napkin upon the table having signed off on the check.
“Shall I get that to go for you?” A waiter calls out.
“You may certainly not!” Exclaims Killian.
“Then you have a Happy Forth of July...” calls the server.
“Yes, yes... and a happy treason day to you as well you ungrateful colonial bastards.”
They both exit into the night air of the downtown streets as they leave the server looking confused.