Post by pete on Sept 26, 2012 16:15:47 GMT -5
Rupert Royston-Fellowes woke with his head pounding. It took him a minute to shake the sleep from his eyes and his mind, in order to realize the pounding was coming from outside - namely, from the door of his hotel penthouse. Groaning, he straightened himself into a sitting position, still attempting to shake the cobwebs of sleep from his system, and glanced around quickly, trying to make sense of the people sprawled all across the floor and couches, surrounded by empty bottles and cans of all sorts of alcoholic drinks.
"What the hell happened here?"[/color][/b]
He tried to think back to the night before, but drew a blank. He vaguely remembered a desire to celebrate his and Nigel's first victory as tag team wrestlers, but everything beyond that was lost in the mists of his mind.
"If only that bloody wanker would stop pounding the bloody door!"[/b][/color]
Seeing that it was no use trying to jog his memory, he swung his feet from under the sheets, slowly pushing himself off the mattress. Only when he was already on his feet did he notice who he was sharing the bed with; and, at that moment, he could not prevent a cry from escaping his lips:
Rupert Royston-Fellowes: NIGEL?!?
His mind reeled, if possible, even more than before. What was Nigel[/color][/b] doing in the same bed as him?! To be sure, there was a girl between them - an attractive brunette - which went a long way towards painting a picture of what might have happened; but even still, he wanted to know. He had to know.
He shook his partner by the shoulder, as he irritably commanded whoever was behind the door to wait "just a moment!" The instant Nigel lazily drifted to life, he enquired:
Rupert: Nigel! What happened yesterday evening?
His partner grinned sheepishly, taking stock of the girl to his right before blinking up at him:
Nigel Kensington III: Can't 'member, mate...
A note of panic creeped into Rupert[/b]'s voice as he insisted:
Rupert: We did not...do anything...did we?
The question, however, was lost on Nigel, who was clearly still too weary to function properly. Hoping against hope that his fears were unfounded, the Royston-Fellowes[/b] heir therefore proceeded to the door, which he finally opened to find himself face-to-face with a bristling hotel employee. Not seeming in the least affected by the man's fuming demeanour, the London native raised an eyebrow, politely enquiring:
Rupert: May I help you?
The employee did his best to suppress the edge in his voice as he replied:
Manager: Good morning, sir. I am the day-shift manager of this establishment. I regret to inform we have had some complaints from other guests concerning the noise levels coming from this penthouse yesterday evening...
Rupert[/b] cut him off before he could proceed any further:
Rupert: Complaints?! From other guests? Let me ask you, you base-born swine: who are THEY?! You do know who we are, of course?!
The manager nodded, but this did not stop Rupert's tirade. The heir to the Royston-Fellowes fortune gestured toward his partner, who had just risen from the bed himself, as his tone rose steadily towards the boiling point:
Rupert: That gentleman's uncle owns this chain of hotels. Do any of these 'other guests' have relatives in the Board of Directors?
The manager stuttered for the first time:
Manager: N-no, sir, but...
Rupert: 'But' nothing, you insignificant peasant! Get out of my sight! I have half a mind to inform Lord Attenborough of this...!
This finally caused the manager's veneer to crack, as he pleaded:
Manager: NO! Please...! I...I apologize, sir! It won't happen again!
Understanding he had won, the young Brit allowed himself a cocky smirk, before slamming the door on the hapless manager's face. Then, turning to Nigel[/b] and the few guests who had been stirred by the discussion in the doorway, he remarked:
Rupert: Judging by the evidence, I do believe a party took place here yesterday evening. And personally...I see no reason why it cannot continue!
These words were welcomed heartily by the slowly recovering entourage, who immediately began to seek out the few remaining drinks in the general vicinity of the minibar. He heard someone ask if there was any cocaine left, and saw Nigel climb hastily back in bed with his latest conquest. This raised a chuckle out of him, and he allowed himself a smile as he reached for the vodka and poured a generous shot, despite the early hour. He leaned up against the wall, appraised the situation around him, and smirked again. Life was indeed good at the top; and there was nowhere to go but up.
"What the hell happened here?"[/color][/b]
He tried to think back to the night before, but drew a blank. He vaguely remembered a desire to celebrate his and Nigel's first victory as tag team wrestlers, but everything beyond that was lost in the mists of his mind.
"If only that bloody wanker would stop pounding the bloody door!"[/b][/color]
Seeing that it was no use trying to jog his memory, he swung his feet from under the sheets, slowly pushing himself off the mattress. Only when he was already on his feet did he notice who he was sharing the bed with; and, at that moment, he could not prevent a cry from escaping his lips:
Rupert Royston-Fellowes: NIGEL?!?
His mind reeled, if possible, even more than before. What was Nigel[/color][/b] doing in the same bed as him?! To be sure, there was a girl between them - an attractive brunette - which went a long way towards painting a picture of what might have happened; but even still, he wanted to know. He had to know.
He shook his partner by the shoulder, as he irritably commanded whoever was behind the door to wait "just a moment!" The instant Nigel lazily drifted to life, he enquired:
Rupert: Nigel! What happened yesterday evening?
His partner grinned sheepishly, taking stock of the girl to his right before blinking up at him:
Nigel Kensington III: Can't 'member, mate...
A note of panic creeped into Rupert[/b]'s voice as he insisted:
Rupert: We did not...do anything...did we?
The question, however, was lost on Nigel, who was clearly still too weary to function properly. Hoping against hope that his fears were unfounded, the Royston-Fellowes[/b] heir therefore proceeded to the door, which he finally opened to find himself face-to-face with a bristling hotel employee. Not seeming in the least affected by the man's fuming demeanour, the London native raised an eyebrow, politely enquiring:
Rupert: May I help you?
The employee did his best to suppress the edge in his voice as he replied:
Manager: Good morning, sir. I am the day-shift manager of this establishment. I regret to inform we have had some complaints from other guests concerning the noise levels coming from this penthouse yesterday evening...
Rupert[/b] cut him off before he could proceed any further:
Rupert: Complaints?! From other guests? Let me ask you, you base-born swine: who are THEY?! You do know who we are, of course?!
The manager nodded, but this did not stop Rupert's tirade. The heir to the Royston-Fellowes fortune gestured toward his partner, who had just risen from the bed himself, as his tone rose steadily towards the boiling point:
Rupert: That gentleman's uncle owns this chain of hotels. Do any of these 'other guests' have relatives in the Board of Directors?
The manager stuttered for the first time:
Manager: N-no, sir, but...
Rupert: 'But' nothing, you insignificant peasant! Get out of my sight! I have half a mind to inform Lord Attenborough of this...!
This finally caused the manager's veneer to crack, as he pleaded:
Manager: NO! Please...! I...I apologize, sir! It won't happen again!
Understanding he had won, the young Brit allowed himself a cocky smirk, before slamming the door on the hapless manager's face. Then, turning to Nigel[/b] and the few guests who had been stirred by the discussion in the doorway, he remarked:
Rupert: Judging by the evidence, I do believe a party took place here yesterday evening. And personally...I see no reason why it cannot continue!
These words were welcomed heartily by the slowly recovering entourage, who immediately began to seek out the few remaining drinks in the general vicinity of the minibar. He heard someone ask if there was any cocaine left, and saw Nigel climb hastily back in bed with his latest conquest. This raised a chuckle out of him, and he allowed himself a smile as he reached for the vodka and poured a generous shot, despite the early hour. He leaned up against the wall, appraised the situation around him, and smirked again. Life was indeed good at the top; and there was nowhere to go but up.