Sterling Archer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fairlyclassichim) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
paradisalogs2013-09-16 08:28 pm
fairlyclassichim) wrote in paradisalogs2013-09-16 08:28 pm
Entry tags:
Terms of Enrampagement | Open Log
Who: Archer and YOU!
What: Summary of what he’s been up to since crash landing in the kitchen and his first night actually venturing out of his room since managing to find it
When: Backdated to September 4th leading up to tonight
Where: Death Match
Rating: R for language(duh and/or hello), drug references, and because it’s Archer. Anything goes.
Day 1: After crash landing in the kitchen, Archer had gone on a two-day bender demanding drink after drink from the castle to test its mixologist capabilities, finding something to mercilessly criticize on each attempt with the exception of the Castle Wonderfuck’s apparent perfect incarnation of a Mai Tai.
He had (in his opinion) stealthily wandered around the castle, the grounds, and the town before drunkenly stumbling up the stairs and finding his room, where he passed out for nearly a day and a half.
Day 3: Upon waking up and discovering that it was not, in fact, just a bad dream, he continued the binge drinking, alone. Neighbors and passers-by would probably have heard him screaming repeatedly for people named Lana, Woodhouse, Pam, Ray, Cyril, Krieger, Cheryl (and/or Carol… whatever), and finally his Mother in that exact order at some point over the next four days...
Day 7: In a shocking moment of self-aware clarity, Sterling had decided that he really needed to chill the fuck out and adjust to his new surroundings.
Day 8: Unfortunately, the blunts he smoked in an effort to do just that had quite the opposite effect, instead causing Archer to slip into an anxious, paranoid frenzy about the castle and its residents.
Naturally, he tied his journal shut with his belt and barricaded his room from the inside so that his body would be safe while he tried to escape the castle via astral projection by ingesting a cocktail of LSD, Peyote, mushrooms, and amphetamines.
He succeeded in absolutely nothing but tripping balls for 72 hours and destroying most of the furniture in his room. Halfway through the three-day magical mystery tour, Archer began repurposing the debris into rudimentary weapons and fashioned himself a loin cloth from the silk drapes. Between obvious crashing noises and incoherent ramblings, the phrases "BOOYAKASHA!" and "RAMPAAAAAAGE" were repeatedly audible to anyone in the vicinity.
Day 13: Having fallen into what was likely a mild coma, Archer woke up in a perfectly intact bed the following Monday morning, wearing a clean pair of silk boxers that resembled the color of the curtains framing the gorgeous view from his tower bedroom. The room had been redecorated in a sleek, mid-century modern style. A quick look around revealed a perfect replica of his own closet with all tailored suits, black, and slightly darker black tactlenecks present and accounted for. There was also a rectangular leather bench at the foot of the bed that now contained all the improvisational weapons he had crafted whilst tripping the fuck out. A small table in the corner contained a tray with a perfect dish of eggs benedict, bacon, and toast, along with a pitcher of Bloody Mary made to his usual specifications.
Archer sat in somewhat of a dazed stupor as he reflected on the shockingly clear memories of his time at the castle thus far. After breakfast, he finally felt much more like himself. Once he had dressed in his typical suit and tie, he sat on the bed and hesitated before picking up the journal gingerly.
Several hours and a reasonable number of cocktails later, he had attempted to fill in the blanks on what his welcoming party in the kitchen had tried to tell him. As it turned out, the turquoise guy and his jackass friend had essentially been telling the truth.
After listening in on a day’s worth of mundane conversations, Archer came to the conclusion that while weird didn’t even begin to cover this place and most of the people in it, they all seemed to be relatively harmless.
He had hidden out for long enough. He was an ISIS agent, for shit’s sake. He’d been through worse than this. As long as he was here, he might as well meet the locals. With that, he slid the journal inside his jacket and took a breath before exiting his room.
He walked around for a bit before finding that Death Match place he kept hearing about on the second floor. At least a bar was familiar territory. He took a seat and glanced around. Not the fanciest place, but even he could admit it had a certain charm to it.
[ooc: Archer will be at the bar for the rest of the night. Feel free to drop in and meet him if you haven’t had the pleasure yet.]
What: Summary of what he’s been up to since crash landing in the kitchen and his first night actually venturing out of his room since managing to find it
When: Backdated to September 4th leading up to tonight
Where: Death Match
Rating: R for language(duh and/or hello), drug references, and because it’s Archer. Anything goes.
Day 1: After crash landing in the kitchen, Archer had gone on a two-day bender demanding drink after drink from the castle to test its mixologist capabilities, finding something to mercilessly criticize on each attempt with the exception of the Castle Wonderfuck’s apparent perfect incarnation of a Mai Tai.
He had (in his opinion) stealthily wandered around the castle, the grounds, and the town before drunkenly stumbling up the stairs and finding his room, where he passed out for nearly a day and a half.
Day 3: Upon waking up and discovering that it was not, in fact, just a bad dream, he continued the binge drinking, alone. Neighbors and passers-by would probably have heard him screaming repeatedly for people named Lana, Woodhouse, Pam, Ray, Cyril, Krieger, Cheryl (and/or Carol… whatever), and finally his Mother in that exact order at some point over the next four days...
Day 7: In a shocking moment of self-aware clarity, Sterling had decided that he really needed to chill the fuck out and adjust to his new surroundings.
Day 8: Unfortunately, the blunts he smoked in an effort to do just that had quite the opposite effect, instead causing Archer to slip into an anxious, paranoid frenzy about the castle and its residents.
Naturally, he tied his journal shut with his belt and barricaded his room from the inside so that his body would be safe while he tried to escape the castle via astral projection by ingesting a cocktail of LSD, Peyote, mushrooms, and amphetamines.
He succeeded in absolutely nothing but tripping balls for 72 hours and destroying most of the furniture in his room. Halfway through the three-day magical mystery tour, Archer began repurposing the debris into rudimentary weapons and fashioned himself a loin cloth from the silk drapes. Between obvious crashing noises and incoherent ramblings, the phrases "BOOYAKASHA!" and "RAMPAAAAAAGE" were repeatedly audible to anyone in the vicinity.
Day 13: Having fallen into what was likely a mild coma, Archer woke up in a perfectly intact bed the following Monday morning, wearing a clean pair of silk boxers that resembled the color of the curtains framing the gorgeous view from his tower bedroom. The room had been redecorated in a sleek, mid-century modern style. A quick look around revealed a perfect replica of his own closet with all tailored suits, black, and slightly darker black tactlenecks present and accounted for. There was also a rectangular leather bench at the foot of the bed that now contained all the improvisational weapons he had crafted whilst tripping the fuck out. A small table in the corner contained a tray with a perfect dish of eggs benedict, bacon, and toast, along with a pitcher of Bloody Mary made to his usual specifications.
Archer sat in somewhat of a dazed stupor as he reflected on the shockingly clear memories of his time at the castle thus far. After breakfast, he finally felt much more like himself. Once he had dressed in his typical suit and tie, he sat on the bed and hesitated before picking up the journal gingerly.
Several hours and a reasonable number of cocktails later, he had attempted to fill in the blanks on what his welcoming party in the kitchen had tried to tell him. As it turned out, the turquoise guy and his jackass friend had essentially been telling the truth.
After listening in on a day’s worth of mundane conversations, Archer came to the conclusion that while weird didn’t even begin to cover this place and most of the people in it, they all seemed to be relatively harmless.
He had hidden out for long enough. He was an ISIS agent, for shit’s sake. He’d been through worse than this. As long as he was here, he might as well meet the locals. With that, he slid the journal inside his jacket and took a breath before exiting his room.
He walked around for a bit before finding that Death Match place he kept hearing about on the second floor. At least a bar was familiar territory. He took a seat and glanced around. Not the fanciest place, but even he could admit it had a certain charm to it.
[ooc: Archer will be at the bar for the rest of the night. Feel free to drop in and meet him if you haven’t had the pleasure yet.]
no subject