A small, mostly run down hotel in the North of London. Stephen Greer, one of the few occupants for the week and possibly the only one not fresh out of a rehab facility. For once. Wrapped at the waist in a black bath towel, he sits hunched over at the edge of the bed, the stained bedsheet beneath him telling a tale of many a long night had within these walls.
A knock at the door brings him to his feet. He fumbles through his suitcase for a pair of boxers as a follow up knock persists. Tugging the garment onto his body, he approaches the door and removes the towel, rubbing it on the back of his neck as he pulls the door open.
"If this isn't heroin or a blowjob, someone is catching a beating."
It's probably neither. Standing on the other side of the opening are a small woman and a rather large mountain of a man. Greer smiles as he recognizes the woman.
"Blowjob it is, but is she going to watch or wait outside, big guy?"
Neither look too amused. The woman pushes her way into the room. Slender, with a form-fitting suit, fashionable yet still professional, this girl is pretty put together. She probably has a copy or two of Vogue lying around, maybe even a subscription. Her radically curly hair tied back into a wild bun, a pair of stylish, modern eyeglasses frame her eyes.
"Okay boy, you can come in too. Just don't shit on the carpet."
Unamused and unphased, the man enters the room. An enormous black male in an equally enormous tailored suit, he towers over Greer, literally looking down upon him as he passes. He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and presents it to his charge, who carefully wipes down the only chair in the room before sitting.
Greer: What are you and that doing here, "Sin"?
Naomi Sinclair. Ivy League education, attitude to match. Somewhere life went sideways and Entertainment Law called. Big dollars and fewer junkies.
Sinclair: Stephen, we're here to help you.
She sits back in the chair and opens her posture a bit to appear more welcoming. But not before she asserts herself.
Sinclair: But for the last time, don't call me "Sin."
He rolls his eyes and throws his hands up in surrender before plopping back down on the bed.
Greer: Fine, whatever, but the question still stands. What are you doing here in London?
Sinclair: And the answer is still the same, "we're here to help you."
He leans back on the bed, planting his hands firmly into the mattress. Feigning interest, he pushes.
Greer: And what is it that I need help with, exactly?
Glancing around the room, Naomi chuckles and lets out a sigh.
Sinclair: Look where you are and I don't just mean literally in this hellhole of a room. You clearly need help if you think this is where you should be.
Greer: I was trying to be thrifty. I've slept in worse.
Sinclair: My point exactly. You have been in worse situations than this and if you'd like to avoid that again in the future, you'll accept my offer.
He's intrigued, but never willing to admit it, he deflects.
Greer: If it's about the blow...
Greer is cut off by the thunderous voice of the big man. Greer shakes his head out and twists his index finger in his ear in a mocking fashion.
Greer: He speaks, does he fetch too?
Sinclair: He's a bit protective, but that is his job after all. I'm sorry, I failed to introduce you, this is Mister Erthales Jones. We call him "Big Herc." He's the insurance policy.
Greer: Well, he sounds hideous.
Laughing to himself, Greer leans forward and whispers.
Greer: I don't need you.
Naomi Sinclair leans forward and is face to face with the King of Pain.
Sinclair: You need me more than you know.
She leans back in the chair, holds her hand out and surveys the condition of her manicured nails.
Sinclair: Stephen, it's been less than a month since Tyrone went walkabout and you're already festering in squalor, consuming who knows what and letting yourself go right back into that abyss of disgusting obesity and laziness. How long before you're back in that haze of blissful oblivion thanks to your little pharmaceutical friends?
She's caught his attention.
Greer: Why, are you holding?
She slams her hand down onto the table in frustration, a small cloud of dust and grime puffing up around it.
Sinclair: You need someone to manage your career, manage your life. That is why I am here. I am not here to play little games with you and entertain you. You want your whims tickled and your fancies entertained? Get a hooker. But get her cleared through me first. I'm here to keep your life turned around and maybe, just maybe, you can be taken seriously again without your friends to hold you up.
He sits quiet, contemplating what she's said. It makes sense. Why not let someone else do the day to day, tedious stuff and just focus on the war? He stands up and grabs his bag, pulling it onto the bed, rifling through it's contents looking for a shirt. He turns his attention back to the pair across the room to finally acknowledge they were still present.
Greer: Why now? Why come all the way to London? I'm sure flying Baby Hercules over here was three, four seats at least.
Sinclair stands and adjusts her jacket. She motions to Big Herc that their exit is imminent.
Sinclair: We're here because even your opponents have started to notice your cracks. Lisil Jackson is banking on you not being able to keep it straight for even long enough to get into the ring with him. Whoever is next after that? They're banking on Lisil Jackson having been right. Us? We're banking on you doing more than just talking about it. And if that fails? Well, we have our "insurance policy."
She smiles coyly pointing to Big Herc and his massive frame. Greer considers just pushing her out of the room but logic wins out and he extends his hand. Sinclair accepts and nods. Approaching the exit, she wipes her hand off with the handkercheif.
Greer: I'm going to have to talk to Eric about this.
Naomi Sinclair stops and turns to face her new client.
Sinclair: Who do you think told me where to find you?
She exits, Big Herc shutting the door behind them. Greer stares at the door and thinks on the new opportunity that has been presented to him. Maybe this is the guidance he has needed. The war is real and not just something he's conjured up. Eric Dane is counting on him to come through.
And he’s going to.
"Well, there is a limit, and you should talk to your doctor about what's safe! However, an extra two or three now and again, never hurt anyone right?"
- Mikey Unlikely