[A hotel, Hank thinks, is a good guess. Some fancy, five-star place where rich people dump their cars and go off doing whatever. Maybe the whole kidnap thing is part of that — entertainment for the wealthy — and maybe there are even cameras scattered around.
Hank imagines he makes poor entertainment for anyone, though. Hasn’t punched anyone yet. Hell, he’s barely even swearing. Yet.]
Godawful clothes, is what they are. [Hank thins his eyes at the valet.] That your thing? You kidnap people and take their clothes, like some pervert?
[The valet shrinks back, insisting that the clothes are from “storage,” whatever the hell that means. Some sort of lost and found hoard?
Regardless, Hank looks through the clothes. Hangers clacking on the rack.]
Don’t see anything of mine. [Grumbling.] And maybe someone took it, but I can’t really see anyone wanting to take my shirt.
[Hank’s shirts are oddly patterned. Stripes zigzagging in random directions. Unflattering color palettes — that sort of thing. Loud, but not eye-searing.
The clothes on the rack are weird. Hank takes one shirt off the rack — a shiny red shirt with a storm of ruffles along its collar and sleeves — and clucks his tongue.]
no subject
[A hotel, Hank thinks, is a good guess. Some fancy, five-star place where rich people dump their cars and go off doing whatever. Maybe the whole kidnap thing is part of that — entertainment for the wealthy — and maybe there are even cameras scattered around.
Hank imagines he makes poor entertainment for anyone, though. Hasn’t punched anyone yet. Hell, he’s barely even swearing. Yet.]
Godawful clothes, is what they are. [Hank thins his eyes at the valet.] That your thing? You kidnap people and take their clothes, like some pervert?
[The valet shrinks back, insisting that the clothes are from “storage,” whatever the hell that means. Some sort of lost and found hoard?
Regardless, Hank looks through the clothes. Hangers clacking on the rack.]
Don’t see anything of mine. [Grumbling.] And maybe someone took it, but I can’t really see anyone wanting to take my shirt.
[Hank’s shirts are oddly patterned. Stripes zigzagging in random directions. Unflattering color palettes — that sort of thing. Loud, but not eye-searing.
The clothes on the rack are weird. Hank takes one shirt off the rack — a shiny red shirt with a storm of ruffles along its collar and sleeves — and clucks his tongue.]