"No way can I be what I'm not,but, hey, don't you like your girl hot?" [Independent Maureen Johnson RP Blog. Tracking comemoowithme and museicaltheatre.]
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Of course. Of course she'd decide to flip out on the one person actually interested in her cause. Maureen couldn't help but laugh at herself slightly. Well, it wasn't like she had the best reputation when it came to the media, anyways. Just a few months ago, she had been protesting in front of one of the major newspapers, claiming that their biased reporting was causing the downfall of their nation. Newspapers didn't like that, interestingly enough.
But this man didn't know about that, and Maureen was willing to play nice for the moment. "I'm sorry, I just -- ah, it's been a long day. How about we start over?" She gave what she hoped was a winning smile, clasping her fliers to her chest in a pleading gesture. "I won't yell at you again, I promise."
She took a deep breath, then held out a flier. "To answer your question, I'm protesting the unfair demolition of a cultural fixture. They plan on tearing down this building to make room for a parking lot, and many residents of East Village are outraged." Maureen went into a shortened version of her usual spiel.
"If you wanted, we could sit somewhere for an interview ... If we stay out here too long, someone may throw their smoothie at us." She sounded as if she were speaking from experience. People could be very antagonistic, for apparently no reason. Standing on the streets for any extended period of time was something only a crazy person would do -- which was probably why Maureen made a living off of doing it.
In the years since he had started out as a reporter, Chris had learned that not everyone was willing to have their story told. And that was something that as a reporter he had to accept—but at the same time, he had to be willing to go great lengths to get a story. He was working the city beat—entertainment, culture, what some might like to call fluff, but he was determined to find something with a sharp enough angle to get people to pick up the section he was writing for.
Ellen was picking Tam up from school today. In the beginning, it had been difficult. He could barely look at him because he looked so much like her. To this day, a part of him still blamed himself for Kim’s death. It had taken the combined efforts of both Ellen and John to make him realize that he needed him, and so slowly he had begun the process of learning to be a father. A decade later, he was still learning.
He could never pretend to truly understand the hell Kim had gone through—the hell he had put her through—but he did understand how devoted she had been to their son. In a life that was plagued with so much guilt and so much pain, he was the reason he found the strength to get out of bed in the morning and battle his demons.
He stopped at the corner when he saw a commotion up ahead—a woman was passing out fliers, which a guy didn’t seem to like. Normal people would chalk it up to the reality of living in New York City, but reporters looked for a story in everything, and Chris was no exception. He held up his hands in surrender when she snapped at him. “I’m a journalist with The New York Times—I may not be sane, but I am curious as to what this is about.”
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sergeantcjscott
The fine people of New York City were particularly vitriolic that afternoon. When handing out fliers for her events, the worst she usually had to endure was a bit of profanity from passersby. Today, however, was a day for more. She had been screamed at twice, and one particularly unbalanced man had torn the flier she handed him up before attempting to take the rest, too.
In light of all that, perhaps it was understandable that her immediate reaction to the approaching man was to go on the defensive -- For Maureen, naturally, this meant taking shelter behind the outrageous. Perhaps her particular brand of dramatic sarcasm didn't make the b e s t first impression for her cause, but she had already written her efforts for today off. All she really wanted to do was to go home to Joanne.
"Look, buddy, it seems like no one actually stops for these things, so if you're here to give me a hard time know that I've dealt with lunatics twice your size today, and I'm still here."
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"Aww, come on, Mark, aren't we past that?" She pouted. "Besides, it's not like I'm the only fuckable girl around. You talk like I'm the only one you're ever going to bang."
"Do I look like a fucking people person?" [from Mark]
“No; you look like a person Who isn’t fucking enough people.”
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"Well maybe my mind wouldn't be wandering so much if I were more entertained." Maureen knew better than to touch Mark's camera, but the urge to snatch the thing from his hands was there, all the same. She refrained. "What are you even trying to film? There's nothing here."
Someone here is is thinking about sex. Okay, it’s me. (For Mark, from Maureen)
The filmmaker doesn’t even spare a glance away from his camera as he panned the crowd around them, looking for something that caught his interest in the slightest. “Of course, it’s you. It’s always you.” Except when he wasn’t focused on filming, that was. Then it was him. But he wasn’t going to say that out loud, even if it was true.
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"If I scare away dogs, then how are you still here?" Maureen leaned against the wall, raising her eyebrows.
"Nice perfume. Must you marinate in it?" [from Benny]
“Nice dick. Must you put 90% of it into your personality?”
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"Do I look like a fucking people person?" [from Mark]
"No; you look like a person Who isn't fucking enough people."
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"Nice perfume. Must you marinate in it?" [from Benny]
"Nice dick. Must you put 90% of it into your personality?"
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agxntwarren
All in all, Maureen wasn't too eager to get out of these handcuffs -- and they weren't even the fun kind. For one thing, freedom came from her lawyer's pretty hands -- And she was going to be pissed that she had to come bail her out. Again. It would take a lot of love to get Joanne to forgive her this time. Luckily, Maureen was the master. Oh, hell, she wasn't getting laid for a long time, was she? Fuck.
The place wasn't so bad, though, really. Smelled nicer than most stations, and the blond sitting quietly next to her (noticeably without the bracelets, though) was really quite easy on the eyes. Taken or not, she appreciated beauty. And she wasn't shy about admitting it, either.
"Hey, stud. What are you in for? Or are you bailing some lucky girl out?"
#agxntwarren#ic#wy#hope this is alright!!!#even if mike is fbi and not police#i'm sure there could be reasons for him to be there#interrogating a suspect or something.........idk i'll leave it up to you#and i can't think of a starter for roger sooooo#i hope this is good ^^#if you want one on roger too tho don't hesitate to ask!!
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"She had a case, she can't be here." Maureen, who knew how to use her performance skills to her advantage, let a little bit of helplessness into her voice. What she kept out was the annoyance, the anger at her partner for not helping her when she needed it most. Sure, Joanne was totally entitled to a job of her own, blah, blah, blah -- but didn't Maureen's cause matter to her at all? Apparently not, because Joanne had only given her an adorably exasperated eyeroll as she walked out the door, leaving Maureen to fend for herself.
"I'm all alone here, Mark. And I have no idea what I'm doing." Letting the helplessness seep in a bit more. She didn't want to sound plaintive, or whiny -- this was Mark, after all, no need to oversell things. He'd do what she wanted, she knew he would as much as he did. It was was a part of what made him ... Well, him. It was just the way he was wired, right?
"I know you wouldn't leave me like this, would you?" Perhaps it was a bit cruel to guilt him, but she needed him here, and she knew that this was the fastest way to get his help. It was probably for the best, like this. Joanne was darling and wonderful, but she didn't get the equipment like Mark did.
If there was one thing that Mark hated worse than picking the phone up and hearing his mother’s screeching voice on the other end of the line, it was picking it up and hearing Maureen’s voice. Both of them tended to baby him and guilt trip him until he agreed to whatever they wanted in some form or another. And if he managed to stand up and didn’t agree, they both managed to make him feel horrible for it.
He was exhausted and his heart ached from all of the turmoil that was happening around him. He’d tried to show Joanne how to do everything and, bless her heart, she was trying. She just didn’t understand it all and he couldn’t blame her. It took him years to be able to be as good with the equipment and stage managing as he was. He was just so tired of all of this and especially Maureen’s habit of taking advantage of him.
"What happened to Joanne?" he murmured, a slightly trembling hand rubbing his forehead. He already knew that he would say yes and hate loathed himself for it. Damn him and his driving need to make all of his friends happy. Why did he have to be this way? Why couldn’t he be colder like Roger?
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gluaisfaocilleach
New Yorkers, just as a general rule, couldn't be phased by anything. They had places to be, dammit, and they had n o time to stop for some loudmouthed activist waving fliers in their faces. This did not, quite unsurprisingly, stop Maureen from doing just that to everyone who passed her by.
"Come protest the eviction of the homeless from a lot that has become their only place to go! Read more ...
Oh, s h i t . . ."
A pause in her carefully constructed rhetoric as a particularly vitriolic passer-by was moved to shove the fliers from her, s c a t t e r i n g them in the city wind. Maureen made a mad scramble for them, calling out to anyone who would break from wherever they were going to help.
"Bastard ...! Quick, before they get away! Grab as many as you can!"
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scrxwsfallout
Maureen was an activist, and most of her profits went to good causes. Still, she often thought of taking all of the money and using it to buy equipment that didn't cause issues whenever she tried to set it up. Then she wouldn't have to go running to her ex-boyfriend every time her cheap equipment malfunctioned.
"Mark ... The microphones won't work. Will you please come help?"
Perhaps he was used to it, by now. Dear Mark. Maybe he'd jump at the chance to help her. It was taking advantage, she was well aware, but it was as they said: The show must go on. She'd use whatever (or whoever) she had to to make sure the latest protest was a sucess.
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