Rick Bradbury (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
waiting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-10-18 02:25 pm
waiting) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-10-18 02:25 pm
Entry tags:
the sea gobbles up the full sun, and i look at you and i know you're the one
WHO: ミッチャン(viced) と ブラドブリーくん (whosgotme)
WHERE: On some godforsaken Venezuelan hillside.
WHEN: October 18th, Afternoon to Evening
WARNINGS: S W E A R I N G.
SUMMARY: Two sort-of best friendsbeing kawaii bakas, one sort-of significant date, a practical demonstration of Murphy's Law.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, Jill's choice afterwards!
It'd been a stupid idea, really.
With the broadcast of the imPort interviews over, there was finally some real down-time to look forward to. Picking out security detail for City Hall on the trip had been a pain in the ass; while the imPorts had their accommodations taken care of, the locals on the security team weren't as lucky, and it made figuring out a shift schedule that worked a headache Bradbury would have preferred going without. Keeping track of individual members of Mitch's staff was more or less impossible, at this point, too easy to lose them in the crowd.
Tomorrow was going to be even more of a fucking nightmare. "24-Hour Masquerade Party" on the program schedule should have just read "We Couldn't Make This A Bigger Potential Disaster If We Tried." He'd find a way to deal with it, though. He always did.
But the nineteenth was still at least twelve hours away and until then, well. There were other things to do in Merida.
Longest cable car in the world, Bradbury'd said, throwing the brochure down on Mitch's desk (the only desk in the room, but since it was only Mitch who'd ever use it, that was close enough to the truth) like a challenge. We should go, just you and me. You can freak out about heights again. You can try figuring out if it can understand English, I'll practice my Spanish. It'll be good for you.
He'd been kidding, mostly, but when Mitch actually agreed, well. Don't look a gift Mayor in the mouth, right?
So Bradbury rented an SUV that looked like it couldn't go up a gentle slope, much less a mountain road, packed Mitch in the back, and set off to see whether or not Merida looked as good from a bird's-eye view as on the ground.
There was one significant problem the brochures and the hotel staff had neglected to inform Bradbury and his boss, however: the cable car had been closed for years. And it was going to stay closed. Indefinitely, as they were informed by an apologetic guard posted at what had been a fully operational cable car station.
"Motherfucker," Bradbury sighed, as they trudged back across to where the car was parked. "I knew we shoulda just gone for the donkey ride."
It felt pretty good to be out of his uniform, though, and the view from this height was too nice to really complain about. It was still warm enough for him to go around in his shirtsleeves, though his jacket was dumped into the passenger's side of the car in case the air decided to go chilly. A baseball cap and his usual glasses completed the rest of his outfit, providing practical protection against the glare of the afternoon instead of just being part of the usual bodyguard ensemble.
viced) と ブラドブリーくん (whosgotme)WHERE: On some godforsaken Venezuelan hillside.
WHEN: October 18th, Afternoon to Evening
WARNINGS: S W E A R I N G.
SUMMARY: Two sort-of best friends
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, Jill's choice afterwards!
It'd been a stupid idea, really.
With the broadcast of the imPort interviews over, there was finally some real down-time to look forward to. Picking out security detail for City Hall on the trip had been a pain in the ass; while the imPorts had their accommodations taken care of, the locals on the security team weren't as lucky, and it made figuring out a shift schedule that worked a headache Bradbury would have preferred going without. Keeping track of individual members of Mitch's staff was more or less impossible, at this point, too easy to lose them in the crowd.
Tomorrow was going to be even more of a fucking nightmare. "24-Hour Masquerade Party" on the program schedule should have just read "We Couldn't Make This A Bigger Potential Disaster If We Tried." He'd find a way to deal with it, though. He always did.
But the nineteenth was still at least twelve hours away and until then, well. There were other things to do in Merida.
Longest cable car in the world, Bradbury'd said, throwing the brochure down on Mitch's desk (the only desk in the room, but since it was only Mitch who'd ever use it, that was close enough to the truth) like a challenge. We should go, just you and me. You can freak out about heights again. You can try figuring out if it can understand English, I'll practice my Spanish. It'll be good for you.
He'd been kidding, mostly, but when Mitch actually agreed, well. Don't look a gift Mayor in the mouth, right?
So Bradbury rented an SUV that looked like it couldn't go up a gentle slope, much less a mountain road, packed Mitch in the back, and set off to see whether or not Merida looked as good from a bird's-eye view as on the ground.
There was one significant problem the brochures and the hotel staff had neglected to inform Bradbury and his boss, however: the cable car had been closed for years. And it was going to stay closed. Indefinitely, as they were informed by an apologetic guard posted at what had been a fully operational cable car station.
"Motherfucker," Bradbury sighed, as they trudged back across to where the car was parked. "I knew we shoulda just gone for the donkey ride."
It felt pretty good to be out of his uniform, though, and the view from this height was too nice to really complain about. It was still warm enough for him to go around in his shirtsleeves, though his jacket was dumped into the passenger's side of the car in case the air decided to go chilly. A baseball cap and his usual glasses completed the rest of his outfit, providing practical protection against the glare of the afternoon instead of just being part of the usual bodyguard ensemble.