She seconds C.K. into the appartment: it’s nice, sparkling clean, stylish interior decoration, bright as day, sizable, what numerous folks would call “stunning” but is “cool” to Joelle who has her father King White’s penthouse appt platinum standard to compare it to. Trundling down the long hallway she espies shoes and clothes, which are all evidently size XXS. Her main objective, cocaina, is not so much the top most item on a mental list as a duty diffused throughout her entire body. Joelle “Snow” White as long as she remains an addict, her closest friends, of which there are precious few, have come to understand, is both surpassingly pretty AND monstrously hideous. This must figure hugely into her improbable glossy lifestyle print matter success.
They pass through the kitchen where there are these tiny aluminum ladders running all the way up to the top shelves and three or four rubber-tonged grapple devices. Her arm is a war zone. They pass by a mirror and she looks at herself or rather this image she has hated her entire life but doesn’t know what to do about other than throw massive make up on and deprive of regular food input. J. “Snow” White is confounded why they let her model, why on earth? The only more despiccable image is that of Henriette Trefoil, step-cunt-mother.
– My apologies Charlie. I don’t mean to inconvince. It’s just that I’m pretty much lost here in Altra Luna, I had the shit mugged out of me earlier, ID, wallet, handbag, cellphone, everything. I was here on model business, next thing you know. Anyways, long tale. I guess I could search out the next police officer but I utterly distrust those characters. As you know, it’s too late to catch any shuttles back to Luceria so I’m just tring to scratch together some change for a hotel room. The executive summary being: I’m stranded, washed up on these foreign shores.
Charlie Kress regards her sympathetically [with physical attraction just a faint background buzz] but accompanied by the pinch of salt mandatory in his line of work.
– You got mugged? You get mugged around here, Joelle, you don’t just walk it off. A lady as 10 as you, no offence, you don’t just get mugged. There will be the involvement of a degree of physicality, is a diplomatic way of putting it. And then the other question, the more obvious one, what is your business late at night in a crack house like this? As a polite yet discerning host I would just point out that your story lacks a certain degree of realism that would be…. desirable, for transparency’s sake, all things considered.
Charlie is scanning her closely now and J. “Snow” White is afraid that he will immediately understand what an ugly, desperate, down on her luck person she is. As well as undeserving of sympathy because a completely dishonest bitch hooked on blow in the worst way. Much of this her stepmother’s fault, +51%, this fucked-up predicament.
How about tasering, then robbing C.K. blind? Ahhhh NO, the flipping violence! Joelle recalls the traumatic scene of her father in regalia complete with sword, going to work, which is worse only by degrees. Charlie Kress is distincly focusing on her arm, which she tries to hide by sticking it behind her back up against the couch.
– Touche. But I swear I am not from Altra Luna. And I probably didn’t get mugged but I’m not sure, that was conjecture making up for memory. I just woke up in this building circa 10 minutes ago. To be honest I think I was… I might have been…
Joelle chokes back the truth, she doesn’t know Charlie-man at all yet. What if the truth-induces-compassion strategy is not applicable to him? This provision of the straight dope then will amount to giving him liberal twistage of her arm, which Joelle knows for a gal in her position is bad shit. She tries thinking of an alternative storyline, one absent of lies so she won’t have to memorize stuff but also yet does not have the full blunt impact of truth telling. Before snow ruined her brain seriously J.S.W. was good at this, now when she needs it desperately, Joelle struggles. The struggle is a silent one and silence in turn, this youthful, fabulous, withered J. “Snow” White knows, makes her look like she is making things up on the fly when actually she is just trying to weed out the elements that make her prone to various forms of blackmail, e.g. being daughter of King White. This is a situation she can’t come away from as a winner, though somebody once told her not to think of interpersonal episodes as zero-sum games too much.
Silently, frantically, through incredible neuronal turbulence Joelle “Snow” (close friends’ blatantly truthful moniker) White tries to piece together a coherent thought from which it might then be possible to begin the odious work of coming up with a convincing, uninstrumentalizable narrative. Also, her left arm is killing her, which she counters by beginning to furiously chew her fingernails.