"Why don't we make this a little more interesting?"

Stax slowly turns his head, taking in Hollywood's smirk, the way he stands with his arms crossed and one hip slightly out as if he isn't aware how incredibly feline it makes him look. The tone of the question repeats in Stax's mind - a challenge. He meets Hollywood's eyes and returns the smirk flawlessly; or so he'd like to think, knowing damn well that no smirk he comes up with would ever meet the standards of a Grade-A Hollywood Cocky Bastard Smirk.

"What'd you have in mind?," he asks, almost careless. He reaches for his wallet only to stop when Hollywood shakes his head.

Hollywood unfolds his arms to place his hands flat on the side of the pool table, still smirking. God damn that fucking smirk. He takes his time in explaining his idea of the bet to Stax.

"I was thinking...," he begins, looking down as if he's still thinking. "Maybe, instead of money, you might want to bet something more like...time, instead."

Stax raises an eyebrow, hating to admit that Hollywood's ploy to pique his curiousity has worked. "Time?"

Hollywood sort of shrugs one shoulder in that weird liquid way he has that's half creepy, half inherently sexy. "Sort of. More like a, slavery kind of thing."

Hollywood's eyelids raise again from where they're focused on the pool table to glance at Stax, but Stax isn't there. Stax is in a dark room, holding a whip in one hand and a leash in the other, looking down at Hollywood. Collar around his neck. On his knees. Subservient. Not fucking smirking.

Stax pulls the brakes on that train of thought, forcing himself to remain casual and praying to everything sacred that Hollywood's eyes weren't half as penetrating as they somehow always looked.

"Slavery?," thanking that 'everything sacred' that his voice sounded calm and nonchalant now.

"Yeah," Hollywood tells him, leaning away from the pool table again. "For say, a week or something."

Stax takes his time debating, although really his mind was made up the second the challenging tone left Hollywood's lips. After a long moment, he nods. "All right. You're on."

It's intense. It's almost like the climax of one of those stupid action movies where you actually end up holding your fucking breath even though you know that the protagonist of the movie will make it out of the fucking building before the bomb goes off and the whole thing crashes to the ground. At some point the rest of their bandmembers join them around the table, cackling half-drunkenly when Hollywood explains the bet to them, getting nothing in response but a self-assured grin. Yeah, it's in the bag.

Stax doesn't even allow himself to think what might happen if he loses. Hollywood's bitch? No fucking thanks. And it's close, too. Hollywood matches each ball he makes in with one of his own, making up for every time he has to sit and wait and watch Stax make shot after shot by making Stax do the exact same when he misses. The air in the bar is heavy. Equal parts smoke, anticipation and concentration. The rest of the bar could be burning down around them and neither of the determined players would notice it.

And then the table is nearly deserted. One, lone, black, pool ball sitting almost directly in the center. There's a laugh from someone, Slowey, judging from the deep, throaty quality. Hollywood allows himself another smirk, stepping back from the table, resting his cue easily against his hand without leaning on it and giving the eight ball a pointed look. He redirects his eyes up to Stax's without changing their ferocity and his smirk widens, barely perceptible, as he steps back towards the table.

Inside Stax is cursing everything sacred for letting him down, for sealing his fate as the butt of tons of inside jokes and Hollywood's slave for a week. He's wondering if Hollywood is a gracious Master and throwing that thought away as soon as it crosses his brain. He's screaming and stomping around like a petulant child.

Outside he stands calmly on the opposite side of the table, watching Hollywood line up his shot and ignoring the way his ass sticks in the air a little further than it needs to. He watches as the guitarist leans over and smoothly lets the pool cue slide between his fingertips, connecting with the cue ball, which in turn connects with the eight ball. He watches as the eight ball seems to float across the green felt of the pool table, creeping closer to it's destination in slow motion. And he's holding his fucking breath, just like one of those stupid movies. He watches as it rolls silently straight at the pocket, hitting the edge of the entrance and ricocheting off.

He blinks. Hollywood spins around, throws his pool cue at the nearest band member and stands tensely. Stax drops his gaze back to the pool table in disbelief so strong it nears catatonic shock, and then grins as the eight ball slowly rolls to a stop a few inches away from a side pocket.

Moving easily to the other side of the table, he taps the side pocket with his stick to indicate where he's aiming, although Hollywood hasn't turned around and isn't watching him. Stax drops the cue back between his fingers, lining the end up with the balls and consequently the pocket, giving it a small push to urge it into the indicated pocket.

The sound of the eight ball dropping into the side pocket and rolling smoothly underneath the table's surface is as satisfying as a cigarette after a night-long bout of good sex. Even more satisfying is the way that Hollywood's emaciated shoulders jump at the sound and a small 'fuck' emanates from his thin lips.

Stax rounds the pool table again, forcing the grin from his face as he walks in front of Hollywood and presses his own pool cue into Hollywood's hand.

"Ten AM tomorrow, you're at my front door," he tells him in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Without waiting for a response he spins on his heel, bidding the rest of his bandmates a good night and heading for the double doors of the bar.

The way Hollywood is glaring at Stax's back is ignored until he reaches the door, at which point Stax turns around again, finally allowing himself a small smirk. "Better go home and get some sleep, bitch. You got a long day tomorrow."

10:13 AM, and Hollywood raises his curled fist begrudgingly to knock on Stax's door. In his mind he's recounting all the reasons why it's stupid to even be here when he could have not shown up just as easily, but a bet is a bet and there's something itching at the back of his mind that tells him it may even be an experience worthy of his precious time.

"You're late," the door is open and Stax is standing there, looking angrily disappointed.

Hollywood barely lifts his shoulders and lets them drop carelessly, that casual I Have Better Things To Do Anyway manner that irritates Stax to no end. Only this time, Stax can do something about his irritation. Calculating, he opens the door and waves a hand to indicate that Hollywood should enter.

Hollywood steps over the threshold and into the house just as liquidly as he shrugged, every movement of every muscle seeming planned but at the same time naturally languid, graceful and infuriating. There's nothing graceful about the way Stax slams the door closed behind him.

"Kneel," he commands, walking in front of Hollywood.

Hollywood lifts an eyebrow. "Kneel?," he makes the word sound like it might be the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"On your knees," Stax reitterates, slowly enunciating each word.

Hollywood smirks easily now in bemusement. Stax smirks right back at him, before clamping his hands over Hollywood's shoulders and unceremoniously forcing the smaller man to his knees. Recovering quickly, Hollywood shifts into a more comfortable position on his knees and looks up at Stax questioningly.

"Stay."

As Stax strides out of the room and into his bedroom, Hollywood shrugs to himself and glances around the house. Despite all outward appearances, he's quite intrigued by the greeting he's recieved though also understandably annoyed and feeling more than a bit demeaned.

A few moments later Stax returns to the room, walking around Hollywood to his back. Hollywood feels something wrap tightly around his throat, Stax's hands working at the back of his neck. Returning to face Hollywood, Stax looks down at him almost expectantly again. Hollywood raises his hands to touch his neck, running his thin fingertips lightly over the leather collar now secured there.

"What the fuck?," he queries, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at Stax.

Stax accepts the question passively, backhanding Hollywood as a response. His head snaps to the side slightly, an obvious exagerration as Stax knows he didn't put that much force behind his hand, and Hollywood once again looks up at Stax, now clearly disgruntled.

"Don't question me," Stax tells him as he opens his mouth to speak again. From the clueless look in his eyes, its becoming quite clear to Stax that Hollywood didn't speak the word 'slave' with the same meaning as he did, but he chose to overlook that for the time being. "Stand up."

Unquestioning this time, Hollywood stands up, rising a few inches above Stax, which has always been something else that irked Stax. He narrows his own eyes as Hollywood's widen slightly in a silent question, as if asking 'What now?'. He can practically hear the condescending tone the words would be spoken in and decides to silence the voice, to make Hollywood feel as small as he should.

"Strip," he commands, not really knowing what to expect in return.

Hollywood's eyebrows only raise a millimeter more before he shrugs again, raising his hands to the zipper of his hooded sweatshirt. Grasping the key and dragging it down the teeth, painstakingly slow. Reaching the bottom and sliding his hands up his own chest to push the material back off his shoulders, letting it fall smoothly down his arms to the floor. Tracing his fingertips back down to grasp his t-shirt, pulling the hem up to reveal an inch of pale skin, then another, up over his stomach indolently and creeping ever higher towards his chest...

"Stop fucking around and take your goddamn clothes off," Stax snaps at him impatiently.

Hollywood looks a bit disconcerted that his strip tease wasn't appreciated but relents, yanking his shirt over his head and dropping it on top of his sweatshirt. Kneeling down, he unlaces his shoes and removes them, followed by his socks. He stands up once again and reaches for his belt, starting to unclasp it.

"Stop," interrupting him again.

Hollywood lets his hands fall back to his sides. Stepping back, Stax motions behind him to the open door leading to the bathroom. With another confused glance, Hollywood makes his way to the bathroom. In his wake, Stax collects his discarded clothing and disappears from view.

Hollywood takes the opportunity of being out of Stax's sight to turn to the mirror in the bathroom and inspect the collar placed around his neck. Non-descript black leather, save for a heavy metal ring attached to the center. He eyes the leather curiously then crosses his arms over himself, looks away from the mirror, feeling almost vulnerable.

A box is slid through the doorway, prompted by Stax's boot, and upon looking down Hollywood discovers the contents to be...cleaning supplies. Forcing himself not to look disappointed, he meets Stax's gaze levelly.

Stax almost sighs at the look. "They're cleaning supplies. I know it might be a foreign concept to a dirty slut like you, but you're going to clean."

Hollywood opens his mouth to respond, closing it as Stax raises his right hand again, the stinging in his jaw reminding him of Stax's 'don't question me' rule. He glances forlornly at the box then back up at Stax, recieving a blank stare from him.

"Spotless," Stax tells him, then turns and closes the bathroom door behind him.

Stepping back a few feet, Stax looks at the door in deep contemplation as if he could see through it and into the man behind it. It was quite apparent that Hollywood wasn't used to being told what to do. It was also becoming more apparent that he had had no idea what he was getting himself into when he bet Stax a week of slavery. However, Stax reasons, ignorance of the law does not mean one is free from the law.

With that thought in mind, he crosses the space of the kitchen and living room, settling into the chair in front of his computer. He could expect Hollywood to obey, but he couldn't really expect him to understand unless he explained. And while sitting down and having a heart-to-heart with Hollywood about the nature of a BDSM lifestyle sounded incredibly appealing, he preferred to not have to talk to the bastard unless absolutely necessary until he understood.

Finding a seach engine, he types in a few key phrases and sits back, spinning the chair idly and waiting for the results to load. A moment later the page loads and he looks over the relevant sites, skipping over quite a few of them, opening others and shaking his head to himself as he reads over the contents. It takes a good hour before he discovers anything worthy of printing off, which he then does and continues his search.

Inside the small space of the bathroom, Hollywood is staring furiously at the box of cleaning supplies which is as of yet untouched. He looks around the bathroom once before glaring back down at the box, as if expecting the containers to open themselves and set to work. Stax's words still ringing in his ears.

"...to a dirty slut like you..."

What in the name of all that is Holy made Stax believe he had any right to say something like that? Smacking him in the face was one thing, it stung, but once the pain faded it was easily forgotten. Although Hollywood was known to flirt shamelessly with groupies on tour, and didn't have the best reputation for being an honest and caring paramour, he was far from a dirty slut. In his own mind, anyway.

Glaring at the door. At the box. Looking in the mirror again. Tracing his fingertips over the smooth leather of the collar and across the metal ring. He wonders to himself just what the fuck Stax was playing at. With another heated look at the closed door he kneels down and yanks one of the bottles of cleanser from the box along with a sponge and sets to work.

According to the clock on the computer, four hours have gone by since Stax closed his capture in the bathroom. His capture. His slave. His. Stax drums his fingers impatiently on the table, wondering to himself how long he can leave Hollywood in the bathroom. Wondering if Hollywood hadn't already tried to escape through the small window.

He glances back down at the small stack of papers he's printed out, eyes flicking over random phrases and words in the text. His mind vaguely picks up some of them - Domination/submission, torture, kneeling, pet - but there's only one word that is still clear in his mind. His. Many of the pages he'd looked over had reminded him of the implications that word could have, but he had clicked away from them quickly. Not allowing his mind to wander that far. Not letting himself think, even for a second, that Hollywood would be a willing enough slave to participate in any of that kind of 'play'. He had refrained from printing off pages such as those, the ones with explicit detail of the other acronyms in BDSM - Bondage and SadoMasochism. He didn't imagine any manner of violence might have stopped Hollywood's insubordinations if he knew the entire pretense of this arrangement.

Stax spins in his chair and stands up, heading towards the fridge when a knock sounds from the other side of the bathroom door. He's slightly surprised. Not only has Hollywood apparently not tried to escape, he is now requesting Stax's attention? Stax deters from his path and heads to the bathroom door instead, muttering under his breath that Hollywood better be dying from inhaling too many chemicals or something.

The door pushes open a bit and Stax peers around it at Hollywood then glances around the bathroom.

"What?," he demands.

"I'm done," Hollywood tells him blankly, standing in the middle of the room.

Stax looks around the bathroom again, admitting to himself that it is a lot cleaner than when he first locked Hollywood in but not showing any outward sign of that admittal. "Done doing what? Fucking around?"

Hollywood's dark eyes narrow slightly in defiance, but he says nothing. Stax shakes his head, sighing heavily.

"Fucking clean, you ungrateful twat," he tells Hollywood exasperatedly. "If you have any other pressing matters...well, there's a fucking toilet right there and that should be all you need. Otherwise, stay quiet until I come back for you."

Eyes narrowing slightly more, offended, Hollywood watches the door close again behind Stax. He doesn't miss the way Stax mutters 'useless bitch' as he closes it, either. With the slightest show of violence possible, he throws a soapy sponge at the door as it closes. The door does not retaliate, and after a long period of moping, Hollywood forces himself off of the floor and picks the sponge back up. If Stax wants to play prison gaurd, Hollywood decides he'll go along with the act. For now.

According to the clock above the TV, it had been four hours since Hollywood had knocked on the door. Stax flips through a few more channels, his mind focusing on none of the images that pass over the screen. With a resigned sigh, he stands up and strides back to the bathroom door, knocking on it once to announce his presence.

He steps into the bathroom, finding Hollywood standing off to one corner. The state of the small room is greatly improved, every visible surface gleaming under the flourescent lighting. He walks more into the center of the room, turning in a slow circle and inspecting the room. After a cursory appraisal, he turns to face Hollywood. He's standing a little too straight, not smirking but nonetheless looking almost spitefully proud. Stax raises an eyebrow.

"Why are you standing?," he queries.

Hollywood looks caught off-gaurd by the question. "What?"

"I said, why are you standing?," Stax repeats carefully. When Hollywood doesn't respond this time, Stax nods his head towards the floor pointedly.

Begrudgingly taking the hint, Hollywood moves to his knees once again. He glares at Stax's back as he looks away from him, moving around the room to inspect the cleanliness. After what seems like an hour, he steps back into the middle of the room and faces Hollywood again, nodding once.

"All right, I guess this is good enough," he tells him, his tone mockingly unsatisfied. "Go make yourself something to eat."

Without another word, Stax walks out of the bathroom and back into the main room, collapsing onto the couch in front of the TV again. Hollywood follows on his heels, instead turning to the kitchen. He realizes, despite how much he would like to disobey Stax since apparently nothing pleases him, that he is ravenously hungry.

His first impression upon opening Stax's fridge is that he needs to go shopping. Though it's fully stocked with beer, the actual food supply seems to be running dangerously low. After a bit of hunting, Hollywood manages to pull together a sandwich. After replacing the items to the refrigerator, he finds himself at a loss of what to do. It doesn't seem that Stax would appove of him just walking over and sitting on the couch next to him, but the lack of a kitchen table leaves him with little other options. Giving up, he leans against one of the counters and eats, watching the TV over Stax's shoulder.

Hollywoods eats, then looks around the kitchen. At the sink. The refrigerator. The floor. The calendar pinned to the wall, practice days marked with red. For some reason, the blocks of seven stacked four on top of each other seem much larger than they ever have before. He's been Stax's slave for less than twenty-four hours. And he hates it.

"Get me a beer," Stax calls out from the other room, breaking into his thoughts. Hollywood hesitates a moment before retrieving a bottle and slinking into the other room, padding across the carpet almost noiselessly. He debates for a second breaking the beer bottle over Stax's head, but instead hands it to him over the back of the couch. It wouldn't do to give their singer a slight concussion.

"Sit," Stax continues as he takes the bottle from Hollywood. Hollywood moves around the couch, starting to situate himself on it. Before his ass can touch the cushion, Stax stops him. "No. On the floor."

Hollywood doesn't even bother giving Stax the scathing look he's perfected from years of use. He steps away from the couch and sits. On the floor. Stax doesn't give him a glance, popping the lid off of his beer and tossing it lightly onto the coffee table, seeming entranced by the television. He waits for a while, then changes channels. Glances sideways at Hollywood, finding no response. He waits a while, then changes channels again. And again, no response from Hollywood. He continues testing these reactions, or lack thereof, finally settling for a show on the Science channel about the feeding patterns of East African gazelle.

The clock on the wall is six inches to the left and three feet above the TV. Close enough that Hollywood can avert his gaze from the TV to the clock without being noticed. And he does. Quite frequently. The gazelle fail to intrigue him. An hour passes. Stax does not change the channel again as the program switches. Something about the relation of modern birds to extinct dinosaurs. Hollywood isn't paying attention.

Another half hour. Creatures of the Deep. Close-up of a beluga whale. Another half hour. Hollywood is quite sure he knows more than anyone ever needed to know about the mating rituals of honey bees. He is also suspicious that Stax may have died or passed out, but doesn't chance looking at him. Another twenty minutes. Hollywood sighs.

"Need something?," Stax asks so quickly that it surprises Hollywood.

Turning his head calculatingly slow, he meets Stax's expectant gaze. He sighs again, and Stax sits forward.

"I'd imagine...," Hollywood starts, pausing for Stax to cut him off. He doesn't, so Hollywood continues. "I'd imagine that even a hamster would get bored belonging to you."

Stax tilts his head slightly. Is that so? "Come here."

Hollywood gives in, not knowing what to expect but looking forward to just about anything after almost three hours of educational television. He crawls forward until he's sitting next to Stax, still on the floor. Stax leans forward a bit more and raises his hand, letting the back of his knuckles connect with Hollywood's jaw. Hollywood appears unphased by the slap, recovering quickly and raising his eyes back to Stax's.

"And I also imagine that not even a hamster would have been hurt by that pussy-ass hit," Hollywood tells him, letting a mere inkling of the frustration he feels leak into his voice. But it's enough.

Stax watches him coldly, narrowing his eyes almost dangerously. After a visual Mexican standoff during which neither looks away, he grasps the ring on the front of Hollywood's collar and stands up, dragging the other man to his feet as well. Not pausing for a second, he crosses the room and pulls open the door to the garage, releasing Hollywood's collar to push him in front of him.

Hollywood stumbles a bit, regaining his footing just in time for Stax to flick on the light and take hold of his collar again, yanking him across the concrete floor and throwing him into the far corner. Hollywood remains in the position he lands in, on his ass and pressed against the wall. Stax reaches above him, onto the shelves, digging past old paint cans and various tools, finally dragging a small length of chain off of the shelf. A bit more searching unearths a pair of padlocks.

Kneeling, he laces the first padlock through the end of the chain and attaches it to support for the lowest shelf. Then he retrieves the opposite end of the chain, looping the second padlock through the end link and the metal loop in Hollywood's collar, pushing the lock closed harshly and glaring venomously at Hollywood.

Stax stands up and paces back out of the garage, slamming the lightswitch down and extinguishing all light from the room. Hollywood watches the remaining light from inside the house diminish as the door closes behind Stax.

So. Maybe that was taking it a bit too far.

Before he had any time to regret pushing Stax over the edge, the garage door opened again. A thin beam of light made an ascent across the floor, Stax following in it's wake. Hollywood finds himself attacked by a barrage of paper, glancing down at the pages as they land. Stax kneels in front of him, pointing the flashlight down at the scattered paper.

"Read them," he tells Hollywood, handing him the flashlight and moving back into the darkness, sillhouetted as he opens the door to the house and disappearing again as he closes it behind him.

Hollywood lifts the flashlight's beam to the door, now securely closed. Then he shines it upward, to where the chain is attached to the shelf support. The shelf support which is attatched quite firmly to the wall. He lifts his free hand and tugs on the chain, finding that the support doesn't give at all.

Sighing, he lets the beam drop back down to the pages surrounding him, half-heartedly gathering them together before tracing the title of the first page with the thin beam of light.

"What It Means To Be The 's' In A D/s Relationship"

Stax throws the door to the garage open with a resounding bang, echoing through the vast, mostly empty garage. Hollywood lays curled up against one wall with his thin arms around his bare chest, padlocks still attatched to his collar and the chain that's attatched to the wall. It's apparent just by looking at him; the shadows under his eyes that have nothing to do with the dim lighting; the tired gaze that slowly lifts to meet Stax's, that he hasn't slept. Stax looks away as quickly as their eyes meet, darting to the crumpled up balls of paper near Hollywood's feet. At least he looked at them.

"Stand up," his voice echos through the room, just as the sound of the door opening had, and he's proud to notice that it sounds no less intimidating than the door did.

Hollywood does as he's told, shakily making his way to his feet. He blinks and turns his face away as Stax flicks on the overwhelmingly bright overhead lights, the flourescent bulbs launching an attack on his periphery. Stax takes a few steps closer, not hesitant, calculating.

"You left me here all night," Hollywood says, and it sounds more like a question for the lack of strength he puts behind the statement. He wants it to be louder, more forceful, he wants to scream it and impart unto Stax how every fucking second he was laying in his garage was an eternity of hell.

"Yeah," Stax replies noncommitally. Compassion? Fuck no, not today, thank you kindly. The attitude he is getting from Hollywood leaves no doubt in his mind that he either didn't read the information Stax gave him, or he chose to ignore it.

Stax digs a set of keys out of his pockets, striding forward to first unlock the padlock connecting the chain to the wall, then the chain to Hollywood's collar. Hollywood doesn't move, seeming more exhausted than obedient but not even raising his eyes to Stax's as the singer moves in front of him again. Stax lets his eyes wander over Hollywood appraisingly, almost possessively. Lifting a hand, he tugs lightly on the ring in his collar and turns his back.

"Come on," he instructs Hollywood.

Hollywood still doesn't lift his eyes, trailing a few feet behind Stax and into the house. He's almost surprised by the warmth, having grown used to the colder temperature of the garage. Stax stops abruptly in front of him, turning around to motion to the bathroom.

"Go piss, then find something to make for breakfast."

Without a second thought, Hollywood darts towards the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and moves to the toilet to relieve himself, stretching the sore muscles of his back, stiff from hardly moving all night though he didn't sleep. Flushing the toilet and moving to the sink to wash his hands, he ponders over the information he was given last night.

Surely, that isn't really what Stax expects of him. Unquestioning obedience and trust? Kneeling at his feet? Calling him Master? Hollywood rolls his eyes lightly at the thought, splashing some cool water on his face in an attempt to wake up.

He exits the bathroom and glances around the rest of the house. Stax isn't to be seen, and the door to his bedroom is closed. With a small shrug of defeat, Hollywood moves into the kitchen and starts to dig through the fridge and cupboards to find something to fix for breakfast.

When Stax emerges from his room twenty minutes later, he's almost surprised to find that Hollywood has followed through on what was expected of him. There's a plate of eggs, toast and reheated sausage that he's fairly sure has been sitting in his freezer since he moved in set on the counter, as well as a pot of coffee under the machine.

"Do you need anything else?," Stax nearly jumps in surprise at the voice behind him and spins to see Hollywood looking up at him from a kneeling position.

Swallowing his surprise easily, Stax shakes his head casually. "No, this is fine."

He takes the food and a mug of coffee into the living room, settling onto the couch and watching mundane news shows as he eats. Vaguely aware of Hollywood moving around behind him in the kitchen. Cleaning up after cooking. Without being asked. Quite a drastic change from the day before - perhaps he read, after all.

Stax finished the breakfast, not bothering to clean up after himself as he drains his coffee. He stands up and moves to the door, pulling his boots on. Carefully watching Hollywood move back and forth through the kitchen as he laces them up and ties them, Stax rises again.

"Come here, bitch," he calls out to Hollywood.

The reaction is slightly delayed but Hollywood crosses the room to where Stax is, keeping his eyes cast down. He kneels again when he reaches him, flawlessly, and Stax is impressed. But he doesn't let on that he is.

"I have to go to work," he tells Hollywood, getting no response. "Keep yourself busy while I'm gone. Clean the house and shit."

He turns around and grabs his coat from where it's tossed over the back of a chair, pulling it on before tapping Hollywood lightly under the chin. An indication for him to stand up. Hollywood pulls himself to his feet again liquidly and Stax is reminded of a cat stretching as it uncurls from a nap. He hesitates before continuing, almost waiting for Hollywood to start cleaning himself with his tongue.

Shaking his head a bit to clear that strange thought, he looks back at his slave. "I'll be back around five."

Hollywood only nods as an indication that he heard Stax, not lifting his eyes until the door closes behind him. Then he turns and slowly looks over the condition of the house and groans inwardly.

It's nine hours later when Hollywood hears Stax's car pull into the garage, rolling off the couch and turning the TV off in the same motion. After landing on the carpet with a dull thud, he replaces the remote on the surface of the coffee table. He gets to his feet just as Stax makes his way through the door, a small, white, plastic bag in each hand.

"There's more in the trunk," Stax tells him, motioning back towards the garage with his head as he moves into the kitchen.

Hollywood hears the unspoken command and makes his way into the garage, shuddering minutely at the sight of the chain curled in the corner like a snake waiting to strike at him. Grasping a few bags out of the trunk of Stax's car, he makes his way back into the house and drops the bags onto the counter. He catches a glimpse of Stax sitting in the living room, taking his boots off, but doesn't say a word. He just returns to the garage to retrieve the rest of the groceries.

As Hollywood moves between the kitchen and the garage, Stax gives the rest of the house a cursory look. To all appearances it seems like Hollywood had spent the day cleaning, as instructed. Defying Stax's expectations, which included either returning home to find Hollywood passed out on the couch or not there at all.

Stax pulls his boots off and sets them to the side of the door, standing up and cracking his neck. He watches as Hollywood sets the last of the bags down then hesitates, glancing around as if unsure of what to do next. It almost makes Stax smile.

"Put those away and start dinner," he tells him in passing, on his way to the bathroom. "I'm going to shower."

Hollywood nods again and starts pulling items out of the plastic bags. Since there was hardly any food left in the fridge or cupboard to dictate where certain things were supposed to go, Hollywood uses deductive reasoning to put things where he imagines they should go. He hears the water in the bathroom turn on but ignores it, looking over the newly purchased groceries to find something relatively easy to prepare. Because fuck, he had no idea how to cook anything that required any preparation.

Finally he settles on a bag of spaghetti noodles, filling a pot about halfway with water and setting it on one of the burners to let it boil. Upon further inspection he finds that Stax had the foresight to buy spaghetti noodles, but no sauce. Scratching at the back of his neck unsurely and glancing towards the bathroom door like a wary coyote in a chicken pen, he prowls across the kitchen to the cupboards and roots through the canned goods. He procures a can of tomato paste, sparking a nearly forgotten memory of watching his mother prepare spaghetti when he was quite a bit younger.

He looks around again before stealthily moving back to the stove and checking the water - not boiling - then unearthing a sauce pan from a different cupboard. He opens the can of tomato paste and gazes at it wonderingly. Seems like his mother added something else when she made sauce. The curious look on his face slowly turns into a glare, narrowing his eyes and pressing his lips together as if trying to intimidate the can into divulging it's secrets.

When that doesn't work, he slowly turns the can around. And there it is. He gives a small, triumphant grin and grabs a spoon, forcing the contents of the can into the sauce pan then refilling it with water and pouring that into the pan as well. Checking the water again, still not boiling, he leans against the counter and crosses his arms to wait.

Hollywood drops the noodles into the finally boiling water just as the bathroom door opens. A haze of light steam escapes, followed by Stax. Stax, quite near nude, a towel wrapped around his hips. Stax, completely oblivious to the overwhelming allure of his barely-clothed body, tanned skin stretched over muscles being so magnetic that Hollywood actually takes a few steps away from the counter before catching himself.

Stax pauses en route to the bedroom, looking at Hollywood oddly. Hollywood glances away nonchalantly, vaguely in the direction of the stove. Not memorizing the way his ass moves underneath that thin fabric, oh hell no.

"That smells really good," Stax comments. Oblivious. Completely.

Hollywood offers a non-committal response of some sort, almost surprised when it doesn't come out as an aroused groan. He waits a beat before turning around and watching Stax walk the rest of the way to his bedroom. Takes a few more steps away from the stove to let his eyes roam over Stax's back for just a few seconds longer. Nearly pouts when the door closes behind Stax.

He returns to leaning against the counter, crossing his arms dejectedly and staring at the floor. Concentrating on cleansing his mind of all the images seeing Stax that unclothed produced, or maybe focusing on them, he nearly jumps when the door opens suddenly again and Stax looks back out at him.

"You fucking did laundry?," Stax asks, narrowing his eyes. Bringing Hollywood back to earth and the shattering reality that he is still Stax's slave.

"Yeah...," he says, looking at him hesitantly then back at the floor quickly.

Stax pauses a second before replying. "Weird."

The door closes again and Hollywood looks back up at the unyeilding fake wood curiously. 'Weird'? He continues staring vacantly at the door, wondering to himself if that was a good 'weird' or a bad one. Was Stax one of those crazy people that had to have their laundry washed and folded a particular way or they couldn't wear it until it was redone correctly? Or was 'weird' the closest thing to praise that he could give?

Hollywood finds he can't decide and continues staring at the door, scarcely noticing when it opens and Stax emerges again, fully clothed. Stax walks slowly across the kitchen floor, observing Hollywood's far-off yet pensive expression until a loud popping noise interrupts him.

He snaps his gaze away from Hollywood to the stove, where one pot is precariously close to boiling over and the other is emitting small explosions of red liquid that splatter across the wall and stove. He looks at the stove for a long moment. Then back at Hollywood, still vacant. Stove? Tiny spaghetti-sauce volcanic eruption. Hollywood? Vacancy.

"Bitch."

Hollywood's gaze snaps from the now open door to Stax, standing on his other side with an expectant expression. Back and forth once again with apparent confusion. Then an understanding look overtakes his face and he drops to his knees. Stax sighs.

"Not that. Look at the fucking stove."

Hollywood looks up just as the boiling water pours over the edge of the pot, sliding down the smooth steel surface and meeting the gas-powered flame underneath with sizzling and hissing abounds.

"Fuck," he mutters, standing up again and braving the sauce explosions and steaming water to turn the burners off. Shaking excess water from his hand before it burns, he looks down at the sauce pan hopefully. His face falls upon viewing the blackened contents.

Stax coughs behind him, reminding Hollywood of his presence. Hollywood slowly turns around to face him and looks down. Stax nearly grins at his guilty demeanor but contains himself, maintaining the stubborn, blank expression.

"I think...I ruined dinner," Hollywood finally tells him, peering up at him from under his eyelashes without lifting his head.

"Good logic skills," Stax mutters, his voice low and condescending.

Hollywood continues to stare at the floor, unsure of what to say. Normally Stax would laugh at something like this. Normally Stax would call him a dumbass and shake his head, grinning. Normally Stax would not try to burn a hole through him with his eyes, waiting for a response that Hollywood didn't have.

After a long moment of silence, Stax sighs. "Clean this up, I'll order something."

Hollywood complies wordlessly, spinning again to take the ill-fated pot of noodles and set it in the sink. He runs cold water into it until the water is cool enough to drain out, dumping the noodles into the trashcan. Turning, he collects the sauce pan and stares at it curiously for a moment before moving that underneath the spray of water as well, staining it blood red as it rinses down the drain.

Stax wanders into the living room and picks up the cordless phone, dropping into the chair next to his computer desk and flipping through the phone book. Upon discovering the phone number of his favorite Chinese place, he dials and turns to inspect Hollywood's actions.

He's hunched over the sink, scrubbing one of the pans. The muscles of his back move ever so sublty over his ribcage, each rib lightly outlined underneath the pale skin. One of his shoulderblades is bruised lightly and Stax feels a pang of guilt as he realizes it's probably due to spending the entirety of last night on the floor of his garage. He rejects the guilt as he remembers Hollywood's attitude towards him the day before. Even if he hadn't known the attitude that was expected of him, he was well aware that he was expected to obey. Without question. And he hadn't done that.

Stax tears his gaze away from Hollywood's back as someone on the other end of the line picks up the phone. He listens to the specials of the day and looks over the menu listed in the yellow pages, placing an order and waiting to hear the hostess tell him the total and that it would be a half an hour before hanging up.

By the time Stax is off the phone, Hollywood has cleaned off the pans and replaced them in the cupboards. Stax watches him unnoticed as Hollywood leans back against the counter and seems to inspect the floor. It occurs to Stax moments later that what Hollywood is doing is waiting for orders. Getting up, he moves to the couch and collapses onto it. As he picks up the remote he calls to Hollywood behind him.

"Hey, bring me a beer."

Hollywood moves almost mechanically to the refrigerator, nearly exhausted by this time thanks to a lack of sleep and more physical exertion in one day than he was normally used to in an entire week. He yanks the fridge open and retrieves a beer, walking into the living room and offering it to Stax. Stax takes it, nodding, then looks away from the TV and up at Hollywood.

"You can have one, if you'd like."

Hollywood blinks as if the thought had never occured to him. Nodding, he retraces his steps to the fridge and acquires another beer. Retraces his steps back to the living room and lowers himself to his knees near the end of the couch without being prompted. He finds it is much easier to be compliant when he can hardly think.

They sit in silence, aside from the noises of the TV as Stax flips channels restlessly, until the doorbell rings. By that time, Hollywood is quite convinced that liquor is without a doubt the most glorious creation of all man kind's endeavours. He stares at the bottle in something reminscent of awe until Stax looks over at him pointedly and hands him his wallet.

"Get the door."

Hollywood sets his beer on the coffee table and rises, moving almost lethargically to the door. The delivery boy hands him two bags and he carefully balances the handles on one hand as he flips through Stax's wallet and giving the kid the amount of cash specified as well as a tip. Once the door is closed he retreats to Stax's side and hands him the wallet, setting the bags down on the coffee table at his indication.

Reclaiming his beer and his place next to Stax's feet, Hollywood blinks at the TV blankly. Eating didn't even occur to him until Stax slides a container of noodles, chicken, and some unidentifiable chinese vegetables towards him.

"Thanks," he mutters, glancing up at him. Stax only nods in response.

Stax settles on a football game, providing background noise as they eat. It doesn't seem to provide enough noise, it still seems too quiet. Almost infuriatingly so. It grates on Hollywood's already sensitive nerves, cranky from exhaustion. He wonders for a moment why he can't just initiate conversation with Stax like he always does, but he knows the answer. One of the pages of information Stax had left for him to read the night before had plainly stated - "A slave does not speak unless spoken to or told to speak." Clearly, Stax is content with the silence as he continues to neither speak to or look at Hollywood.

Once they finish eating, Hollywood stands and collects the take-out debris and deposits it in the trashcan. Stax instructs him to bring another beer and Hollywood does so, declining the suggestion that he get another as well. He knows that drinking right now would only serve to make him more tired than he already is. Instead, he resumes sitting silently on the ground near Stax and watching the television lifelessly.

Stax isn't even aware of movement until he feels the pressure of Hollywood's head against his knee. He glances down in barely-masked surprise, finding Hollywood resting his temple against his leg with his head bowed. Carefully, Stax lifts his hand and reaches towards his scalp, as if cautiously approaching an undomesticated animal. He lowers his hand to brush against his hair softly, becoming the tiniest bit more confident each time his fingertips run through it.

His surprise propagates when Hollywood lifts his chin slightly, pressing his cheek against Stax's leg more. Letting his hand rest on top of Hollywood's head, he gently massages his scalp. Hollywood's eyelids fall closed, shamelessly enjoying the touch.

"Tired?," Stax asks, his voice the softest it's been since Hollywood stepped through his doorway yesterday morning. Possibly the softest Hollywood's ever heard it.

He nods very minutely and Stax retracts his hand, placing it back on his own lap. "Why don't you go take a shower, and then you can go to sleep."

Hollywood complies, standing up and rubbing at the corners of his eyes in an attempt to wake up as he ambles tiredly to the bathroom. Stax turns his head slightly to watch Hollywood's retreat, looking back at the TV as the door to the bathroom closes. He downs the remainder of his beer, standing up this time to throw it away himself.

Stax wanders to his bedroom, pulling his closet open and looking over the contents, finally discovering a few spare blankets and dragging them out. He returns to the living room and drops the blankets onto the side of the couch, backtracking into his room as an afterthought. Grabbing a pillow off of his bed, he drops that on top of the blankets and resigns again to the couch.

Hollywood makes his way out of the bathroom a bit later, if anything more relaxed and sleepy after the warm shower. He takes a few sluggish, hesitant steps away from the door before pausing and snapping back alert. He glances at the door to the garage with venom. Stax had said he was going to let him go to sleep. He hadn't said where he was going to let him go to sleep, and if the rest of the time he's spent here is any indication, he thinks he may be condemned to spending the night in the company of Stax's car again.

Though he reasons, flicking his gaze to the back of Stax's neatly shaved head, he has been an exceptional amount more obedient today. And Stax has seemed...well, not pleased by any means, but less pissed off than he had yesterday. Perhaps this was a good sign. Then again, he had completely screwed up dinner.

Finally coming to a decision of indecision, Hollywood slinks back into the living room and kneels next to the couch, facing the arm and grasping it to peer over it at Stax. It takes Stax a moment to notice that he's there, looking over at him quickly when he does. Hollywood sneaking up on you and watching you without your knowledge can be a very creepy encounter.

"What are you doing?," Stax asks defensively, not appreciating the creepiness.

Hollywood looks down and away from Stax immediately, shrugs his shoulders. Stax narrows his eyes in confusion at the guilty expression, glancing around for any immediate signs of disaster. When he finds none, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts and looks back at Hollywood, who hasn't moved.

"C'mere," he commands him, standing up. Hollywood stands as well but makes no other moves, even when Stax motions to the couch. So Stax clarifies. "Lay down. You can sleep out here tonight."

"Oh," Hollywood mutters, moving to the couch and sitting down as Stax turns the TV off.

Stax indicates the blankets and pillow at one end of the couch. "I brought you those, you think they'll be enough?"

Hollywood nods immediately. "Thanks."

"Sure," Stax replies, waiting another moment before turning away and heading into his bedroom.

Hollywood hesitantly lays down across the couch, pulling the pillow off of the blankets and unfolding them. He pulls them over himself, settling the pillow behind him before looking up at Stax's retreating form again.

"Master?," he calls out carefully just as Stax reaches the door.

Stax spins around quickly, looking at Hollywood with unveiled surprise at the use of the term. Hollywood looks away unsurely before looking back at him, waiting. Stax nods his head slightly, telling him to go on.

Hollywood looks down again, practically whispering. "Good night."

He doesn't wait for a response, instead he lays down and rests his head against the pillow, dragging the blankets up over himself. Stax hesitates, still shocked, then moves back into the living room. He stops a few feet from where Hollywood's resting, his eyes already closed, and turns off the floor lamp next to the couch. Turning, he starts back to his bedroom.

"Good night, pet."

Hollywood awakes quickly, prompted by a light slap to the side of the head. He lifts his head enough to glare at Stax's retreating back as it enters the bathroom, then looks over at the clock. He doesn't see it well enough to figure out what time it is, only enough to know that it's way too early. With a groan he sits up, stretching his arms above his head as Stax returns from the bathroom.

"Why aren't you making breakfast yet?," he asks.

Hollywood gives him a tired, indignant half-scowl in return. "Oh, is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"Yes, that's what you're supposed to do," Stax tells him, smirking. "So do it. And don't take too long, I need to leave pretty soon."

Hollywood complies, first going to the bathroom as Stax moves to his bedroom once again to get dressed. Then making his way to the refrigerator, Hollywood pulls it open and stares at the contents blankly. He blinks a few times at the shelves of food and beverages, as if expecting something to jump out at him exclaiming 'Eat me!'

"You're good at this," Stax notes sardonically, walking up behind him.

"Yeh, well, I'm not used to dealing with food right after I wake up," Hollywood points out. "What do you want?"

"I don't know, you're supposed to know," Stax peers over his shoulder into the fridge for a moment as well.

Wrapping two fingers around the back of Hollywood's collar, he pulls him away and ducks down to procure a bagel and a can of Mountain Dew. Hollywood shrugs, stretching again before leaning back against the counter and yawning. Stax turns and looks him over.

"Did you bring any other clothes?," he asks around a mouthful of bagel.

Hollywood shakes his head. "Didn't know I was staying."

He really had no idea what he was getting himself into, Stax decides, nodding. "I'll leave you my car. Go by your place and get some clothes and whatever else you think you need and...there's some packages over there, stuff that needs to be mailed to BYO and shit. So you're gunna have to go by the post office as well."

Hollywood nods and Stax finishes his bagel, retreating into his room once again. He emerges and hands Hollywood his shoes.

"I'm gonna catch the bus to work, I'll get a ride home with Chris or something," Stax informs him. "Try not to destroy my house while I'm gone."

Hollywood smirks slightly at the suggestion, and Stax refrains from slapping the expression off his face. He ignores it to pull on his jacket and dig the keys out of the pocket, throwing them at Hollywood. He lifts both hands to catch them but misses anyway, watching the keys skitter across the linoleum passively before leaning over to pick them up.

"See ya later, bitch," Stax calls as he yanks the door open.

Hollywood raises an eyebrow at the term, wondering what happened to 'pet', but doesn't comment on it. "Have a nice day, Master," he responds, with only a tiny trace of sarcasm.

It's three hours later, Hollywood pulls up and parks Stax's car in front of his apartment. He ignores the look one of his neighbors gives him for walking around shirtless in the dead of winter as he unlocks his door. He pushes the door open and looks around the small studio apartment as if it were foreign to him. Which, after two days of belonging to Stax, it almost was. Dark, unkempt, empty. Completely void of anyone to tell him what to do. Hollywood lets a grin slowly take over his face.

First, he wanders across the room to his stereo, turning it on and up until the sound of Blood for Blood completely overpowers the noise from the street. The grin widens a little bit. He discovers a pack of cigarettes near the stereo and lights one, inhaling deeply and deciding that they're definately one of the things he needs to take back to Stax's with him.

Not that he needed to go back to Stax's. He raises an eyebrow conspiratorally and glances around the room, appearing to be waiting for one of the ceramic skulls to start chastising him for that thought. When none of them do, he inhales more carcinogens triumpantly and collapses onto his bed, beginning to take off his shoes. Then he remembers that he has Stax's car. When he looks around again, the skulls all seem to be laughing at him mockingly.

"Shut up," he tells them, ignoring the fact that he's arguing with inanimate decorative peices. They don't argue back, so he kicks his shoes off and slides back among the tossled comforter and sheets on his bed, stretching out languidly and reminding himself aloud. "Four more days."

Some Kinda Hate ends and he leans towards the low table next to his bed to put his cigarette out. For a while he just lays there, basking in the comfort of his own bed, his own apartment, his own loud if not a bit inane, repetative hardcore music. As the album comes to an end he groans, glaring at the stereo when it doesn't change CDs by itself. With a final stretch and a resigned sigh, he drops back to the floor noiselessly and pads over to the stereo to change it himself.

Once TSOL begins emanating from the speakers, he spins around and slinks to the bathroom. Slipping out of the pants he's worn for far too long, he decides that he'll never again take the opportunity to wear clean clothes each day for granted. The water is of scalding heat, which he doesn't complain about. It rolls across his skin in burning, cleansing waves and he makes sure to saturate his hair with water before picking up the bottle of shampoo. Shampoo...nice stuff. Stax didn't own shampoo. Then again, Stax didn't own hair. At least, not on his head...

Shaking his own head to himself, as if to stop trying to decide whether or not his temporary Master shaved other parts of his body as frequently as he shaved his head, Hollywood ran a handful of shampoo through his hair. Covering each single piece of hair before craning his neck, tilting his head back to redirect it underneath the spray of water. He opts to forgo conitioner, since he figures he won't be able to shampoo his hair for another four days and it'll gather enough grease in those four days without being conditioned.

He runs a bar of soap between his hands, covering his hands with suds and cleaning his pale skin off thoroughly. After he's quite convinced that each inch of skin has recieved treatment, he stands under the spray of water until it begins to run colder. Twisting the knobs and turning it off, he pushes the panelled door open and grabs a towel to dry himself. Afterwards he stares in the mirror, trying to remember what he normally does after exitting the shower. He picks up a comb and runs it through his hair uselessly, knowing that no matter which way he combs it, it's just going to go every other way anyway.

Toothbrush. He nods to himself; definately something else to take with him. Definately another thing he wouldn't take for granted ever again. After slathering his mouth in toothpaste for a full three minutes then rinsing at least four times, he throws his towel back over the rack and exits the bathroom. Lighting another cigarette - why the hell not, he hadn't smoked for two days and might as well make up for it now - he turns the stereo up a little bit more. He's well aware that at this volume the neighbors will start pounding on the wall soon, and any other time he would turn it down. Today, he decides, he'll just turn it up until he can't hear them.

Collapsing onto his bed again, he throws an arm over his eyes though there's very little natural light entering the room anyway. It would be nice to be able to just pass out here, not worrying about when he has to get up to return to Stax's house. Of course, it would have been nice to have some warning that he was going to be a live-in servant as well, and then he might not have had to come back here and tempt himself to stay. He can't quite remember what he was expecting when he made that bet with Stax, but he's certain it wasn't anything like this.

Squirming around, Hollywood lets his head fall back off the matress and wraps a blanket around his unclothed form, staring at the ceiling upside-down. If the ceiling was the floor, his house would be pretty clean. Of course, he notes, there would be a lot of shit stuck to the ceiling that way. He lays there for a while, convincing himself that gravity doesn't exist and that he can slide off the bed and float down to the roof. Once he's convinced, he pushes himself towards the edge of the bed slowly until he finally tumbles to the floor, disappointed.

He pulls himself up as a neighbor knocks on the wall loudly and screams something indecipherable at him. He spins the volume knob up a bit more on his way to the closet. Drags a pair of pants out of the closet and pulls them on, taking a few more pairs and tossing them across the room to land on the bed. Tugs a shirt off a hanger and puts that on, debating a moment before throwing a few shirts to the bed as well. He unearths a small duffel bag from the back of his closet and stuffs the clothes into it haphazardly. Adds socks. Toothbrush. Razor. Cigarettes. Zips it up, glancing around the room to see if he needs anything else.

Looking at the duffel bag, he notes that the CD has ended and that the neighbors have stopped yelling. A bit of disappointment gnaws at his stomach when he realizes that there's no reason to stay any longer, but he ignores it and settles on the floor to put his shoes back on. Standing once again, he throws the duffel bag over his shoulder and grabs the acoustic guitar out of the corner on his way out.

Stax pulls open the passenger side door of Chris' Jeep and crawls into the seat. Chris does the same on the driver side of the Jeep, turning the key in the ignition and looking over at Stax.

"Beer?," he asks.

Stax shakes his head. "Food, then beer. I didn't eat lunch."

As they leave the parking lot, the volume of the music goes up and conversation ceases. Stax leans into the sheepskin seat cover, trying desperately to relax after the day of work. Chris drives like it's a life or death situation, which he's prone to do in any situation, and they reach the pub down the street in record time. He parks the Jeep on top of a median and they walk to the pub, waiting for the waitress to seat them and take their drink orders before initiating any kind of conversation.

"So how's the, uh...," Chris starts, and Stax looks up at him curiously. "The...um, well. How's Hollywood?"

Stax smirks a little bit, looking back down at his menu. "Fine."

Chris raises an eyebrow interestedly. "Yeh? So he's not being a snarky little fucker?"

"Not anymore," Stax tells him vaguely. "He was before I explained everything to him, but..."

"You explained everything to him?," Chris asks, sounding even more interested.

Stax shrugs a little bit. "Sort of."

"Sort of? What the hell does that mean?," Chris questions.

"It means I sort of chained him up in my garage all night and let him read about it," Stax explains, smirking at the way Chris blanches.

He recovers quickly, leaning back against the booth as the waitress returns and sets two glasses of beer on the table. She takes their orders and scampers off to the kitchen before they resume talking.

"So does he give good head?"

Stax nearly chokes on his ale, blinking at Chris a moment before laughing loudly.

"What?," Chris continues. "Doesn't that go along with the whole...collar, kneeling...thing?"

"Well, yeah, usually," Stax admitted, still grinning. "But it's not like I really own him so I can't just be like...yo, bitch, on your knees. Well, I can be like that. And am, sometimes, but I don't unzip my pants after saying it."

Chris shrugs a little bit. "'s probably what he was expecting anyway."

"Maybe," Stax concedes. "He sure as hell wasn't expecting this...which is exactly what I don't get."

"What don't you get?," Chris asks.

"How Hollywood, thee sexual deviant, can know next to nothing about the BDSM lifestyle," Stax clarifies.

"Well it's not something many people look very deep into," Chris tells him, taking a long swig of beer before continuing. "They see the whips and they're like, I'm the fuck outta here."

Stax shrugs, laughing again. "Doesn't seem like that'd be enough to scare him away."

"I guess ya haven't done that yet either, huh?"

"What, used a whip?," Stax queries, and Chris nods. "Nah. Smacked him a few times, but no implements of torture."

"That's too bad," Chris says, moving back again as the waitress returns to set their food on the table.

"Why's that?," Stax asks, dousing his cheeseburger in mustard as he speaks.

"Cause, it'd be kind of nice to be able to think about Hollywood getting flogged when this is all over and he resorts to being an asshole."

Stax laughs, shaking his head a bit, and focuses his attention on his food.