Hunter hadn’t planned to go straight for the pot of gold without considering the Leprechauns guarding it, so to speak. He just wanted a better look of what he was dealing with here,how many guards, possible weapons, cameras or other meanings that could lead to unfortunate events now or later on. Something new was always bound to pop up and he wanted to be the first to know about them. Hence why he stopped at a respectable distance,a second before Santana stopped him, where he still had a good overview over the whole area and could watch without it being suspicious. It would just look like he was checking their arrival.
"They weren’t going to ask any questions," Hunter replied airily and gave her one of his fake smiles, easily falling into the act with her. Working with Santana was fun with minimum of bullshit. Them flirting or whatever was required, was actually believable. Unlike St.James who always walked around like a peacock with his feathers always standing at attention and drawing it towards him too. Although her loud laugh was like chalk on a blackboard right now and he inwardly pulled a face while his real one remained seemingly interested in Santanas advances towards him until the guards were gone.
"Nothing to fix, sweetheart," he told her with a barely contained roll of his eyes. She only knew it was there because she knew about his preferences. For other people it would remain invisible. "You don’t say. Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Satan," he threw over his shoulder as he was already doing just that. It was cute how she seemed to think he had forgotten how to go about this. After another subtle glance at his surroundings while he checked his clipboard, then made short work to get into the truck and create a little something in case shit went down. Which was not to be expected but still. Better safe than sorry.
One thing that Santana prided herself on was the high tolerance level of bullshit she had to deal with on a daily business. Growing up just down the street of Sin City’s famous strip, a life of violence, drugs, and sex was never too far away for the girl. Her dad was a complete ass, so when she finally made a name for herself on these streets, she had already been unintentionally prepped for the game. She came into a wide variety people through her many jobs, and Santana considers herself a very open-minded and accepting person under her tough exterior.
But one thing she never seemed to get over was the size of Clarington’s ego. He was cutie, and his body was tight, but that only went so far for her. She rolled her eyes, wondering why she even said anything in the first place. Some people were convinced they had all the answers; any where, any time. Luckily, some people didn’t like to properly close doors behind them, so no work needed there. Santana turned back around, rolling her eyes at the nickname. Why shoot back an insult at every little thing? The girl knew how to pick her battles, and Hunter was the least of Santana’s worries at this point.
"You give a guy a little blow and suddenly he’s too good for you."
"Fucking patriarchy, I swear."
Santana turned, marching into the building without the confirmation from Hunter. Inside of the place, it was your basic backroom set-up. Laughs could be heard from around the corner—where she figured their break room was, and the girl stuck to her cover before moving to the opposite wall and spotting a shiny key rack across the room. Jackpot. Problem was, the two idiots who had taken their sweet time to get inside were lingering around with their backs to her, and it was only so long before they came back her way. She might have been able to use her somewhat disguise to distract them, though. Or maybe create a distraction, somehow. All she needed was a little back-up.
Much appreciated, Santana, but I am very much awake. I highly doubt I could have written that post without the utmost alertness, really.
While the graphic details of your fantasies are most interesting — and probably worth some form of investment in a psychologist — I rather think the moral of the story is lost somewhere. Was this incredibly specific scenario supposed to portray the errors of my ways?
If anything, the knowledge that my boundless enthusiasm and effort is so severe I’m even featuring in Miss Lopez’s dreams is yet another incentive.
I’m entitled to my intellect, Santana; if it bothers you, you’re more than welcome to ignore my blog. But I am, as always, catering to my fanbase, as any thoughtful star must.
You don’t know that. Maybe the moment you fall asleep, you subconsciously put yourself on autopilot. The brain and body can still move when you’re asleep, Berry.
Yeah, now that I think about it, I have no idea where I was going with that. That’s it. I’m losing it.
If anything, it should tell you that you are neither a sweet dream or beautiful nightmare in the eyes of anybody with half a brain, and that you should kindly GTFO of my head space when I’m trying to get my beauty sleep. One of these days I’ll go batshit on all of your sorry asses and you’ll be the very definition of ‘livin’ on a prayer’.
Sorry, what fanbase? Or is that Jewish, obnoxiously smug, big-schnozed community of yours tighter than I thought?
This was more of Hunters taste. The planning and subtly spying out the location had already set him into the right mood, it wouldn’t be the most difficult but far from boring either. And definitely not as a walk in the park as Flamingos had been. And now being pretty much in the middle of action was even better. Despite St. James still being a pain in the ass with his instructions. Hunter always worked better without them, because most of them were basically bullshit and patronizing.
He was leaning against the wall of the building, close but not too close to Santana and observed the people and vehicles that drove in and out of the area, waiting for the right truck. He adjusted the (sun)glasses on his nose with one finger, always keeping the truck that was already in place in his sight too, and glanced over at Santana. She seemed in a better mood this time too and for that he was certainly glad. She could be a downright bitch when in a bad mood, not that that happened without the added bad mood too but it was easier to handle, and working with her would be a unpleasant pain in the ass.
Finally the second truck that was needed pulled up, he looked over to Santana again, only to have a chewing gum bubble popped right in front of his face. “That is so appealing” he told her sarcastically, then nodded towards the truck. “Take two. Come on,” he added and pushed himself away from the wall, straightened himself up and started to walk towards the truck, literally and figuratively cracking his knuckles. Not that they had needed violence in that form yet today but it was better to be prepared than to go down unprepared. Hence why a gun was safely tucked inside his clothes.
This was probably the best scene of the whole operation. Actually sliding the Benjamins right out of somebody else’s hands and into her own? Wanky. Santana, although she didn’t admit it 99.9% of the time, knew she was a flawed girl who had a few things she needed to work out. These were only internal though; no one else was allowed to call her out on her shit. Being someone who took advantage of her freedom every minute possible, she never liked showing her vulnerable side—even if it was pretty much inevitable. And that, in itself, was a double-edged sword. Being the rude, hot-headed, one-dimensional Latina was a such a fucking cliché it was ridiculous, and no one expected much more from her; but she always wondered how that would play out for her in the end. But that wasn’t important right now.
Santana unfolded her arms and strutted besides Hunter, clicking her tongue lightly. They couldn’t just go straight up there and take over, that would be utterly stupid. She was more than sure they could take the two guys out who were hopping out of the truck in less than thirty seconds, but that didn’t mean it was the best option. Too much clean-up, not enough worth. Santana watched them carefully, and when she felt like they were going to notice how close she and Hunter were, Santana stopped him and turned in front of him, trying to block off their view of the two. “I don’t feel like answering questions right now.” Santana explained, easily pretending like she was talking about something pretty important to him.
As long as they kept their distance and in she was dressed, the boys wouldn’t pay them too much attention. “I’d fix that steel you got back there too.” Santana quirked a brow, laughing loudly and flirtatiously putting her hand on Hunter’s shoulder. After a moment, Santana turned slightly, and the two men had just entered the building. She dropped the act just as quiclly as she put it on, turning firmly on her heels and walking swiftly to the entrance she just saw them disappear through. “See if you can get inside of that truck, we need to make sure these assholes can’t just roll away—if anything goes wrong.” Santana rolled her eyes, over the fact that she even had to say that.
The biggest part that Santana liked about being in the company, was that whenever she felt like she was going to have a bad day, Jesse St. James and rest of the bubble guppies always found a way to put her back in the mood for another hearty helping of toil and trouble—more than what it was usually worth. Which wasn’t much. Usually Santana supplied a signature snarky comment at every heist they took on, but it felt off with Schue having kicked the bucket. She’d never tell him to his face, but Santana trusted Jesse with the power to lead them into their next ventures, so when this was brought to her attention, she sighed in relief. Even if he was trying to play them like puppets some of the time.
Looks like St. James had been thinking with the head on his shoulders this time, because the gig didn’t sound half-bad. Decent work, actually. Nothing too difficult, but Santana knew she would definitely need to stay on guard just in case anything went down. With a sober mind and a tight bun, Santana leaned against the outside wall chewing away a piece of gum obnoxiously. The girl used the wall for support, trying not to look so bored as she listened out for the truck. One of them was already there, they just had to make sure the other one got there before they could get into any kind of action. Dressed in a freshly ironed polo, polyester uniform pants, and black New Balances—things she felt oh-so pretty in—Santana wasn’t trying to look like one of the fellas, but more or less someone who might have a reason to be back there near the loading area. The job might be a little time consuming, and she really didn’t want to resort to violence; this time.
The fake badge glossed over in the sunlight as Santana pushed herself off the wall, hearing the truck back up into its place at the loading deck. The doors opened, and she knew they had to be quick. Although Santana figured she wouldn’t need to use them, if anything happened she always kept a handful of throwing knives strapped on her. Not that she had needed to ever use them excessively in an operation before, but with the team needing to get their dynamic back after Schue’s permanent absence, Santana wanted to be pretty cautious. Taking off her sunglasses and putting them on her back pocket, she turned, popping a bubble in Clarington’s direction.
"I think that’s our truck, Hot Stuff."
Fear not, addicts of a social network that’s likely reasonably unhealthy; an actual reason to continue blogging without the guilt has arrived.
Unfortunately, it would seem the expected majority have not been notified of my move to this network — quite a shame, unfortunately — a slight, really, considering the possibility of it maybe being best decision of your life. Shalom, greetings, potential followers; it may suit you well to hover your mouse over the ‘follow’ button of this blog title and act upon the little tapping appendage, before I continue on in any fashion. It is, understandably, always difficult to beware of a blog before it has even come to fruition; regardless, I’ve come to hold my fanbase to a certain degree of expectation, you see? An endless flow of enthusiasm, always one step ahead; it’s cruel, I do apologise. And, thus, I digress. I suppose I still owe something by way of relief for the hyperventilating among you; first and foremost, I assure you, this is no hallucination. This post is really here, really here before your eyes, really registering in your conscious mind — this post truly is being made from an account claiming to be the real, the often imitated but impossible to perfect, the one and only Rachel Barbra Berry✫, because, in all truth (and really, anybody who believes they really idolise Rachel Barbra Berry✫ knows she always handles life with the utmost honesty) this is her, and her only.
This sentence here shall remain a pause; five minutes to dry your eyes, cease your cheering, call your neighbours, and then regain yourselves.
In the event you are quite ready, feel free to continue and consider my explanation. It is with the utmost excitement that I have joined you this fine evening under the URL dresseduptothenines (a tribute to the lyric from the famous song Don’t Cry For Me, Argentina,as performed by any cast Eva Perón in the musical, Evita — of course, ironically a dream role at one point, but I am more than ready to move past that); in the recent light of our business success, albeit with an unfortunate level of simplicity, I was inspired to attempt to share my future joys with a most-prominent fan following. Connection with the very ingénues I am responsible for inspiring is considerably important. Now that we are very much back in the game, it’s time for us all to partake in some new ventures, no?
Call it an experiment, if you wish; and, of course, I have no doubt that I will come to adore it with time.
And, of course, my own overdue Christmas present for you is this, this marvelously designed, intricately planned, aesthetically pleasing blog for your viewing/browsing pleasure, alongside a wholehearted promise to update regularly with various performances for all blogging necessities — with all my truest compassion, I gift it to you at its best, and hope you accept it as you wish. However, before you do take full advantage of your permission, I first must strongly reinforce the guidelines you are expected to follow; tiresome as they are, I cannot let you run free and spam my inbox with all forms of profanity and indecency. Honestly, one would think you’re capable of understanding as much naturally, no?
Still, though I too find the humour characteristic of this network hilarious also (albeit rather crass at times), I have been subject to severe disbelief at the sight of some of the extremities people here can go — I have seen things from TMI Tuesdays rampant with hormone-crazed anonymous inquirers to even gross, gross misogynistic reblogs of very empowered posts. All in all, despite the assets of a blog like this for the extension of my success, there are certain offences I refuse to stand by; and, thus, let me direct you to my askbox with a certain level of hesitance. So, please, before you jump at this invitation, pay attention to these following words:
Any and all questions of a perverted, discriminatory, and/or outright rude fashion will be refused immediately. They shall either be ignored or shamed appropriately on my dashboard for all to see; the least I can do is warn others of your terrible, terrible nature, obviously. Discrimination can come in many, many styles — I am opposed to all. If you are ever in doubt, consider it to yourself first; would you ever say this to somebody face-to-face and do so without any guilt? As the daughter of an African-American man and close friend of many other people of colour, racism will be shot down without a second doubt; best friend to two LGBTQ members and child of a homosexual couple, any forms of discrimination to deviant sexual orientation and/or gender identity will likewise be dealt with harshly. Remember, my dears, Rachel Barbra Berry✫ has learned from her youth that she would much rather make friends than enemies — however, certain things cannot quite pass through my all-seeing filter.
Nonetheless, I am loathe to end this post on such an ominous note; and so, again, I extend that invitation to you, and, for the wordier amid you, similar license to my submit box, and encourage you to take power of the privilege to as much extent as is suitable; because you should know that it is your support and acclaim that helps to keep the dream alive, and so any and all fanmail is taken from the bottom of my heart. Please, do not refrain from neither acclaim nor criticism; for all my secrecy, I do pride myself on works catered to my selective audience. You are more than welcome to offer suggestions.Now, it’s come to my attention that I do owe something in the way of appreciation to the followers whohave caught on — inevitable, of course, and slightly disappointing in number — and, as such, I truly wish I could hand everybody their round of applause in person. Instead, I’ll have to do it from here; I see a few are friends, even. One would think you get enough of your star dosage during the day, no? But one can’t blame you for attempting to have it as often as possible, really.
I digress. As with all good things, this post must come to a conclusion at some point, and so we find it; beforehand, however, allow me to wish you all a belated Merry Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa to all whom celebrate it, and, above all, my deepest wishes of good fortune and happiness for the year in motion. Worry not, I shall not be leaving any time soon; 2014 is sure to hold much in-store for one Rachel Barbra Berry✫ (and company inclusive, of course), and she wants more than anything for those who have helped her along the way to share in it with her.
Knock knock, Yentl.
It’s me, your complimentary Wake-Up Call.
You know, I had a dream some shit like this would happen. Wanna hear it? Here it goes: I was sitting on the beach is some fine ass exotic-as-fuck destination minding my own damn business. You know, soaking up the sun and checkin’ out the eye candy of whatever foreign beach I’m laying my sweet ass out on.
Anyway, I’m there, in my birthday suit—because I probably just didn’t get a solitary fuck—and then you and the rest of the crew show up, being the ultimate pussy block of my day. I go off, as usual, shouting a whole bunch of Spanish words that I don’t even know, and you’re belting out Barbra’s Greatest Hits wearing the rudest pair of granny panties I’ve ever seen in my life. You should be ashamed of yourself. Then we feast on Wilde’s ‘tude and Clarington’s ego for the rest of the night.
Honestly, between you and Bilbo Baggins, I think I’m growing closer to losing my shit. And I told myself I was going to keep it cool this year. Damn.
I need a drink, and you need to stop with all that bullshit. Seriously. Chill. Out.
2 am, after Flamingo’s.
Shouldn’t have said that. Anyway. I can’t be bothered with eloquence right now. Calm the fuck down. Better?
What’s in it for me?
You’re speaking my language, but watch your mouth; I might get a lady boner.
I don’t know, what the hell do you usually get? Probably priority pick over the usual lovely aunties: Mary, Nora, and Hazel, and an express one-way ticket to ‘Tana’s Treasure Chest.