"We are going in circles."
"Keep moving."
Streets are erupting around you in a rude parade of hazy colors. People don't seem to have faces any more, just collections of features arranged in a so-so pattern. It's fine. Push past them, around them, weave up and down like a needle, closing the gap between danger and safety. The roar of motors is a drumbeat and the beeping of horns a fanfare. Marching tune. Pushing You on.
"Where are we--"
"Keep. Moving."
Cops are stalking around the street corners or squatting in their patrol cars like caged gargoyles. Last goddamn thing You need, 'cept for maybe choking on a lit stick of TNT. You've done enough press conferences and on-the-scene interviews to know cops can barely tell which ass-cheek is left or right without sitting down and having a good feel, and even then they might need City Hall to give 'em some pointers.
Cops can't hold back Death.
You're giggling under Your quick sharp breaths. This must be the big time. You ain't never been stalked by Death before.
"Is not 'Death'," says the Mook.
Oh. So You've been talking as well as giggling, uh? Bet that must sound normal. You're the picture of mental health.
"Is sick man in stupid mask. Or sick woman. Whatever. We are being too smart for them."
"Sure thing, Mook," You say, shaking Your head. "We're too smart for 'em." He's a step behind You, and You're faintly aware his energy might sap away any minute. Same as Yours. Adrenalin fatigue or somethin', Doc calls it. Better to be indoors and safe when it happens.
A big guy in boots and coat and fricken' horse mask might be easy to spot in a crowd. But masks can come off. And You don't know his face, and he knows Yours.
A block falls away wordlessly behind that little humdinger of a thought and You round the corner to the blinding light of a glowing marquee. DEMILLE DOUBLE ILL, it reads. 2 PICTURES FOR A FOLLAR.
Movie House. Perfect. A big dark room with comfyish seats and too many bystanders for a stramger to reliably pick two people out without getting close enough for a fist in the face.
8 PM. The newsreel should just be getting started.
"In here," You order. The Mook shuffles along behind.
Tickets. Cash. Change. You're sweaty and tired and Your "date" looks incredibly dubious, but there's no time to debate hairy eyeballs with the kid in the booth. The two of You breeze past the concessions, not without some willpower on Your part, to disappear into the comforting darkness of Screen 5, Seats H13 and 14.
"In an address to the United Nations, the Danish delegate expressed scepticism in the success of the European Economic Area, saying that..." the cut-glass voice drones on and fades into the hum of blood rushing through Your head, the marching band winding down into a soothing lullaby.
The cushion of the seat is sub-par, but may as well be goose down on Your overtaxed thighs and suddenly blissful bee-hind. Safe. Temporary, but comforting. A couple seats closer to the middle would have been less conspicuous, but You're happy to make do with the very edge.
The Mook has plumped down next to You and his plush arm crowds Yours on the arm-rest. You don't mind a bit. Better to keep up a plausible story. You curl Your own arms around it and lean in, moving Your hat to Your lap as You bury Your cheek in his warm coat sleeve.
He sighs the sigh of a big man, warm breath fluttering past Your frazzled hair.
"Jackie..."
"Hush. Plausible," You mumble as sleep overtakes You.
You drift into a semi-coma, waiting for the cameras to begin tonight's showing of what the marquee called "SMASMOM & DEELAH".
Halfway into the first reel, Your beauty sleep is broken. Your makeshift pillow needs something.
"Jackie," he whispers, "you help me."
"Sure thing," You reply, not opening Your eyes. "One good turn deserves, an' all. You guard my body, I body your guard..."
"Jackie, you help me now? Please?"
There's an urgency that You missed the first time. Adrenalin clocks in for a second shift. Probably needs the hours.
"Whass goin' on?"
"Guy must be lost by now, or give up. I think, carry You out, catch taxi. But, uhhh...difficulty."
"Ah c'mon, I ain't so heavy you couldn't sling me over yer gee-dee shoulder. You've handled potato sacks before, right?"
"Not difficulty with, uh, you. Look..."
You look. Ah, right.
You don't think the ushers get paid enough to be bothered with situations like this. So it's up to You.
It appears that the Mook made a couple calculations upon arrival, and - while one of the sweeter and more courageous ones - he is still very much a Mook. Clearly he thought that these seats would have both the sturdiness and the capacity for a gentleman of his considerable heft. And from Your recent if brief knowledge of him, You know he wouldn't have asked You to go back and buy another ticket.
So he's...yeah, the boy sure is stuck, huh?
When he settled in before, You mistakenly thought it was his arm jostling for space with Yours over the side of the armrest. Not so: that was one of the rolls of flab spilling over his middle, apparently. The waves of them under his shirt bulge and stick beneath the arm-rests and his back-fat is crammed into the narrow passage of the seat as a result. You lean over, try to get as discreet an appraisal of the situation as possible. Huh. Kinda resembles a muffin spilling over one 'a' them little paper things they serve muffins in. The name escapes You.
Your hands have been absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulder as You take stock of his...situation.
"Help," says the Mook, quiet but firm. He's already red in the face.
"Have ya tried--" You shake Your shoulders like a worm. "Shimmying?"
"Yes! Did not work! And is not funny!"
"Sorry, sorry," You turn away, trying to think of tax returns and sick puppies, glad he took Your smirk as a sign of good humour and not as the embarassed blush of someone who is bewildered at how deeply cute their bodyguard has suddenly become.
"OK, let's try...uhnff." Your hands attempt to get between the fuzzy arm rest and his belly. It's a no-go. Razor blades would have a tough time trying to make it in that gap.
You're a reporter, not an engineer. How do You solve this without drawing the fire department over and blowing Your cover?
You peer around to the seat at the very edge, finding a young girl apparently thumbing through a book, less-than-enthralled by the steamy performance of Hedy Lamarr and Victor Mature.
"Psst. Kid!"
The girl sighs, flips a page. The Mook obligingly pats her on the shoulder.
She leans over, cupping a hand to her ear. "UH?"
Her elbow is buried in the Mook's belly, sinking in. He's already beet red and doesn't need the extra physical attention. You tap the offending arm lightly as You hiss.
"Need a favour. My, my boyfriend here--" You squeeze his arm in a parody of affection. Bad, Jackie! He's not the only one at risk of turning red! "--finds himself in need of physical assistance exiting his seat."
"Okay, maybe don't say it so loud," she hisses back. "I ain't judgy, but cops go to the movies too, ya know?"
Huh? Oh. She thinks You're a guy. Must be the way You hiss. And she thought...hm. But she's no rat? Good on her.
"That sure is considerate of you, uh--"
"Marion."
"--Marion, and now You know why my 'business associate' and I ain't calling the fire department. Hence why I'm askin' nicely for some assistance."
"Well whaddaya expect me to do? I ain't no weightlifter." She looks up apologetically at the smoulderingly embarassed Mook. "No offence, honey."
She's got a look to her, this Marion. Ain't pretty or ugly by anyone's standards, not even a "Plain Jane". Just someone who apparently doesn't think twice about taking herself to the pictures when nobody else is going. Doesn't mind buying herself popcorn, neither.
Somewhere in Your head, the lightbulb flashes.
You start thumbing thru Your wallet. "Run out to the lobby and grab me some..." You pause mid-thought. Lubricant is definitely needed to alleviate this situation. What isn't needed is a scene, which is what's going to happen when a snot-nosed craterous teen is asked by a - by his standards, You'd bet - blushing love queen to fill up a cardboard tub with greasy melted butter, especially if he subsequently decides that the manager is more of an authority in heated dairy product.
This calls for some careful strategising.
"...Get a large popcorn, but tell 'im the butter needs to come separate. You got a guy who's fussy, needs it poured just right."
"I dinnit come in with no guy."
"So you just met and he unburdened himself to ya about his horrible popcorn problem. What, you're going to question him? When he's relyin' on you for help? Don't'cha know anything about dating?"
Marion blinks, lips forming syllables as she parses what You just asked her. For a moment You wonder if she's going to start looking around for this mysterious hypothetical dork and his sensitive tongue.
"Just get 'em, separated."
"Why should I? You're screwy, pal."
"You know who else was screwy?"
"Yeah, who?"
You hold up the bill in the dark. "President Andrew Jackson. Now what say you and he get better acquainted in the lobby with some popcorn and butter, and I'll let you keep the change and introduce you to his twin brother."
There it is, the magic words.
"You got it, Mister!", and away she's gone.
You pat the Mook's hand. Comforting. Collegial.
"You're gonna be fine," You say, as much to Yourself as to him. "It'll be...interesting, but we'll get You outta there."
Maybe You should ask him to try again when Marion gets back. The two of You can split the popcorn while You watch No No Dammit Jackie!
You turn back and cross Your arms and try to concentrate on the movie. It makes little to no sense. You never had the head for Bible studies anyhow.
It's not five minutes before Marion is back again, and You're happy to see the ruse took. A big carton of warm yellow grease awaits Your grubby hands.
"OK, Marion. You feel like doin' me an' ol' Hickory one more favour?"
"Who?"
You sigh. "Just start greasin' him up."
Four hands begin dipping their fingertips in warm melted butter and smearing it around the Mook's belly; two heads dart this way and that, checking to make sure they're not getting any attention. Marion is probably checking to see if anyone is staring, though whether she wants that or not, You've no idea. It suits You anyway, seeing as this way she won't question why You're staring too.
Just because the Mook thinks the Horses have galloped away into the meadow, that doesn't mean You're so trusting. Horses have long memories, and they bite.
The Mook is staring at the movie screen, trance-like, attempting to remove every part of himself from this situation except for the very solid part that he cannot move by his own power.
"Thank you," he mumbles, half-conscious. Poor guy. Coulda ridden on the high of saving Your life all evening, and this happens to him.
"It's gonna be fine," You whisper.
"Yeah, just relax, Toots," adds Marion.
You take a look at her hand. It's moved around from the vital work it was doing at the sides and it's rubbing around the front of his belly now, just where the navel is. Long, lazy circles, turning the fabric transparent as she gives him a warm and reassuring smile, like she's petting a dog to sleep. You can see the light fuzz around his underbelly now, whenever the movie cuts to a shot with a lot of sunlight. You can see the slope of his belly, the round shape of it, traversed by those red-varnished fingers, so tiny by comparison. You get...feelings. Hot, impulsive feelings.
It takes You a second to snap Your fingers, slippery as they are now.
"Marion. You payin' attention?"
She looks down at her left hand and whips it back, back into the butter. "Oh! Whoopsie. Sorry folks...guess I uh, got side-tracked. From, you know. It's fun," she whispers. Her right hand is still lubricating him. She gives You a guilty look.
"Stop being ridiculous, kid," You reply, lying to her, and to Yourself.
This whole thing is ridiculous. You've already privately told Yourself that several times. Jackie, think about how ridiculous this is, how the two of You came close to risking Your lives just hours ago only to get stuck in a cinema seat...and maybe, just maybe, You’ll lose focus of how fun it is too. You were fleeing on foot from a psycho in a rubber mask, a psycho You were panicky enough to believe was the grim reaper. Now You're doing the job of a human crowbar. What a life.
"That about does it," You whisper as the last dregs of butter apply. The Mook comes back to Earth, apparently having missed the conversation happening around him. On the screen, Deelah is striking a confident pose as she mounts her chariot, planning on leaving Smasmom in the dust in their native...wherever. Bethlehem or somethin'. In the seats, the Mook is squirming a little, maybe still convinced he could try and lift himself out of there with strength alone. Sorry, buddy, that ain't happenin'.
"Stop movin' and let us work," You reassure him. He sighs, nods, sinking back down, legs spread like a big stuffed teddy bear. You try to think about anything other than big stuffed teddy bears. It does not work. "You're built for muscle in the top, not so much the bottom. Them legs were only used to carrying You around while Your fists got You into scrapes, and that was before You, uh...branched out," You add, patting his belly again. You catch Marion's attention again.
"Fingers under his rolls," You instruct her. "I'll do the same. When I count to three, all of us - and that includes you, Mook - start pushing in the same direction at the same time. Got it?"
"Ya countin' to one or zero?"
"Just...when I say 'go', Marion."
"Gotcha."
Your hands slip under. It's soft. Everything about him is...so soft. He makes a low grunt in the back of his throat and reminds You that this ain't exactly a barrel of laughs for him.
"Three. Two. One. Go!"
You two around him begin levering his bulk upwards, while his legs go rigid and push. You're reminded of a raucous party in Your scandalous days where someone tried to get the champagne cork outta the bottle with just their fingers, two people tugging on the guy holdin' the bottle and two more pulling the guy holdin' the cork. It did not end gracefully.
Again, You hope nobody's watching, whether or not they're trying to kill You.
The Mook's shirt slips off the underside of his belly oh-so-easily, exposing reddening skin and redder stretchmarks under downy fuzz. You get a good grip and heave again. The butter is working, but it's still an uphill challenge.
"Teufel!" He groans.
"Nuther...minute..." You reply, soft.
"Hold on..." adds Marion, drawing breaths. You should really thank her for being such a good sport. But there again, she has nearly 40 bucks of Yours already. And maybe she's being a little more than a good sport, come to think of it.
As discreetly as possible, the belly comes loose. The Mook sighs out, but it's not the end; now he's awkwardly half-standing, hips still wedged in there. And those hips, suet-wrapped as they are, are still hard bone underneath.
The Mook grunts, arches his back, massages it a little. The sooner this is over, the better.
"Right. Unless you happened to get two things of butter, Marion, I suggest you wind up for round two."
"But, uh, hold on, though..."
"What?" the two of You ask.
"Did you try..."
"FER THE LUVVA PETE," comes the voice of a patron in the row behind You, at a little over normal speaking volume. "THE ARMRESTS GO UP!"
"...yeah, that," Marion finishes, thunder thoroughly stolen.
"Keep moving."
Streets are erupting around you in a rude parade of hazy colors. People don't seem to have faces any more, just collections of features arranged in a so-so pattern. It's fine. Push past them, around them, weave up and down like a needle, closing the gap between danger and safety. The roar of motors is a drumbeat and the beeping of horns a fanfare. Marching tune. Pushing You on.
"Where are we--"
"Keep. Moving."
Cops are stalking around the street corners or squatting in their patrol cars like caged gargoyles. Last goddamn thing You need, 'cept for maybe choking on a lit stick of TNT. You've done enough press conferences and on-the-scene interviews to know cops can barely tell which ass-cheek is left or right without sitting down and having a good feel, and even then they might need City Hall to give 'em some pointers.
Cops can't hold back Death.
You're giggling under Your quick sharp breaths. This must be the big time. You ain't never been stalked by Death before.
"Is not 'Death'," says the Mook.
Oh. So You've been talking as well as giggling, uh? Bet that must sound normal. You're the picture of mental health.
"Is sick man in stupid mask. Or sick woman. Whatever. We are being too smart for them."
"Sure thing, Mook," You say, shaking Your head. "We're too smart for 'em." He's a step behind You, and You're faintly aware his energy might sap away any minute. Same as Yours. Adrenalin fatigue or somethin', Doc calls it. Better to be indoors and safe when it happens.
A big guy in boots and coat and fricken' horse mask might be easy to spot in a crowd. But masks can come off. And You don't know his face, and he knows Yours.
A block falls away wordlessly behind that little humdinger of a thought and You round the corner to the blinding light of a glowing marquee. DEMILLE DOUBLE ILL, it reads. 2 PICTURES FOR A FOLLAR.
Movie House. Perfect. A big dark room with comfyish seats and too many bystanders for a stramger to reliably pick two people out without getting close enough for a fist in the face.
8 PM. The newsreel should just be getting started.
"In here," You order. The Mook shuffles along behind.
Tickets. Cash. Change. You're sweaty and tired and Your "date" looks incredibly dubious, but there's no time to debate hairy eyeballs with the kid in the booth. The two of You breeze past the concessions, not without some willpower on Your part, to disappear into the comforting darkness of Screen 5, Seats H13 and 14.
"In an address to the United Nations, the Danish delegate expressed scepticism in the success of the European Economic Area, saying that..." the cut-glass voice drones on and fades into the hum of blood rushing through Your head, the marching band winding down into a soothing lullaby.
The cushion of the seat is sub-par, but may as well be goose down on Your overtaxed thighs and suddenly blissful bee-hind. Safe. Temporary, but comforting. A couple seats closer to the middle would have been less conspicuous, but You're happy to make do with the very edge.
The Mook has plumped down next to You and his plush arm crowds Yours on the arm-rest. You don't mind a bit. Better to keep up a plausible story. You curl Your own arms around it and lean in, moving Your hat to Your lap as You bury Your cheek in his warm coat sleeve.
He sighs the sigh of a big man, warm breath fluttering past Your frazzled hair.
"Jackie..."
"Hush. Plausible," You mumble as sleep overtakes You.
You drift into a semi-coma, waiting for the cameras to begin tonight's showing of what the marquee called "SMASMOM & DEELAH".
Halfway into the first reel, Your beauty sleep is broken. Your makeshift pillow needs something.
"Jackie," he whispers, "you help me."
"Sure thing," You reply, not opening Your eyes. "One good turn deserves, an' all. You guard my body, I body your guard..."
"Jackie, you help me now? Please?"
There's an urgency that You missed the first time. Adrenalin clocks in for a second shift. Probably needs the hours.
"Whass goin' on?"
"Guy must be lost by now, or give up. I think, carry You out, catch taxi. But, uhhh...difficulty."
"Ah c'mon, I ain't so heavy you couldn't sling me over yer gee-dee shoulder. You've handled potato sacks before, right?"
"Not difficulty with, uh, you. Look..."
You look. Ah, right.
You don't think the ushers get paid enough to be bothered with situations like this. So it's up to You.
It appears that the Mook made a couple calculations upon arrival, and - while one of the sweeter and more courageous ones - he is still very much a Mook. Clearly he thought that these seats would have both the sturdiness and the capacity for a gentleman of his considerable heft. And from Your recent if brief knowledge of him, You know he wouldn't have asked You to go back and buy another ticket.
So he's...yeah, the boy sure is stuck, huh?
When he settled in before, You mistakenly thought it was his arm jostling for space with Yours over the side of the armrest. Not so: that was one of the rolls of flab spilling over his middle, apparently. The waves of them under his shirt bulge and stick beneath the arm-rests and his back-fat is crammed into the narrow passage of the seat as a result. You lean over, try to get as discreet an appraisal of the situation as possible. Huh. Kinda resembles a muffin spilling over one 'a' them little paper things they serve muffins in. The name escapes You.
Your hands have been absent-mindedly rubbing his shoulder as You take stock of his...situation.
"Help," says the Mook, quiet but firm. He's already red in the face.
"Have ya tried--" You shake Your shoulders like a worm. "Shimmying?"
"Yes! Did not work! And is not funny!"
"Sorry, sorry," You turn away, trying to think of tax returns and sick puppies, glad he took Your smirk as a sign of good humour and not as the embarassed blush of someone who is bewildered at how deeply cute their bodyguard has suddenly become.
"OK, let's try...uhnff." Your hands attempt to get between the fuzzy arm rest and his belly. It's a no-go. Razor blades would have a tough time trying to make it in that gap.
You're a reporter, not an engineer. How do You solve this without drawing the fire department over and blowing Your cover?
You peer around to the seat at the very edge, finding a young girl apparently thumbing through a book, less-than-enthralled by the steamy performance of Hedy Lamarr and Victor Mature.
"Psst. Kid!"
The girl sighs, flips a page. The Mook obligingly pats her on the shoulder.
She leans over, cupping a hand to her ear. "UH?"
Her elbow is buried in the Mook's belly, sinking in. He's already beet red and doesn't need the extra physical attention. You tap the offending arm lightly as You hiss.
"Need a favour. My, my boyfriend here--" You squeeze his arm in a parody of affection. Bad, Jackie! He's not the only one at risk of turning red! "--finds himself in need of physical assistance exiting his seat."
"Okay, maybe don't say it so loud," she hisses back. "I ain't judgy, but cops go to the movies too, ya know?"
Huh? Oh. She thinks You're a guy. Must be the way You hiss. And she thought...hm. But she's no rat? Good on her.
"That sure is considerate of you, uh--"
"Marion."
"--Marion, and now You know why my 'business associate' and I ain't calling the fire department. Hence why I'm askin' nicely for some assistance."
"Well whaddaya expect me to do? I ain't no weightlifter." She looks up apologetically at the smoulderingly embarassed Mook. "No offence, honey."
She's got a look to her, this Marion. Ain't pretty or ugly by anyone's standards, not even a "Plain Jane". Just someone who apparently doesn't think twice about taking herself to the pictures when nobody else is going. Doesn't mind buying herself popcorn, neither.
Somewhere in Your head, the lightbulb flashes.
You start thumbing thru Your wallet. "Run out to the lobby and grab me some..." You pause mid-thought. Lubricant is definitely needed to alleviate this situation. What isn't needed is a scene, which is what's going to happen when a snot-nosed craterous teen is asked by a - by his standards, You'd bet - blushing love queen to fill up a cardboard tub with greasy melted butter, especially if he subsequently decides that the manager is more of an authority in heated dairy product.
This calls for some careful strategising.
"...Get a large popcorn, but tell 'im the butter needs to come separate. You got a guy who's fussy, needs it poured just right."
"I dinnit come in with no guy."
"So you just met and he unburdened himself to ya about his horrible popcorn problem. What, you're going to question him? When he's relyin' on you for help? Don't'cha know anything about dating?"
Marion blinks, lips forming syllables as she parses what You just asked her. For a moment You wonder if she's going to start looking around for this mysterious hypothetical dork and his sensitive tongue.
"Just get 'em, separated."
"Why should I? You're screwy, pal."
"You know who else was screwy?"
"Yeah, who?"
You hold up the bill in the dark. "President Andrew Jackson. Now what say you and he get better acquainted in the lobby with some popcorn and butter, and I'll let you keep the change and introduce you to his twin brother."
There it is, the magic words.
"You got it, Mister!", and away she's gone.
You pat the Mook's hand. Comforting. Collegial.
"You're gonna be fine," You say, as much to Yourself as to him. "It'll be...interesting, but we'll get You outta there."
Maybe You should ask him to try again when Marion gets back. The two of You can split the popcorn while You watch No No Dammit Jackie!
You turn back and cross Your arms and try to concentrate on the movie. It makes little to no sense. You never had the head for Bible studies anyhow.
It's not five minutes before Marion is back again, and You're happy to see the ruse took. A big carton of warm yellow grease awaits Your grubby hands.
"OK, Marion. You feel like doin' me an' ol' Hickory one more favour?"
"Who?"
You sigh. "Just start greasin' him up."
Four hands begin dipping their fingertips in warm melted butter and smearing it around the Mook's belly; two heads dart this way and that, checking to make sure they're not getting any attention. Marion is probably checking to see if anyone is staring, though whether she wants that or not, You've no idea. It suits You anyway, seeing as this way she won't question why You're staring too.
Just because the Mook thinks the Horses have galloped away into the meadow, that doesn't mean You're so trusting. Horses have long memories, and they bite.
The Mook is staring at the movie screen, trance-like, attempting to remove every part of himself from this situation except for the very solid part that he cannot move by his own power.
"Thank you," he mumbles, half-conscious. Poor guy. Coulda ridden on the high of saving Your life all evening, and this happens to him.
"It's gonna be fine," You whisper.
"Yeah, just relax, Toots," adds Marion.
You take a look at her hand. It's moved around from the vital work it was doing at the sides and it's rubbing around the front of his belly now, just where the navel is. Long, lazy circles, turning the fabric transparent as she gives him a warm and reassuring smile, like she's petting a dog to sleep. You can see the light fuzz around his underbelly now, whenever the movie cuts to a shot with a lot of sunlight. You can see the slope of his belly, the round shape of it, traversed by those red-varnished fingers, so tiny by comparison. You get...feelings. Hot, impulsive feelings.
It takes You a second to snap Your fingers, slippery as they are now.
"Marion. You payin' attention?"
She looks down at her left hand and whips it back, back into the butter. "Oh! Whoopsie. Sorry folks...guess I uh, got side-tracked. From, you know. It's fun," she whispers. Her right hand is still lubricating him. She gives You a guilty look.
"Stop being ridiculous, kid," You reply, lying to her, and to Yourself.
This whole thing is ridiculous. You've already privately told Yourself that several times. Jackie, think about how ridiculous this is, how the two of You came close to risking Your lives just hours ago only to get stuck in a cinema seat...and maybe, just maybe, You’ll lose focus of how fun it is too. You were fleeing on foot from a psycho in a rubber mask, a psycho You were panicky enough to believe was the grim reaper. Now You're doing the job of a human crowbar. What a life.
"That about does it," You whisper as the last dregs of butter apply. The Mook comes back to Earth, apparently having missed the conversation happening around him. On the screen, Deelah is striking a confident pose as she mounts her chariot, planning on leaving Smasmom in the dust in their native...wherever. Bethlehem or somethin'. In the seats, the Mook is squirming a little, maybe still convinced he could try and lift himself out of there with strength alone. Sorry, buddy, that ain't happenin'.
"Stop movin' and let us work," You reassure him. He sighs, nods, sinking back down, legs spread like a big stuffed teddy bear. You try to think about anything other than big stuffed teddy bears. It does not work. "You're built for muscle in the top, not so much the bottom. Them legs were only used to carrying You around while Your fists got You into scrapes, and that was before You, uh...branched out," You add, patting his belly again. You catch Marion's attention again.
"Fingers under his rolls," You instruct her. "I'll do the same. When I count to three, all of us - and that includes you, Mook - start pushing in the same direction at the same time. Got it?"
"Ya countin' to one or zero?"
"Just...when I say 'go', Marion."
"Gotcha."
Your hands slip under. It's soft. Everything about him is...so soft. He makes a low grunt in the back of his throat and reminds You that this ain't exactly a barrel of laughs for him.
"Three. Two. One. Go!"
You two around him begin levering his bulk upwards, while his legs go rigid and push. You're reminded of a raucous party in Your scandalous days where someone tried to get the champagne cork outta the bottle with just their fingers, two people tugging on the guy holdin' the bottle and two more pulling the guy holdin' the cork. It did not end gracefully.
Again, You hope nobody's watching, whether or not they're trying to kill You.
The Mook's shirt slips off the underside of his belly oh-so-easily, exposing reddening skin and redder stretchmarks under downy fuzz. You get a good grip and heave again. The butter is working, but it's still an uphill challenge.
"Teufel!" He groans.
"Nuther...minute..." You reply, soft.
"Hold on..." adds Marion, drawing breaths. You should really thank her for being such a good sport. But there again, she has nearly 40 bucks of Yours already. And maybe she's being a little more than a good sport, come to think of it.
As discreetly as possible, the belly comes loose. The Mook sighs out, but it's not the end; now he's awkwardly half-standing, hips still wedged in there. And those hips, suet-wrapped as they are, are still hard bone underneath.
The Mook grunts, arches his back, massages it a little. The sooner this is over, the better.
"Right. Unless you happened to get two things of butter, Marion, I suggest you wind up for round two."
"But, uh, hold on, though..."
"What?" the two of You ask.
"Did you try..."
"FER THE LUVVA PETE," comes the voice of a patron in the row behind You, at a little over normal speaking volume. "THE ARMRESTS GO UP!"
"...yeah, that," Marion finishes, thunder thoroughly stolen.
--(Cont’d)--
