✞ Angel ✞ (angelusdomini) wrote in ridgewayresort, @ 2010-04-25 21:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | angel, dean winchester |
WHO: Angel and Dean.
WHAT: How NOT to get on the manager's good side.
WHEN: Night.
WHERE: The Hotel Management.
RATING: PG-13.
STATUS: In Progress.
The Myosotis ridgibilis of the family Nymphalidae is often mistaken for the more commonly found Morpho menelaus of the same family. The discerning entomologist, however, will note the reverse spiralling of the specie's proboscis and a vivid redness along the tips of the forewings. Unique to--and, in fact, named after--the region of Ridgeway, these delicate creatures subsist on a diet of the nectar of Myosotis, popularly known to the laymen as Forget-me-nots. Believed to possess quite the extensive lifespan, the high adaptability of their physiology affords even the full-grown adult a surviving chance against the notoriously unpredictable climate of Ridgeway. But soft, here is one now, performing an almost ritualistic courtship dance for the potted captives in the Management's office...
Then wham, out of nowhere, a large figure came hurtling forth into the mahogany enclosure, leading to a tragic end befitting one of Shakespeare's plays for the unfortunate butterfly and its object of affection. The tall, dark and handsome man was accompanied by an overwhelmingly stereotypical dark leather coat hanging over his broody shoulders, the shiny new golden name plate over the breast going largely unnoticed by its bearer. Angel, Martial Arts Instructor according to the plate, mentally muttered a few choice indelicacies as he rolled safely and expertly onto his knee and was soon at his full height, examining his surrounding. Aside from the book that was his key back to Los Angeles, California, U.S.A. of Earth, just about the only thing missing was an aptly choreographed elevator music as he rather unceremoniously dusted soil and broken pieces of what had once been a quite lovely pot off of himself. Somewhere between his conclusion that this was probably not the Pylea about which he had heard such great things, he smelled before he ever saw the two men about to enter the periphery of his vision. They were converging on him in deliberate strides and were carrying amongst them what appeared to be large, pointy wooden things. Okay. Not exactly the welcoming bandwagon he'd been hoping for.
'You people wouldn't know the way to Pylea, would you?' he asked in rapid tongue. English, to be precise, but what did he care if they understood or not? In the game of fight or flight, the man was all about the fight. And it so happened that the rule of thumb when it came to a good defence was one of good offence. He generally didn't like to get on the offensive against humans, but he was kind of fond of being around in a state of non-dust, thank you. He never gave them a chance to make their move and was upon the first man as quick as lightning, jerking the shamelessly oversized stake under his arm and past himself. Its wielder either foolishly or bravely and certainly stubbornly refused to release his hold and was instead led straight into the oncoming train that was Angel's fist. As the misfortuned man reeled back, Angel grabbed him and bowled the body into the second man, letting both fall over their feet, slide across the floor and slam into the wall with a dull thud. A strike, ladies and gentlemen.
Of course, how was he to know that they were innocent hotel staff on their way to fixing the hotel's nice wooden fence? He was many things and accused of being many more, but psychic wasn't one of them.