Encounterlogs
Laurens Odd Encounter Sr Rachel 240331
Lauren's abduction takes an unconventional turn in a dimly lit, rustic bunker inhabited by an unkempt, middle-aged man who, by appearances, could easily blend into the wilderness he seems to have emerged from. Her captor, initially mysterious, reveals himself with a demeanor oddly akin to a long-lost friend rather than a kidnapper. This peculiar man, sporting a deep woods accent and a comfort with solitude, seeks Lauren’s companionship more than anything else. His request for her assistance around the house, however, is met not with fear or resentment from Lauren, but with a pragmatic and oddly humorous negotiation. In their bizarre exchange, she manages to turn the tables, shifting from victim to dominating the conversation, bombarding the man with tales of her non-existent children and her expensive, yet entirely fictional, medical needs.
The story crescendoes with Lauren delivering a relentless monologue that blurs the lines between a stern lecture and a comedic rant, leaving her captor overwhelmed and visibly regretting his decision to abduct her. In a wholly unexpected twist, the captor proposes a solution that Lauren can live her life freely, suggesting she visit occasionally to assist with household chores in exchange for her release. Lauren's relentless verbosity and fabrication about her life circumstances lead to a negotiation where she suggests Ryan, a “superhero-cyborg-maid-librarian,” as an alternative helper for the captor. The bewildered man agrees to release her, revealing a corridor that signals her path to freedom, though not without a final comic plea from Lauren for a ride back home. In this absurd narrative, the power dynamics of kidnapper and captive are flipped, demonstrating the unexpected outcomes when resilience meets oddity.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sat Mar 30 2024]
In the foyer
Antique low-light lamps illuminate the lobby of the Hotel, casting a warm
and homely feel to this spacious area. Russet couches and chairs circle
around several coffee tables which offers visitors a selection of reading
materials, collections neatly fanned out across the table surface. Tall
painted vases brighten the corner of each room with an arrangement of
assorted flowers and a television screen is mounted on the wall, tuned to
the local news.
The western door is marked with Men's, and the southern Women's.
It is morning, about 34F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
It's been a mildly confusing morning that's about to get a heckin lot more confusing. Lauren comes to after her second nap of the day, this one involuntary, with a low groan, reaching up to clutch at her head. "Who the fuck hit me with a truck," comes the complaint out loud though her eyes remain steadfastly closed, refusing to brave the light of day. "I'm suing you."
Hard to sue someone who hasn't shown face yet. There's only Lauren, her thoughts, and the residual impact of drugs. This is why we 'just say no,' kids. Because sometimes, in the deep night, you find yourself in a room entirely foreign, in need of your wits to escape. Your wits, and probably some equipment. It's going to be a hard time breaking out, if that's what she wants, given that whomever owns this home -- if it can be called that -- has bolted it tight.
There's the sound of metal creaking, running water, tissue paper being pulled. Maybe not so alone after all. Someone is in what's presumably a bathroom, past the wall opposite the cot Lauren's been placed upon.
There are no thoughts in this empty little head, only the pounding of her blood in a headache that makes Lauren curl up into herself just a little bit more, just five minutes longer...
"Fuckin' hell, and the nap earlier was so good too," she laments in a mumble to herself before exhaling out a sigh and sitting up in the cot she's found herself in, right about the time the water stops running. There's a bleary look around at her surroundings, and she waits for whoever it is to finish with their morning poop.
The door creaks open on rusty hinges. Out comes a middle-aged man who quite frankly looks like he burrowed in here. He's a rat-like fellow, on the shorter end, who wears dirt like a second skin. His hair's dark brown, his eyes are dark brown, and his fingers, at the tips, are also dark, dark brown. He's poorly groomed. His beard's come in in patches, with a wiry texture that's sure to catch morsels of food.
His speech has a bit of deep woods to it, with dropped consonants and softened vowels. Couldn't be described as a 'drawl,' though, given that he's got a miles-a-minute pacing. "Well, shucks, looks like you done woke up. Was wonderin' when that'd happen. Was startin' to get a mite concerned 'bout ya." It's like they're long-time friends, and he's been expecting Lauren's company. He's got the easy kitchen-conversation amicability down pat.
"Yeah, g'morning," Lauren lets her legs hang down while she sits up more properly, still rubbing lightly at her temple to ease away the remnants of the headache that's refusing to go away. "Awful headache," she tells the ratman who may or may not be a kobold, as though this is just another one of those everyday things. Sometimes you just wake up and find yourself in a locked bunker with a guy you've never seen before, and you just gotta roll with the punches. When life gives you lemons and all that. "Can I get some water, man?"
"Sure thing, darlin'. One cup of water comin' right up, just like a possum to a ripe peach." The man heads to the sink. It's small, with the kind of knobby handle used to control big pipes. The sound it makes is grating.
He runs water into a cup he's got sitting on the counter -- possibly his only cup -- and hands it over. The smell wafting upward is off-putting, too sweet and sulfurous. Judging from what's going on in the rest of this room, it's likely that he he pulls straight from a well. "How 'bout you lend me a hand fixin' up some grub, too? Reckon you're hungry." The guy's odd, but insofar, not dangerous. He just seems like he's wanting for company. This place is pretty secluded. There's no noise from outside, there's little in the ways of entertainment down here, and judging from the solitary bed, he's been alone for quite a while. Maybe that's why Lauren's here: to fill the space with chatter.
Lauren brings the cup up to take a sip from it, and then pauses when the smell of it reaches her nose. There's a glance over at the man, back down at her cup, and then she shrugs and pinches her nose shut while gulping it all down in one go. Easy as pie. "Oh, uh, sure, I can do sandwiches, but that's the most I can do without accidentally burning the place down. You probably wouldn't enjoy that one. I could go for a PB&J though." There's a look around, now that she's hydrated and her head isn't killing her anymore, to figure out what sandwich materials she can find easily. "Nice place," she tells him belatedly, just like any polite guest should, before starting on the small talk, "You from around here? Can't quite place the accent."
"Might just find some bread left in the cupboard. I know for sure we got peanut butter, though. Can't go without that, no sir." Lauren's going to have to root through the clutter, though. While the man's reasonably neat, he's a hoarder. There are all sorts of knick-knacks and equipment where he's pointing. There are loops of wire, sticks stripped of bark, makeshift fishing lure. On food, by the looks of it, most everything's brined in jars, canned, or dehydrated. Almost nothing's got brand names. He must, for the most part, be hunting and foraging for his own food.
"If you're hankerin' for some protein, I could show ya a thing or two 'bout makin' a Mojave scissor snare. It's a right handy trick for nabbin' yourself some squirrels. Reckon we could have us a proper feast tomorrow." That implies that Lauren's going to be here that long -- and participating in some farce of survivalist domestic life. He doesn't answer Lauren's other question outright; she's got him energized about teaching. Happens to be, though, that he reveals his origins anyway: "Well, back in my days in Panther State, I'd set them snares near every creek bend. You'd start by fetchin' yerself a sturdy branch, 'bout as thick as yer thumb..." Here, he holds his hand up to demonstrate. "...least a foot long. Oughta have a nice fork at the top. Then, you'd grab yerself some tough cordage..."
Lauren stretches out her arms above her head, and she's stifling a yawn behind her hand when she moves to rummage through the clutter in the cupboard, squinting at the odd knick-knacks she doesn't recognize while she does her best to sift through everything in search of bread, most of his words obviously going in one ear and out the other as she bobs her head in the occasional nod and lets out the frequent "hmm" or "ahuh".
Finally: bread, peanut butter, something Lauren's determined must be jam after sniffing at it for far too long. She sets it all nearby before turning to the man. "No squirrels, I'm afraid. I'm a vegan," she tells him then, giving him the most apologetic look she can muster. It's a bald-faced lie, but he doesn't need to know that. "And, uh, if we're doin' a feast anyway, what about the children? They're gonna be staying here too, yeah? My youngest is fifteen months, so she can't live without me for too long. You got diapers and baby formula somewhere?"
That shuts the man up. He's twitchy, wringing his hands while he talks and endlessly pacing, but Lauren's claim of children stills him. "You got young'uns? Well, dang. Reckon we could squeeze one of 'em in here. You can choose your favorite, but I'd go with whichever's got a knack at trackin' critters. The rest'll have to bunk elsewhere, find 'emselves a spot..." He's observing what Lauren's doing; and with great disapproval.
"Well now, darlin', that there's pemmican, not jam. Ain't nobody taught ya better? 'Course, reckon it might do ya good to get some meat in ya. Ain't gonna last long on a vegan diet once the world goes to hell in a handbasket." He holds his hand out for Lauren to give the not-jam over. His aspect's stern, that of a parent who's expecting better.
"I thought persimmon was a fruit." Lauren frowns, distracted over the pemmican-persimmon confusion for a few seconds, though the jar is handed over without complaint. She's not really that hungry anyway, so it's back on towards the talk of children, "Ah, I can't really pick a favorite. The youngest is really small, and you know how are are, all chubby-cheeked and big-eyed, it makes my heart swell with love whenever I hear her laugh. Speaking of heart - I'll need my heart medication, and my allergy medication. It's about four thousand dollars a month, after insurance. Spring's coming up, and I've got awful hay fever, and coming into contact with white pines and red maples just makes me break out in a terrible rash and I can't really breathe?"
She leans backwards comfortably against the table, arms folded across her chest - he'd better find her some jam if she's going to be having that PB&J. "Where was I? Oh, right, I was telling you about Nevaeh," That must be her youngest, unless that's the name of her heart medication. One can only hope not. "So her elder sisters are triplets, their father named them Destiny, Miracle, and Serenity before he passed away. They're all good girls, and I can't /choose/ between them, yeah? Can't go anywhere without taking their sisters along, kind of a group thing. And, of course, there's my eldest, Angel. She really is an angel, helps me so much with her sisters. I don't know what I'd do without her, really. I'd be a mess." She heaves out a great big sigh, a little misty-eyed at the thought of her eldest.
"Pemmican, not persimmon. That's meat, fat, and berries all mixed up together, like a frontier trail mix." He looks like he's about to start lecturing Lauren again, except she's moved on -- and he can't get a word in edgewise. The longer she goes, the more harried he looks. "Fuck," he says more than a few times. He draws the word out, two-syllable, at the mention of a 'four thousand a month' medication. "Alright," he tries to cut in.
Lauren keeps going. His face is pinched.
"Alright," he tries again. On and on the woman monologues. "Let's simmer down a spell." Never in history has a kidnapper released his victim solely on the basis of annoyance, but by God, Lauren might just get 'er done.
"Listen here, darlin'. I can't take in all your young'uns, and truth be told, I ain't exactly rollin' in it. What I'm aimin' for is a little help around these parts. So, how 'bout we strike up a deal? You handle your business in town -- pick up your meds, tend to the young'uns. Then, a couple times a week, you swing by and lend a hand 'round the house." That's a generous description of the place he's built. "We'll go trappin' together, share a meal, and then you can be on your merry way. What d'ya say?"
Kidnapping? Lauren isn't trapped in here with the man; he's trapped in here with /her/. "It's so hard to find a good guy these days willing to take care of you and your children, huh?" she starts, lamenting upon what decisions in life may have led her to this point in her life: thirty-three, widowed, jobless, with five children. "You think you've finally got someone who wants you for you, but noooo, the baggage is just too much, and you can't handle a few good kids and a loving woman. It's like all men want these days is some hot little bandmaid who'll do their laundry, wash their dishes, cook their food, and suck their cock, all without a word of complaint. Like, damn man, we've got a life too, you know. Inside every woman is a whole universe just waiting to be understood and explored for the right astronaut who takes the proper time getting to know and woo her, who treats her like she /should/ be treated, who waits on her hand and foot, who values her intellect and her heart as much as her appearance. But no, society tells us we're too demanding, too picky, too much, and obviously a man can't be expected to raise another man's children, right?" She may have been watching the Barbie movie last night while trying to sleep. There's also a lot more where that came from. Lauren inhales a deep breath.
"And, of cooourse, it has to be a woman who'll help you with your housework. Can't just get another dude all up in your mancave, no sirree- just get one of those women from up there, who know their place is in the kitchen, makin' sandwiches." Wasn't Lauren the one who brought up sandwiches in the first place? Irrelevant. "Sure, we'll pay a dude to fix the car and mow the lawn and do the plumbing and be a cook, but unpaid labor? That's a woman's job, of course. She can just take a few hours out of her day every day to drive out here and hang out like she hasn't got the weight of the world on her shoulders already. Who needs sleep and rest anyway? Not me, that's for sure."
Without a word of complaint -- he wishes. Lauren's lobbed a few hundred his way, all before lunchtime. He's already on the smaller end, but with each additional sentence, he shrinks, cut down from a solid five foot nine to about three inches tall. He looks downright miserable.
A couple times, he opens his mouth, wanting to interject. Nothing doing. He gives up. He fidgets again, pulling at a loose thread on his tatty shirt.
It's only when Lauren's good and ready does he pipe up -- and when he does, it's with pained denial. "I don't even like women." How the turned tables. Who would've thunk it? This podunk end-of-worlder, willing to kidnap a poor, unwitting maiden (ha) isn't quite so close-minded as Lauren might suppose.
"If you're talkin' compensation, let's hash it out. How much we talkin' here? Fuck. It don't even have to be you." Ideally, it isn't. "Maybe you got some good pals who'd fancy settlin' 'round here. It's prime prep for when the world goes topsy-turvy. I can expand the place, make us a cozy little community. Fact is, ain't nobody gonna make it on their lonesome."
He fires off every word rapid-speed, needing to bundle everything into one snappy sell, in case Lauren decides to grandstand again. All done, a wary eye's turned upon Lauren.
"Oh, oh, and another thing!" Lauren starts, inhales deeply as though she's about to set off into yet another rant, just to see the poor guy's reaction, before pausing. He's never going to kidnap anyone again, she's going to leave him traumatized enough. "Oh, well," There's a hell of a tone shift, enough to cause whiplash. "I know a guy, actually. He's some kind of superhero-cyborg-maid-librarian, but he's also married so you can't hit on him, and don't you dare think about snatching him up. Not everyone is as forgiving as I am, you know." Lauren is the most forgiving, obviously. She's only went on two rants instead of three like she could have. "I can give you his number, and you can reach out - do you even have a phone? - and get something sorted out, and /pay him fairly/ in like, jars of blueberry jam or whatever other currency you use around these parts to come hang out and clean up your shit, or he can help you look for someone else who'd be interested in that kinda thing. But like, seriously dude, you need some sunlight in here, and some fresh air, and a water filter. Like, damn, get your shit together." She gives him the ol' stink-eye, even though getting his shit together is literally what the guy's trying to do. "And maybe join a book club or some shit, or just hang around in those survivalist show subreddits until you find someone you click with. I'm sure you can find a nice guy willing to live in this sh-" No, she's not going to say shithole. Get it together, Lauren. "-abby but cute home you've made and like, go trapping raccoons with you."
"I ain't livin' in the Stone Age; I got me a phone." He'd probably give Lauren more lip here if she weren't like to subject him to another verbal thrashing. "Toss me the number. I ain't fixin' to flirt." At some point, when Lauren just. Keeps. Going. He puts his hands over his ears and turns his face toward the floor. "I hear ya loud and clear. Dang, I tried Facebook for connectin' with folks, but it's all a mess. Everyone's too caught up in them silly groups, actin' like ants with all that l-i-f-t nonsense."
While he waits for Lauren to find details, he starts undoing the locks with practiced hands. It's a process. A padlock's first up, and with the deft twist of his wrist, it yields, opening with a soft click. Next is a keyed entry lock -- he produces a little brass number from his pocket, and following slight resistance, pops the thing open. On and one he goes, until at last, he's down to a simple barrel bolt. There's the thud of metal against wood.
Lo and behold.... stale air! And freedom. Sort of. What's beyond is a a long, dark corridor.
"R-e-d-d-i-t, that's where all the degenerates like you are. Don't use Facebook, that's where the flat earth and AI-infested degenerates are. Set up your multi-factor authentication, don't trust any Nigerian princes, and don't give out your personal information to anyone," Lauren rummages around in her pockets until she finds her phone, recites out the number for the man to save. "Guy's name is Ryan, he's real nice, I'll let him know you were lookin' for him, cya."
She steps out. A pause. Lauren steps back in. "The fuck is the way out? At least drive me back home, goddamn."
The story crescendoes with Lauren delivering a relentless monologue that blurs the lines between a stern lecture and a comedic rant, leaving her captor overwhelmed and visibly regretting his decision to abduct her. In a wholly unexpected twist, the captor proposes a solution that Lauren can live her life freely, suggesting she visit occasionally to assist with household chores in exchange for her release. Lauren's relentless verbosity and fabrication about her life circumstances lead to a negotiation where she suggests Ryan, a “superhero-cyborg-maid-librarian,” as an alternative helper for the captor. The bewildered man agrees to release her, revealing a corridor that signals her path to freedom, though not without a final comic plea from Lauren for a ride back home. In this absurd narrative, the power dynamics of kidnapper and captive are flipped, demonstrating the unexpected outcomes when resilience meets oddity.
(Lauren's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sat Mar 30 2024]
In the foyer
Antique low-light lamps illuminate the lobby of the Hotel, casting a warm
and homely feel to this spacious area. Russet couches and chairs circle
around several coffee tables which offers visitors a selection of reading
materials, collections neatly fanned out across the table surface. Tall
painted vases brighten the corner of each room with an arrangement of
assorted flowers and a television screen is mounted on the wall, tuned to
the local news.
The western door is marked with Men's, and the southern Women's.
It is morning, about 34F(1C) degrees, and there are a few dark grey stormclouds in the sky. Ankle high mist flows through the area.
(Your target is abducted in their sleep, waking up alone in a locked room. They need to either escape or draw attention to them so their allies can come and provide assistance.
)
It's been a mildly confusing morning that's about to get a heckin lot more confusing. Lauren comes to after her second nap of the day, this one involuntary, with a low groan, reaching up to clutch at her head. "Who the fuck hit me with a truck," comes the complaint out loud though her eyes remain steadfastly closed, refusing to brave the light of day. "I'm suing you."
Hard to sue someone who hasn't shown face yet. There's only Lauren, her thoughts, and the residual impact of drugs. This is why we 'just say no,' kids. Because sometimes, in the deep night, you find yourself in a room entirely foreign, in need of your wits to escape. Your wits, and probably some equipment. It's going to be a hard time breaking out, if that's what she wants, given that whomever owns this home -- if it can be called that -- has bolted it tight.
There's the sound of metal creaking, running water, tissue paper being pulled. Maybe not so alone after all. Someone is in what's presumably a bathroom, past the wall opposite the cot Lauren's been placed upon.
There are no thoughts in this empty little head, only the pounding of her blood in a headache that makes Lauren curl up into herself just a little bit more, just five minutes longer...
"Fuckin' hell, and the nap earlier was so good too," she laments in a mumble to herself before exhaling out a sigh and sitting up in the cot she's found herself in, right about the time the water stops running. There's a bleary look around at her surroundings, and she waits for whoever it is to finish with their morning poop.
The door creaks open on rusty hinges. Out comes a middle-aged man who quite frankly looks like he burrowed in here. He's a rat-like fellow, on the shorter end, who wears dirt like a second skin. His hair's dark brown, his eyes are dark brown, and his fingers, at the tips, are also dark, dark brown. He's poorly groomed. His beard's come in in patches, with a wiry texture that's sure to catch morsels of food.
His speech has a bit of deep woods to it, with dropped consonants and softened vowels. Couldn't be described as a 'drawl,' though, given that he's got a miles-a-minute pacing. "Well, shucks, looks like you done woke up. Was wonderin' when that'd happen. Was startin' to get a mite concerned 'bout ya." It's like they're long-time friends, and he's been expecting Lauren's company. He's got the easy kitchen-conversation amicability down pat.
"Yeah, g'morning," Lauren lets her legs hang down while she sits up more properly, still rubbing lightly at her temple to ease away the remnants of the headache that's refusing to go away. "Awful headache," she tells the ratman who may or may not be a kobold, as though this is just another one of those everyday things. Sometimes you just wake up and find yourself in a locked bunker with a guy you've never seen before, and you just gotta roll with the punches. When life gives you lemons and all that. "Can I get some water, man?"
"Sure thing, darlin'. One cup of water comin' right up, just like a possum to a ripe peach." The man heads to the sink. It's small, with the kind of knobby handle used to control big pipes. The sound it makes is grating.
He runs water into a cup he's got sitting on the counter -- possibly his only cup -- and hands it over. The smell wafting upward is off-putting, too sweet and sulfurous. Judging from what's going on in the rest of this room, it's likely that he he pulls straight from a well. "How 'bout you lend me a hand fixin' up some grub, too? Reckon you're hungry." The guy's odd, but insofar, not dangerous. He just seems like he's wanting for company. This place is pretty secluded. There's no noise from outside, there's little in the ways of entertainment down here, and judging from the solitary bed, he's been alone for quite a while. Maybe that's why Lauren's here: to fill the space with chatter.
Lauren brings the cup up to take a sip from it, and then pauses when the smell of it reaches her nose. There's a glance over at the man, back down at her cup, and then she shrugs and pinches her nose shut while gulping it all down in one go. Easy as pie. "Oh, uh, sure, I can do sandwiches, but that's the most I can do without accidentally burning the place down. You probably wouldn't enjoy that one. I could go for a PB&J though." There's a look around, now that she's hydrated and her head isn't killing her anymore, to figure out what sandwich materials she can find easily. "Nice place," she tells him belatedly, just like any polite guest should, before starting on the small talk, "You from around here? Can't quite place the accent."
"Might just find some bread left in the cupboard. I know for sure we got peanut butter, though. Can't go without that, no sir." Lauren's going to have to root through the clutter, though. While the man's reasonably neat, he's a hoarder. There are all sorts of knick-knacks and equipment where he's pointing. There are loops of wire, sticks stripped of bark, makeshift fishing lure. On food, by the looks of it, most everything's brined in jars, canned, or dehydrated. Almost nothing's got brand names. He must, for the most part, be hunting and foraging for his own food.
"If you're hankerin' for some protein, I could show ya a thing or two 'bout makin' a Mojave scissor snare. It's a right handy trick for nabbin' yourself some squirrels. Reckon we could have us a proper feast tomorrow." That implies that Lauren's going to be here that long -- and participating in some farce of survivalist domestic life. He doesn't answer Lauren's other question outright; she's got him energized about teaching. Happens to be, though, that he reveals his origins anyway: "Well, back in my days in Panther State, I'd set them snares near every creek bend. You'd start by fetchin' yerself a sturdy branch, 'bout as thick as yer thumb..." Here, he holds his hand up to demonstrate. "...least a foot long. Oughta have a nice fork at the top. Then, you'd grab yerself some tough cordage..."
Lauren stretches out her arms above her head, and she's stifling a yawn behind her hand when she moves to rummage through the clutter in the cupboard, squinting at the odd knick-knacks she doesn't recognize while she does her best to sift through everything in search of bread, most of his words obviously going in one ear and out the other as she bobs her head in the occasional nod and lets out the frequent "hmm" or "ahuh".
Finally: bread, peanut butter, something Lauren's determined must be jam after sniffing at it for far too long. She sets it all nearby before turning to the man. "No squirrels, I'm afraid. I'm a vegan," she tells him then, giving him the most apologetic look she can muster. It's a bald-faced lie, but he doesn't need to know that. "And, uh, if we're doin' a feast anyway, what about the children? They're gonna be staying here too, yeah? My youngest is fifteen months, so she can't live without me for too long. You got diapers and baby formula somewhere?"
That shuts the man up. He's twitchy, wringing his hands while he talks and endlessly pacing, but Lauren's claim of children stills him. "You got young'uns? Well, dang. Reckon we could squeeze one of 'em in here. You can choose your favorite, but I'd go with whichever's got a knack at trackin' critters. The rest'll have to bunk elsewhere, find 'emselves a spot..." He's observing what Lauren's doing; and with great disapproval.
"Well now, darlin', that there's pemmican, not jam. Ain't nobody taught ya better? 'Course, reckon it might do ya good to get some meat in ya. Ain't gonna last long on a vegan diet once the world goes to hell in a handbasket." He holds his hand out for Lauren to give the not-jam over. His aspect's stern, that of a parent who's expecting better.
"I thought persimmon was a fruit." Lauren frowns, distracted over the pemmican-persimmon confusion for a few seconds, though the jar is handed over without complaint. She's not really that hungry anyway, so it's back on towards the talk of children, "Ah, I can't really pick a favorite. The youngest is really small, and you know how are are, all chubby-cheeked and big-eyed, it makes my heart swell with love whenever I hear her laugh. Speaking of heart - I'll need my heart medication, and my allergy medication. It's about four thousand dollars a month, after insurance. Spring's coming up, and I've got awful hay fever, and coming into contact with white pines and red maples just makes me break out in a terrible rash and I can't really breathe?"
She leans backwards comfortably against the table, arms folded across her chest - he'd better find her some jam if she's going to be having that PB&J. "Where was I? Oh, right, I was telling you about Nevaeh," That must be her youngest, unless that's the name of her heart medication. One can only hope not. "So her elder sisters are triplets, their father named them Destiny, Miracle, and Serenity before he passed away. They're all good girls, and I can't /choose/ between them, yeah? Can't go anywhere without taking their sisters along, kind of a group thing. And, of course, there's my eldest, Angel. She really is an angel, helps me so much with her sisters. I don't know what I'd do without her, really. I'd be a mess." She heaves out a great big sigh, a little misty-eyed at the thought of her eldest.
"Pemmican, not persimmon. That's meat, fat, and berries all mixed up together, like a frontier trail mix." He looks like he's about to start lecturing Lauren again, except she's moved on -- and he can't get a word in edgewise. The longer she goes, the more harried he looks. "Fuck," he says more than a few times. He draws the word out, two-syllable, at the mention of a 'four thousand a month' medication. "Alright," he tries to cut in.
Lauren keeps going. His face is pinched.
"Alright," he tries again. On and on the woman monologues. "Let's simmer down a spell." Never in history has a kidnapper released his victim solely on the basis of annoyance, but by God, Lauren might just get 'er done.
"Listen here, darlin'. I can't take in all your young'uns, and truth be told, I ain't exactly rollin' in it. What I'm aimin' for is a little help around these parts. So, how 'bout we strike up a deal? You handle your business in town -- pick up your meds, tend to the young'uns. Then, a couple times a week, you swing by and lend a hand 'round the house." That's a generous description of the place he's built. "We'll go trappin' together, share a meal, and then you can be on your merry way. What d'ya say?"
Kidnapping? Lauren isn't trapped in here with the man; he's trapped in here with /her/. "It's so hard to find a good guy these days willing to take care of you and your children, huh?" she starts, lamenting upon what decisions in life may have led her to this point in her life: thirty-three, widowed, jobless, with five children. "You think you've finally got someone who wants you for you, but noooo, the baggage is just too much, and you can't handle a few good kids and a loving woman. It's like all men want these days is some hot little bandmaid who'll do their laundry, wash their dishes, cook their food, and suck their cock, all without a word of complaint. Like, damn man, we've got a life too, you know. Inside every woman is a whole universe just waiting to be understood and explored for the right astronaut who takes the proper time getting to know and woo her, who treats her like she /should/ be treated, who waits on her hand and foot, who values her intellect and her heart as much as her appearance. But no, society tells us we're too demanding, too picky, too much, and obviously a man can't be expected to raise another man's children, right?" She may have been watching the Barbie movie last night while trying to sleep. There's also a lot more where that came from. Lauren inhales a deep breath.
"And, of cooourse, it has to be a woman who'll help you with your housework. Can't just get another dude all up in your mancave, no sirree- just get one of those women from up there, who know their place is in the kitchen, makin' sandwiches." Wasn't Lauren the one who brought up sandwiches in the first place? Irrelevant. "Sure, we'll pay a dude to fix the car and mow the lawn and do the plumbing and be a cook, but unpaid labor? That's a woman's job, of course. She can just take a few hours out of her day every day to drive out here and hang out like she hasn't got the weight of the world on her shoulders already. Who needs sleep and rest anyway? Not me, that's for sure."
Without a word of complaint -- he wishes. Lauren's lobbed a few hundred his way, all before lunchtime. He's already on the smaller end, but with each additional sentence, he shrinks, cut down from a solid five foot nine to about three inches tall. He looks downright miserable.
A couple times, he opens his mouth, wanting to interject. Nothing doing. He gives up. He fidgets again, pulling at a loose thread on his tatty shirt.
It's only when Lauren's good and ready does he pipe up -- and when he does, it's with pained denial. "I don't even like women." How the turned tables. Who would've thunk it? This podunk end-of-worlder, willing to kidnap a poor, unwitting maiden (ha) isn't quite so close-minded as Lauren might suppose.
"If you're talkin' compensation, let's hash it out. How much we talkin' here? Fuck. It don't even have to be you." Ideally, it isn't. "Maybe you got some good pals who'd fancy settlin' 'round here. It's prime prep for when the world goes topsy-turvy. I can expand the place, make us a cozy little community. Fact is, ain't nobody gonna make it on their lonesome."
He fires off every word rapid-speed, needing to bundle everything into one snappy sell, in case Lauren decides to grandstand again. All done, a wary eye's turned upon Lauren.
"Oh, oh, and another thing!" Lauren starts, inhales deeply as though she's about to set off into yet another rant, just to see the poor guy's reaction, before pausing. He's never going to kidnap anyone again, she's going to leave him traumatized enough. "Oh, well," There's a hell of a tone shift, enough to cause whiplash. "I know a guy, actually. He's some kind of superhero-cyborg-maid-librarian, but he's also married so you can't hit on him, and don't you dare think about snatching him up. Not everyone is as forgiving as I am, you know." Lauren is the most forgiving, obviously. She's only went on two rants instead of three like she could have. "I can give you his number, and you can reach out - do you even have a phone? - and get something sorted out, and /pay him fairly/ in like, jars of blueberry jam or whatever other currency you use around these parts to come hang out and clean up your shit, or he can help you look for someone else who'd be interested in that kinda thing. But like, seriously dude, you need some sunlight in here, and some fresh air, and a water filter. Like, damn, get your shit together." She gives him the ol' stink-eye, even though getting his shit together is literally what the guy's trying to do. "And maybe join a book club or some shit, or just hang around in those survivalist show subreddits until you find someone you click with. I'm sure you can find a nice guy willing to live in this sh-" No, she's not going to say shithole. Get it together, Lauren. "-abby but cute home you've made and like, go trapping raccoons with you."
"I ain't livin' in the Stone Age; I got me a phone." He'd probably give Lauren more lip here if she weren't like to subject him to another verbal thrashing. "Toss me the number. I ain't fixin' to flirt." At some point, when Lauren just. Keeps. Going. He puts his hands over his ears and turns his face toward the floor. "I hear ya loud and clear. Dang, I tried Facebook for connectin' with folks, but it's all a mess. Everyone's too caught up in them silly groups, actin' like ants with all that l-i-f-t nonsense."
While he waits for Lauren to find details, he starts undoing the locks with practiced hands. It's a process. A padlock's first up, and with the deft twist of his wrist, it yields, opening with a soft click. Next is a keyed entry lock -- he produces a little brass number from his pocket, and following slight resistance, pops the thing open. On and one he goes, until at last, he's down to a simple barrel bolt. There's the thud of metal against wood.
Lo and behold.... stale air! And freedom. Sort of. What's beyond is a a long, dark corridor.
"R-e-d-d-i-t, that's where all the degenerates like you are. Don't use Facebook, that's where the flat earth and AI-infested degenerates are. Set up your multi-factor authentication, don't trust any Nigerian princes, and don't give out your personal information to anyone," Lauren rummages around in her pockets until she finds her phone, recites out the number for the man to save. "Guy's name is Ryan, he's real nice, I'll let him know you were lookin' for him, cya."
She steps out. A pause. Lauren steps back in. "The fuck is the way out? At least drive me back home, goddamn."