#jchnlowe

PUP

                            ❛ why don’t i help you to your room ––– get to bed? no telling what kinds of undesirables you might run into out in the halls. ❜

       “--john.”  palms come up to rub at bleary blue eyes with a yawn.  seems like he’s woken them up.  “it’s four in the morning ; is everything okay.”

gossip, gossip, gossip. that’s all the bitch did. for a woman who held herself with such dignity and poise, she never seemed to shut the hell up. nobody in the hotel, aside from her, gave a shit what kate moss wore that week or how THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST was nothing compared to THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. despite this, it wasn’t uncommon to hear her blabbing about it to iris, ramona, or heaven forbid, a poor guest in search of a ROOM KEY, not a LECTURE on how their shoes didn’t really match their nail polish.

THERE WERE certain benefits ————— on john’s end, anyway  ————— of knowing someone who couldn’t keep her god damn mouth shut. THE TEN COMMANDMENTS KILLINGS were coming along swimmingly, save for one adage in particular :: 

    YOU SHALL NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST YOUR NEIGHBOR.

you shall not talk shit wasn’t directly carved onto the alleged stone along with the other nine, but JAMES had assured him that liz’s tendency to RUN HER MOUTH about this && that did count as false witness  ———— and who knew BETTER about their plan than the first ten commandments killer himself ?? so, james’s assurance that KNOCKING down one liz taylor would then eliminate one commandment on the to-do list led john to his current position :: seated at a bar stool with a deceptively glad smile smeared across his lips, SWITCHBLADE tucked into his back pocket. he waits until liz comes before him, opposite side of the counter, to speak ::

         ❛ MARTINI, please?? ❜

            a book ( the meditations of marcus aurelius ) is perched delicately upon splayed fingertips when peripheral gaze catches the man intruding her domain. casual indifference is casted towards john lowe, as it always does, at first, & hazels set focus to the inky words printed upon the page –– though no further progress is made. her attention has been snagged, willingly or not, & she finds it difficult to genuinely direct it elsewhere. 

            when it came to the habits of the inhabitants of the hotel cortez, liz –– truthfully –– couldn’t be bothered to invest. that, she found, was her ticket to survival. with no sequined glove of silver glove to shield her, liz taylor had to learn to fend for herself ––– sticking to minding her own had proved to be a good option. & perhaps that would be where she met her demise: there was a pang of pity for the man situating himself at her bar, one she rarely felt for other hotel occupants. the cortez was excruciatingly cruel to john lowe, & liz attempted to aid the poor soul in several, admittedly small, ways. but it’s now far too late to realize that pitying an advocate of death was a MISTAKE.

            she descends from her position, with novel’s pages squeezed shut, & it’s all legs. the few steps it takes to oppose john are executed with a graceful dose of elegance. her palms come to spread against the countertop & a daintily-made brow lifts in faux, casual surprise. it wasn’t the first time he’d ordered anything a little stronger than ginger ale, but liz reacted just so regardless. there’s a murmured ‘of course’ that slips from between her lips wispily before she busies herself with concocting the requested beverage.