Post by "Gentleman" Jim Douglas on Jun 27, 2012 12:30:44 GMT -6
The scene opens up at the previous SCW show, in Dallas, Texas. We’re in an almost deserted locker room, RM Strong and ‘Gentleman’ Jim Douglas the only two inside. Strong is packing up the last of his gear, muttering constantly under his breath about this and that. Douglas simply sits, naked save for a single white towel wrapped around his waist, looking faintly pleased with himself. Finally, Strong hoists his bag onto his shoulder and makes for the door. Douglas tries to catch his eye, offers a faint gesture of farewell. It isn’t returned, and Strong leaves, still muttering, still scowling.
This leaves Douglas alone inside the locker room. He takes one sweeping look around, before standing and blowing out a huge sigh. He goes to grab his clothes and get ready to follow Strong’s lead and leave as well, before something at the far end of the locker room catches his eye. Almost in spite of himself, Douglas has a surreptitious glance round to check that he is, indeed, alone, before making his way across the locker room. Making his way to a rather unremarkable looking bag which sat lonely on a bench at the far end of the locker room.
Every step that brought Douglas closer to the frankly massive holdall in the corner of the room seemed to succeed simply in confusing him further. Finally, he reached the bag, staring down into its contents, brow furrowed.
“What the fu...?”
Inside was the motliest collection of personal effects that Douglas had ever laid eyes on. You had the obligatory wrestling gear – trunks, elbow pads, strapping and the like. Douglas also couldn’t help smiling wryly at the hipflask, which glistened at him from the corner of the bag. Well that narrows it down... Douglas thought to himself sarcastically.
Yep, to the untrained eye, this collection could belong to anyone at all in the wrestling world. But Douglas couldn’t help delving deeper, his curiosity getting the better of him as he rummaged, almost elbows-deep, inside the personal artefacts of the as yet unidentified wrestler. Why couldn’t wrestlers just be normal? he thought to himself. What he found would amuse and horrify him in equal measure.
The first thing to be pulled out was an atomiser of mammoth proportions. Like, Rick Rude proportions. The thing truly looked like it could have drowned a small child with its contents. Douglas turned the atomiser over slowly in his hands, looking dumbfounded. Grimacing slightly, he leaned backwards and gave the handle an almighty squeeze, letting a long, thick stream of the contents into the air. Douglas took one sniff. That was all it took. He turned his head away violently, almost throwing the atomiser back where it had came from, coughing and retching at the vile, pungent smell of its contents. The cologne smelled faintly of old men, and strongly of cheap white wine; hardly an alluring combination. He stared back at the bag, obviously wary of what he might find next, but after one last almighty choking cough, he looked and reached warily in once more.
The next thing to emerge from the bag was a pretty unremarkable looking book. As with the atomiser, Douglas turned it over and over in his hands, examining it carefully. The book looked old; dog-eared and leather-bound, it seemed as if it would fall apart at any moment. Douglas turned to the front cover again, running his fingers across the golden ornate embroidery, reading the title aloud:
How To Make Love – The Basics[/b]
Douglas couldn’t help but snort, looking up in disbelief. You could almost hear his thought process – We’ve got a modern day Casanova on our hands here... He flicked through the book, stopping to read a couple of choice sentences and marvel at the horribly scientific pictures and diagrams inside. Still chuckling, he tossed the book back amongst its ‘bedfellows’ and almost immediately reached in for a third item which had caught his eye, looking very much like he was beginning to enjoy himself.
The third belonging was smaller than the other two and seemed at a distance to be much more understated. Boring, even. Douglas squinted, looking closer, before drawing his head back in disgust. It had taken him a few moments to realise that he was holding a signed photograph, a few seconds longer to realise that it was a photo of a man he knew, a colleague.
And three more horrifying seconds for him to see that the man in question was completely stark bollock naked.
Mark Carlton. The Not-So-Fearless Atlantic Gentleman. Douglas couldn’t believe his eyes. The photo was black and white and was... what was the word... artistic. Nothing crude, nothing vulgar, everything discretely covered. Douglas couldn’t repress another tiny shake of the head as he looked down at Carlton’s ridiculous pout, the dramatic backdrop and the scrawl of the signature across most of the top of the photograph. Douglas was so transfixed, that he didn’t hear the locker room door open and then softly close behind him.
“Like what you see Douglas?”
“Gentleman” Jim spun round, coming face to face with the real life form of the photographed man in his hand. Only now, the very real Mark Carlton wasn’t posing for the camera. His scowl was unmistakeable, his body language aggressive. Douglas could only stand there, rooted to the spot, mouth slightly agape, and try to mumble out some sort of response.
“I... I... err... I was just...”
He stopped in his tracks, as Carlton began a slow walk around the perimeter of the locker room, not once taking his eyes from Jim. Douglas still stood stock still, the photograph hanging limply from his hands.
“I don’t know about you,” Carlton spoke slowly, menacingly. “But back in my country... no... our country, it’s generally considered rather rude to go around rummaging in other peoples’ property.”
The flush of embarrassment began to creep up Douglas’ neck as he turned slightly to watch Carlton continuing to pace around the locker room. He knew he was fucked, and he knew that Carlton knew he was fucked as well. The Fearless Atlantic Gentleman afforded himself a tiny smile as he passed Douglas’ gear, peering in momentarily whilst continuing his musings.
“Certainly not befitting a gentleman such as yourself, is it James?” Carlton said with a smile which was anything but friendly. By now, he’d reached the same corner in which Douglas had been standing. Jim backed away a couple of steps, still looking somewhat embarrassed, as Carlton slowly packed away what was left of his belongings; every now and then, he’d look up at Douglas, smiling slightly or shaking his head. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Carlton zipped up the holdall and hoisted it on to his back. He turned and faced Douglas once more, the former snooker player now standing between him and the door of the locker room. The two Brits were now eyeing each other, both with a strange look in their eye, both perhaps anticipating a scuffle. Carlton blinked first.
“If I were you, I’d be careful.” Carlton said measurably, as he slowly passed Douglas, making sure to give me a good nudge on the way. Douglas went with the impact and turned to allow his gaze to follow Carlton towards the exit. “Carry on like this and you start to give us Englishmen – those who know how to be proper gentlemen – a bad name.”
Carlton opened the locker room door and stared daggers back at Douglas. “Gentleman” Jim could do nothing more than extend an arm and a hand – the hand that contained Carlton’s photograph. Mark looked down at it and laughed in an utterly pretentious manner. His eyes flicked back up to Douglas’.
“Keep it.” He said, still smiling. “Stick it to your wall, perhaps, or next to a mirror. Then you’ll forever be able to view perfection, and always have something to aspire to.”
Carlton looked Douglas up from top to bottom, and with one final disgusted shake of the head, turned and let the locker room door slam shut behind him, leaving a rather forlorn-looking “Gentleman” Jim Douglas standing in the middle of a now-deserted locker room, still feebly clutching a photo of a naked wrestler.
**********************************************************************************
“So take me through this again. Exactly what were you hoping to accomplish by going through someone else’s stuff...?”
Two days later, and “Gentleman” Jim Douglas finds himself in much more comfortable surroundings, accompanied of course by his manager both in and out of the ring, Harry Burns. The pair of them were lying, stomach first, on matching comfortable massage beds. Both were enjoying massages provided by two attractive masseuses (well, attractive for New Mexico...), in the comfort of a room whose interior afforded nothing but comfort. Gentle ambient music played in the background as the two young ladies continued to work out all of the stress, aches and pains that the previous week had caused for Douglas and Burns.
“I told you.” came Douglas’ muffled response, his head faced down in the headrest of the bed. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Call it adrenaline, call it whatever you want, I was all over the place after getting the win on Sunday night. It just... caught my eye, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” came Burns’ blunt response. “Can’t remember how many times I’ve told you now, but you’ve got to keep your nose clean. Especially after winning your debut. You’ll become a target, whether or not you do stupid things like rummaging through bags in locker rooms. Fucking PR nightmare, you are...”
The two lapsed simultaneously into a thoughtful silence, and for several long moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the gentle music and the slight creaking of the beds where Douglas and Burns lay. Douglas was the first to break the silence.
“Anyway, enough about Carlton – I’m not gonna let him, nor anyone, spoil my day. How good is this?!” he marvelled, sounding uncannily like an excited schoolboy getting his first grasp of boob. As always seemed to be the case with these two, you could almost hear Burns rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” he said gruffly. “Obviously rest is important, but you can’t neglect your preparation for next week. I reckon these matches will come at you thick and fast. You don’t want to get left behind, and just be known as a one-match-wonder. You need to follow up Sunday’s win with another one in next week’s match.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Douglas agreed begrudgingly. “And what a match it promises to be! At this rate, I’ll be so used to fighting multiple-person matches that I probably won’t have a clue what I’m doing when I get put in a singles match! Still, if it ain’t broke...”
“Don’t start getting complacent already” Burns warned roughly. “All four of your opponents, save for Dangerous Dan, are coming off of last week as winners. This will be an even bigger test than next week, mark my words.”
“Ouch... yeah, lower back please Linda, that’s great.” Douglas muttered at his masseuse, before answering Burns’ question in a measured tone. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that. But in the same breath – you’re moaning at me for getting complacent, overconfident, whatever. You’ve got to be thinking that the other winners could suffer a similar fate, right? Dixon had started on a great streak, but look how he ended up on Sunday. Thinking about it, I actually think Dangerous Dan will be my biggest threat this Sunday.”
“Really?!” Burns sounded legitimately surprised, muffled as he was through the massage bed.
“Absolutely. He surprised and impressed me in equal measure last Sunday. And he came this close...“ Douglas was obviously holding his thumb and forefinger together, unseen underneath the bed, “to winning the whole damn thing last week. The lad’s got heart, and has got an arsenal of moves that I can only dream about doing.”
“And now, he’s also got ‘backing’...” Burns stressed the last word, and Douglas instantly understood the meaning behind it.
“Yeah, but that’s your job to deal with that, right Harry?”
“Great...” Burns said, in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Besides, I’m gonna be preoccupied with other things. Probably wondering what time a certain Scott Syren plans on gracing us with his presence, if last week is anything to go by...”
“Ahh, our perverted Castaway reject...” Burns’ quip elicited a hearty chuckle from Douglas. “Seriously though, that bloke makes Mark Carlton look like the Pope. If you told him there were one hundred and one ways to annoy someone, he’d find the 102nd.”
Douglas paused, choosing his words carefully, perhaps. Or maybe just savouring yet another famous Harry Burns outburst. “He’s... brazen, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s a prick.” Burns retorted bluntly. “The man’s in gaga land, and I would take great pleasure in taking a ringside seat and watching you ram his teeth back down his throat.”
Douglas chuckled again. “Listen to yourself Harry. What’s he ever done to you, eh? Don’t you get it? This is the point of it all. This is why he does it. He is, to use one of your time-tested phrases, a wind-up merchant. And judging by your reaction, and the reaction of the fans last week, a bloody good one at that.”
“Well if you don’t, I fuckin...” Burns began, but Douglas cut him off.
“You let me worry about Syren. You just keep that monstrosity that walks around with him out of my face.”
“Or your arse.” Burns remarked grimly.
“Exactly.”
The two stood up, gripping their towels around themselves and quietly thanking their masseuses, who both did a funny little curtsey before slinking off through a set of vile curtains in the corner. Douglas and Burns headed in the opposite direction, through a door and into a communal changing room, where they continued to chat idly as they changed.
“And Ms Prodigy? Mr Cannon? What’s your plan for those two?” Burns asked Douglas. Jim simply gave his manager a little smile and shook his head.
“God, what is it with you and ‘plans’, Harry? Lighten up. Go with the flow. Let’s just see what’s what when we get in there, eh, and adapt accordingly. What say you, old chum?” Douglas gave Burns a cheeky double slap on the cheek, which Harry swatted away irritably. The two, now fully dressed, chucked their towels in the general direction of a tall wicker basket in the corner. Burns addressed Douglas as they gathered up their possessions and prepared to leave.
“What was it you said last week? Fail to prepare and... –”
Douglas cut him off with a nonchalant wave of the hand, the former snooker player already walking towards the reception area, withdrawing a battered wallet as he walked. Burns sighed, irritated but resigned.
“So where the fuck is the flow taking us now then? Don’t suppose you were actually planning on watching some tapes or – God forbid – spending an hour in the gym were you?”
Douglas’ voice came from a distance, yet it was still obvious that he was grinning as he spoke “I’m taking you for dinner. ‘Preparing’, that’s what you said isn’t it? Well that’s what we’re doing. Preparing. Jim Douglas style.”
Burns shook his head yet again, before slumping off towards his client.
“Alright, but don’t go asking me in for coffee afterwards.” he growled. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve got a bit of soft spot for naked blokes...”
This leaves Douglas alone inside the locker room. He takes one sweeping look around, before standing and blowing out a huge sigh. He goes to grab his clothes and get ready to follow Strong’s lead and leave as well, before something at the far end of the locker room catches his eye. Almost in spite of himself, Douglas has a surreptitious glance round to check that he is, indeed, alone, before making his way across the locker room. Making his way to a rather unremarkable looking bag which sat lonely on a bench at the far end of the locker room.
Every step that brought Douglas closer to the frankly massive holdall in the corner of the room seemed to succeed simply in confusing him further. Finally, he reached the bag, staring down into its contents, brow furrowed.
“What the fu...?”
Inside was the motliest collection of personal effects that Douglas had ever laid eyes on. You had the obligatory wrestling gear – trunks, elbow pads, strapping and the like. Douglas also couldn’t help smiling wryly at the hipflask, which glistened at him from the corner of the bag. Well that narrows it down... Douglas thought to himself sarcastically.
Yep, to the untrained eye, this collection could belong to anyone at all in the wrestling world. But Douglas couldn’t help delving deeper, his curiosity getting the better of him as he rummaged, almost elbows-deep, inside the personal artefacts of the as yet unidentified wrestler. Why couldn’t wrestlers just be normal? he thought to himself. What he found would amuse and horrify him in equal measure.
The first thing to be pulled out was an atomiser of mammoth proportions. Like, Rick Rude proportions. The thing truly looked like it could have drowned a small child with its contents. Douglas turned the atomiser over slowly in his hands, looking dumbfounded. Grimacing slightly, he leaned backwards and gave the handle an almighty squeeze, letting a long, thick stream of the contents into the air. Douglas took one sniff. That was all it took. He turned his head away violently, almost throwing the atomiser back where it had came from, coughing and retching at the vile, pungent smell of its contents. The cologne smelled faintly of old men, and strongly of cheap white wine; hardly an alluring combination. He stared back at the bag, obviously wary of what he might find next, but after one last almighty choking cough, he looked and reached warily in once more.
The next thing to emerge from the bag was a pretty unremarkable looking book. As with the atomiser, Douglas turned it over and over in his hands, examining it carefully. The book looked old; dog-eared and leather-bound, it seemed as if it would fall apart at any moment. Douglas turned to the front cover again, running his fingers across the golden ornate embroidery, reading the title aloud:
How To Make Love – The Basics[/b]
Douglas couldn’t help but snort, looking up in disbelief. You could almost hear his thought process – We’ve got a modern day Casanova on our hands here... He flicked through the book, stopping to read a couple of choice sentences and marvel at the horribly scientific pictures and diagrams inside. Still chuckling, he tossed the book back amongst its ‘bedfellows’ and almost immediately reached in for a third item which had caught his eye, looking very much like he was beginning to enjoy himself.
The third belonging was smaller than the other two and seemed at a distance to be much more understated. Boring, even. Douglas squinted, looking closer, before drawing his head back in disgust. It had taken him a few moments to realise that he was holding a signed photograph, a few seconds longer to realise that it was a photo of a man he knew, a colleague.
And three more horrifying seconds for him to see that the man in question was completely stark bollock naked.
Mark Carlton. The Not-So-Fearless Atlantic Gentleman. Douglas couldn’t believe his eyes. The photo was black and white and was... what was the word... artistic. Nothing crude, nothing vulgar, everything discretely covered. Douglas couldn’t repress another tiny shake of the head as he looked down at Carlton’s ridiculous pout, the dramatic backdrop and the scrawl of the signature across most of the top of the photograph. Douglas was so transfixed, that he didn’t hear the locker room door open and then softly close behind him.
“Like what you see Douglas?”
“Gentleman” Jim spun round, coming face to face with the real life form of the photographed man in his hand. Only now, the very real Mark Carlton wasn’t posing for the camera. His scowl was unmistakeable, his body language aggressive. Douglas could only stand there, rooted to the spot, mouth slightly agape, and try to mumble out some sort of response.
“I... I... err... I was just...”
He stopped in his tracks, as Carlton began a slow walk around the perimeter of the locker room, not once taking his eyes from Jim. Douglas still stood stock still, the photograph hanging limply from his hands.
“I don’t know about you,” Carlton spoke slowly, menacingly. “But back in my country... no... our country, it’s generally considered rather rude to go around rummaging in other peoples’ property.”
The flush of embarrassment began to creep up Douglas’ neck as he turned slightly to watch Carlton continuing to pace around the locker room. He knew he was fucked, and he knew that Carlton knew he was fucked as well. The Fearless Atlantic Gentleman afforded himself a tiny smile as he passed Douglas’ gear, peering in momentarily whilst continuing his musings.
“Certainly not befitting a gentleman such as yourself, is it James?” Carlton said with a smile which was anything but friendly. By now, he’d reached the same corner in which Douglas had been standing. Jim backed away a couple of steps, still looking somewhat embarrassed, as Carlton slowly packed away what was left of his belongings; every now and then, he’d look up at Douglas, smiling slightly or shaking his head. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Carlton zipped up the holdall and hoisted it on to his back. He turned and faced Douglas once more, the former snooker player now standing between him and the door of the locker room. The two Brits were now eyeing each other, both with a strange look in their eye, both perhaps anticipating a scuffle. Carlton blinked first.
“If I were you, I’d be careful.” Carlton said measurably, as he slowly passed Douglas, making sure to give me a good nudge on the way. Douglas went with the impact and turned to allow his gaze to follow Carlton towards the exit. “Carry on like this and you start to give us Englishmen – those who know how to be proper gentlemen – a bad name.”
Carlton opened the locker room door and stared daggers back at Douglas. “Gentleman” Jim could do nothing more than extend an arm and a hand – the hand that contained Carlton’s photograph. Mark looked down at it and laughed in an utterly pretentious manner. His eyes flicked back up to Douglas’.
“Keep it.” He said, still smiling. “Stick it to your wall, perhaps, or next to a mirror. Then you’ll forever be able to view perfection, and always have something to aspire to.”
Carlton looked Douglas up from top to bottom, and with one final disgusted shake of the head, turned and let the locker room door slam shut behind him, leaving a rather forlorn-looking “Gentleman” Jim Douglas standing in the middle of a now-deserted locker room, still feebly clutching a photo of a naked wrestler.
**********************************************************************************
“So take me through this again. Exactly what were you hoping to accomplish by going through someone else’s stuff...?”
Two days later, and “Gentleman” Jim Douglas finds himself in much more comfortable surroundings, accompanied of course by his manager both in and out of the ring, Harry Burns. The pair of them were lying, stomach first, on matching comfortable massage beds. Both were enjoying massages provided by two attractive masseuses (well, attractive for New Mexico...), in the comfort of a room whose interior afforded nothing but comfort. Gentle ambient music played in the background as the two young ladies continued to work out all of the stress, aches and pains that the previous week had caused for Douglas and Burns.
“I told you.” came Douglas’ muffled response, his head faced down in the headrest of the bed. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Call it adrenaline, call it whatever you want, I was all over the place after getting the win on Sunday night. It just... caught my eye, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.” came Burns’ blunt response. “Can’t remember how many times I’ve told you now, but you’ve got to keep your nose clean. Especially after winning your debut. You’ll become a target, whether or not you do stupid things like rummaging through bags in locker rooms. Fucking PR nightmare, you are...”
The two lapsed simultaneously into a thoughtful silence, and for several long moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the gentle music and the slight creaking of the beds where Douglas and Burns lay. Douglas was the first to break the silence.
“Anyway, enough about Carlton – I’m not gonna let him, nor anyone, spoil my day. How good is this?!” he marvelled, sounding uncannily like an excited schoolboy getting his first grasp of boob. As always seemed to be the case with these two, you could almost hear Burns rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” he said gruffly. “Obviously rest is important, but you can’t neglect your preparation for next week. I reckon these matches will come at you thick and fast. You don’t want to get left behind, and just be known as a one-match-wonder. You need to follow up Sunday’s win with another one in next week’s match.”
“Yes, of course, you’re right.” Douglas agreed begrudgingly. “And what a match it promises to be! At this rate, I’ll be so used to fighting multiple-person matches that I probably won’t have a clue what I’m doing when I get put in a singles match! Still, if it ain’t broke...”
“Don’t start getting complacent already” Burns warned roughly. “All four of your opponents, save for Dangerous Dan, are coming off of last week as winners. This will be an even bigger test than next week, mark my words.”
“Ouch... yeah, lower back please Linda, that’s great.” Douglas muttered at his masseuse, before answering Burns’ question in a measured tone. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that. But in the same breath – you’re moaning at me for getting complacent, overconfident, whatever. You’ve got to be thinking that the other winners could suffer a similar fate, right? Dixon had started on a great streak, but look how he ended up on Sunday. Thinking about it, I actually think Dangerous Dan will be my biggest threat this Sunday.”
“Really?!” Burns sounded legitimately surprised, muffled as he was through the massage bed.
“Absolutely. He surprised and impressed me in equal measure last Sunday. And he came this close...“ Douglas was obviously holding his thumb and forefinger together, unseen underneath the bed, “to winning the whole damn thing last week. The lad’s got heart, and has got an arsenal of moves that I can only dream about doing.”
“And now, he’s also got ‘backing’...” Burns stressed the last word, and Douglas instantly understood the meaning behind it.
“Yeah, but that’s your job to deal with that, right Harry?”
“Great...” Burns said, in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Besides, I’m gonna be preoccupied with other things. Probably wondering what time a certain Scott Syren plans on gracing us with his presence, if last week is anything to go by...”
“Ahh, our perverted Castaway reject...” Burns’ quip elicited a hearty chuckle from Douglas. “Seriously though, that bloke makes Mark Carlton look like the Pope. If you told him there were one hundred and one ways to annoy someone, he’d find the 102nd.”
Douglas paused, choosing his words carefully, perhaps. Or maybe just savouring yet another famous Harry Burns outburst. “He’s... brazen, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s a prick.” Burns retorted bluntly. “The man’s in gaga land, and I would take great pleasure in taking a ringside seat and watching you ram his teeth back down his throat.”
Douglas chuckled again. “Listen to yourself Harry. What’s he ever done to you, eh? Don’t you get it? This is the point of it all. This is why he does it. He is, to use one of your time-tested phrases, a wind-up merchant. And judging by your reaction, and the reaction of the fans last week, a bloody good one at that.”
“Well if you don’t, I fuckin...” Burns began, but Douglas cut him off.
“You let me worry about Syren. You just keep that monstrosity that walks around with him out of my face.”
“Or your arse.” Burns remarked grimly.
“Exactly.”
The two stood up, gripping their towels around themselves and quietly thanking their masseuses, who both did a funny little curtsey before slinking off through a set of vile curtains in the corner. Douglas and Burns headed in the opposite direction, through a door and into a communal changing room, where they continued to chat idly as they changed.
“And Ms Prodigy? Mr Cannon? What’s your plan for those two?” Burns asked Douglas. Jim simply gave his manager a little smile and shook his head.
“God, what is it with you and ‘plans’, Harry? Lighten up. Go with the flow. Let’s just see what’s what when we get in there, eh, and adapt accordingly. What say you, old chum?” Douglas gave Burns a cheeky double slap on the cheek, which Harry swatted away irritably. The two, now fully dressed, chucked their towels in the general direction of a tall wicker basket in the corner. Burns addressed Douglas as they gathered up their possessions and prepared to leave.
“What was it you said last week? Fail to prepare and... –”
Douglas cut him off with a nonchalant wave of the hand, the former snooker player already walking towards the reception area, withdrawing a battered wallet as he walked. Burns sighed, irritated but resigned.
“So where the fuck is the flow taking us now then? Don’t suppose you were actually planning on watching some tapes or – God forbid – spending an hour in the gym were you?”
Douglas’ voice came from a distance, yet it was still obvious that he was grinning as he spoke “I’m taking you for dinner. ‘Preparing’, that’s what you said isn’t it? Well that’s what we’re doing. Preparing. Jim Douglas style.”
Burns shook his head yet again, before slumping off towards his client.
“Alright, but don’t go asking me in for coffee afterwards.” he growled. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve got a bit of soft spot for naked blokes...”