Oh, what the hell. If I'm not entirely able to make myself concentrate on work yet today, I might as well do something useful. Thanks to raybear and his big gay slang dictionary.

Entourage: Ari, Eric, Vince. Sequel to The Sleeper.

No spoilers for season 2, but I'm not sure how much sense it will make if you haven't read that. And, I'm sorry, I'm apparently stuck in 2nd person and can't find my way out. Send help.



The Bomb

You call the schmuck in with a bark and a snap and he comes in like the trained fucking bitch he is.

"You got a fucked up sense of humor, Eric." He fucking smirks and you kick your trash can in retaliation.

"It's only funny if you're actually freaked out, Ari," he says. "You seem pretty freaked out."

"What freaked me out was the prospect of our favorite movie star running around sucking the cock of every Scientologist he can find." Eric shrugs but you're not buying it, you know that's his biggest nightmare, too. "Come in and shut the door."

"I don't know, man. You might get fresh with me."

"If I was remotely interested in sucking your dick, you would have had your pants around your ankles ten minutes after we met."

"Oh, yeah," he says. "Vince said you've got some psychological thing about going down on people. What's up with that?"

"Unless you want your piece on the side to hear what I'm about to say, shut the fucking door."

He shuts it.

"I spent a lot of time and money and my entire fucking life so that I could be in a position to put up with pranks from snot-nosed kids. Jokes are one things, Eric, but I need you to tell me -- do I need to be worried?"

Sometimes you wonder if this ass bandit has his own brain, or if he's just sucking oxygen out of the atmosphere through his nose to keep blinking.

"Don't insult both of us by acting like you don't know what I'm asking."

Eric slumps down on your couch, looking resigned. "He loves women, Ari. You know that."

"Yeah, but in a Rock Hudson Doris Day loving women way or the Wilt Chamberlain Kobe Bryant kind of way?"

"Oh, fuck you, Ari." This goddamned kid and his goddamned smart mouth are seriously going to be the end of you. The things you do for goddamned talented pretty faces and the assholes they can't shake off.

"No, that was last week's blue plate special, numbnuts," you say, smiling through your teeth.

"You don't believe me, ask Vince."

"You want me to ask Vince if he's a fag?" He loves that, and you want to throw yourself out the window.

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that. I mean not if you expect him to answer."

You chew on a clenched fist and wait until you can hear through the rush of blood in your head. Your wife's guru would be very proud. "He didn't learn this at home, did he?"

Eric scowls, looking like a raccoon that's been kicked in the face. "What the -- you know, Vince's family is fucked up, but they're not --"

"Not that home. Your home."

It's all over his face and you knew it, you fucking knew it. You wish there was someone you could have bet a new car that the pizza boy was a fag. "I can't even believe we're having this conversation."

"Neither can I, you fucking glorified pool cleaner. If there was nothing for me to worry about, you would've taken my head off the minute I so much as sneezed on Vince's supposed straightness. Instead you're trying very hard not to protest too much. Except that, my friend, is your job, and it's the only part of your job you do even moderately well. Your great talent is protecting Vince's ass from any and all potential harm."

"You are such an asshole, Ari. I read Machiavelli, too, you know."

"Where was that, Quizno's Prep?"

"You got something to say to me, fucking say it."

"Fine." You lean over the desk. "Are you a fag?"

"Fuck you, ask me a real question."

"I did."

"You're too smart to risk offending me if I were. You rep Portia de Rossi, for chrissakes."

"Like I give a shit if I offend you."

"You give a shit what Vince thinks, and if I'm offended, he's offended." You wonder at what point Eric decided he was allowed to throw Vince up in front of him like a shield instead of being the guy who took the bullet. The fact that understanding how this fudgepacker thinks is required for you to be able to talk to your own goddamned client is going to give you a bloody fucking ulcer.

"What about Vince?"

"What about Vince?"

You pick up a letter opener you never use and stab your desk blotter repeatedly. "Does. He. Like. To. Suck. Cock."

"No," he says, too quickly.

"Are you sure?" The little queen opens his mouth and then closes it again. "Think carefully, Eric. I'm not any more of an asshole than Vince pays me to be, and I can't do anything for his goddamned career if I don't know what's going on."

He crosses and uncrosses his legs, scratches behind his ear and rubs his nose. He's got a million tells obvious from a mile away but they still don't give you what you need to know.

Finally, he says, "I don't know if Vince is sure. That's the god's honest truth, Ari. But if you ever ask him -- even if you do it nice and sweet and there's fucking chanting in the background, I swear to god --"

"So where's he go to figure it out?"

"What?"

"You said he's not sure." You believe that much. He looked too hurt by it for it not to be the truth. "How hard is he looking?"

"He's not. He's not."

You can't think of what it would get you at this precise moment to lay it all out like it obviously is, Eric as Vince's own personal Hoover, Vince always smiling and reassuring him he's something special, that he's got something all the groupies don't. You'll save that for some other time you need something. "I didn't think so."

Eric breathes out, looking relieved.

"He's gonna take out Justine and bang her the next time she's in town?"

He grimaces but nods. He's not a complete fucking idiot. "Sure, whatever."

"Wednesday. She's here Wednesday."

"Okay, I'll ask him."

You fucking hate the concept of self-restraint. "Don't ask him, Eric. You wanna get down and eat his ass on the way out the door, fine, but you make that date happen, and you make sure Shauna knows about it in time to get cameras all up in Justine's barely legal bush. Assuming that little twat has still got a cherry, I want Vinnie to pop it so hard that George Washington couldn't dance a full show the next night."

"Yeah, I got the picture."

"Vince, Justine. Bang bang. Like shooting fish in a barrel."

"Even fresh fish tastes like fish, Ari."

"I wouldn't know, dickbreath."

"Talk about protesting too much."

You stand up behind your desk and point at the door, picking up the phone with your other hand. "You can leave now. Try not to suck any cock on the way home."

He stops at the door, turning back to face you. You put Mary Kate on hold. "Aren't you just the slightest bit worried one of these days we'll fire you for being a prick?"

"Not anymore." You do your best to smile. "And I'm only a prick because I love you."

He laughs. "You don't love me."

"No, you're right, you're a fucking zit on my fucking ass, Eric, and if it were just about you I'd let my dermatologist nuke you back into the stone ages. But I love Vince. And so do you. Now get the fuck out of here."


END.


The bomb: 1) An explosive weapon detonated by impact, proximity to an object, a timing mechanism, or other means. 2) A dismal failure; a fiasco. 3) A large amount of money (British slang).