Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

The look on the toady little bastard’s face when Tom pulled out the ring, oh God, that was the most glorious fucking thing Michael had ever seen. Even more glorious than the look on Trisha Harr’s face that one time, that time when she realized far too late that the model conservative she’d invited to speak at a dinner full of conservative human supremacist assholes was 1) not actually a conservative asshole and b) not actually human.

In which Tom annihilates someone on his show and Michael finds righteous outrage sexy as hell.

Nightly Review Episode #AA08112

Guest: Lord Dagreh Hrr-Bah

14:05 - 21:16

Tom Rosenberg: My guest tonight is the host of Money Talks on GBNC, please welcome Lord Dagreh Hrr-Bah. Sir!

[applause]

TR: Come on in, have a seat, Lord Hrr--

Dagreh Hrr-Bah: No, no, call me Dagreh, that’s--it’s good to be here, thank you.

TR: Well, all right, Dagreh--listen--let’s uh, let’s get right to this, then.

DH: All right, sure.

TR: Your show, sir, highest rated show on GBNC right now, lot of people look to you for advice on where to put their money, a lot of, uh, trust you’ve built up there--

DH: Well, I like to think it’s well-placed.

TR: I’m sure you do. And you obviously, you know what you’re doing, you’ve got a fair bit of scratch of your own--

DH [laughs]: I’m... comfortable, yes, very much so.

TR: So other than your show, and I’ve got some points about that I want to get to in a minute, other than your show, what’s--uh--what’s on your plate lately?

DH: Well, I have a book coming out soon, we haven’t settled on a title yet but mostly it’ll deal with finding investment opportunities in unlikely places, it’s a fascinating subject [laughs] no, really, it is--

TR: If you like money, right--

DH [laughs]: Well, who doesn’t? Anyway, there’s that, and there’s some property I’ve invested in on Mars, a bit on the New California strip--it’s going to be a reproduction of the old Vegas Bellagio, we’ve even managed to get hold of the original fountains.

TR: That sounds kind of pricey.

DH [laughs]: Well... that’s, uh, that’s putting it mildly, after that deal went through I came home and right there at the door, there were my wives right there at the door waiting to kill me--

[audience laughs]

TR: You spent a couple nights on the couch, then--

DH: I spent a couple WEEKS on the couch. [audience laughs] But we all sat down and I went over the, uh, the projections and all, and I’m off the couch. I had to have the architect add an extra penthouse to the plans just for them, though.

TR: Just for them? You don’t get to--they’re not going to let you in? You go to New Cali for a week, the wives head up to the penthouse and call for room service and leave you at the buffet with a handful of ten-cred chips--

[audience laughs]

DH: They said if I behave, they’ll let me in. Something about bringing in a Chippendales show, I guess.

TR: Okay, we’re just going to leave that right there because that’s giving me visuals I don’t want.

[audience laughs]

DH [laughs]: Fair enough.

TR: So--listen, I wish we had more time here but we don’t, so uh--let’s talk about your show.

DH: All right, sure.

TR: You’ve given, as I said, you’ve given a lot of advice over the years, a lot of it good, but a lot of it--well, the last few years or so, uh... Juna, can you roll 6-28?

DH: Uh, what’s--

[Money Talks clip, from some years ago, in which DH strongly recommends investing in property on Vara-7]

DH: Uh. Yes, I, uh... I did suggest--

TR: Vara-7.

DH: Well, it was--

TR: Vara-7? Seriously?

DH: Well--

TR: That’s a completely lifeless planet, sir, it’s--

DH: Vara-7 was undeveloped at the time, yes--

TR: And it’s undeveloped now, and it’s going to STAY undeveloped until--

DH: I had it on good authority that it was slated for terraforming in the next five to ten--

TR: Sir, I checked up on this. There’s no way that planet could have been slated for--

DH: Well, that’s the information I got, if you heard differently then I suggest you find better sources--

TR: Vara-7 is a gas giant, Dagreh, it’s nothing but methane and helium with a chunk of metal in the middle of it, it doesn’t have a surface to terraform, and if you can find me a better source than the Regulan Terraformers' Guild I’d love to have it.

[audience reacts]

DH: All--all right, yes, that might not have been the best call I’ve ever made.

TR: You think?

DH: I made a mistake. [laughs] I’m not an Adam--

TR: You made some money off that mistake too, didn’t you?

DH: Well, uh--[coughs] I do--to be honest, yes, I do receive a gratuity from the, uh, the ventures I mention on the show, just a small--

TR: Yeah, um--back to that New Cali thing, when did you make that deal?

DH: Well--I suppose it’d be about a year ago, right after--

TR: That’d be an Earth year?

DH: Well, yes--

TR: Juna? Can we get 10-27, please?

[Clip from Money Talks, in which DH recommends buying stock in the Urdah Research Consortium to fund development of an alternative technology to the Solthasti Gate network]

TR: When did this air?

DH: Uh--

TR: It aired about fourteen months ago.

DH: Uh--well, yes, it--

TR: So--two months, is that about enough time for some of that “gratuity” to hit your account?

DH: Now wait, you have to understand--

TR: So, Dagreh--when the news broke a few weeks ago that the URC didn’t even have a working simulation after a year of people pumping money into this thing--

DH: I’d--I’d appreciate it if you’d address me as Lord Hrr-Bah, thank you.

TR: Uh... okay? Sure, that’s--

[audience reacts, boos]

TR: Okay. Okay. That’s [to audience] no, okay, that’s fair, that’s okay. The man has a title, he wants me to use it, that’s fine, that’s his right. That’s fine, sir. But, uh, if you’re going to play it like that, uh, there’s some things a lot of people don’t know about Urdah nobility, if you don’t mind me taking a minute to...

DH: It’s your show, do whatever you want.

TR: Except call you Dagreh after you already told me to, sure. [clears throat] Anyway, the, uh, the thing is, there’s two kinds of nobility, the kind you’re born into and--well, your kind, sir, the kind you buy.

DH: You say that like there’s something wrong with it, we don’t distinguish between--

TR: So basically, anyone with enough money burning a hole in their pocket can buy a flashy ring in a fancy box and the right to stick a “Lord” in front of their name--

DH: What you need to understand--what you need to understand here is, our society gives wealthy people the--

TR: So if you want me to call you Lord Hrr-Bah now, that’s fine. I can do that. [reaches under desk for ornate box, bangs box onto table, opens box, removes gaudy ring, puts ring on, pushes box toward DH] And you can call ME Lord Rosenberg.

[audience reacts wildly; DH examines box and gold plate inside lid, is visibly rattled]

TR: I’m sorry, I, I think I interrupted you just as you were about to make an interesting point, what was that you were just about to say, something about your society giving--

DH: I was going to say our society gives wealthy people the recognition they deserve.

TR: Uh huh.

DH: People like me and, well, and you, I guess, we earned that money. We put effort into it.

TR: Uh huh.

DH: We work hard for that, and if someone works that hard why shouldn’t they be able to buy a--

TR: Let me stop you right there, sir--I’d like you to clear up your definition of “hard work,” if you would. Because for one thing, I don’t think I work all that hard. I’ve been sitting here give or take about a hundred feet and more comfortable chairs since about six this morning, but when it comes down to it I’m getting paid to point and laugh at the news, which I’d be driving my wife crazy doing in my living room if I wasn’t doing it here.

DH: But you ARE doing it here, you took the initiative to--most people just, as you said, stay at home and--

TR: And your “hard work,” sir, appears to be something along the lines of “sitting back and waiting for your percentage of the money you talk people into throwing at real estate on a planet you KNOW doesn't even have a surface to build on and R&D on a product that doesn’t exist, that’s never going to exist, that you KNOW doesn’t exist and is never going to exist.”

[audience reacts]

DH: Now listen, I’m not an engineer, I’m just--all I know is what--

TR: You KNEW. You KNEW Vara-7 couldn’t be terraformed. You KNEW the Portal system was vaporware and it’d never be anything but and you were still on your show telling people to invest in it and you were still getting a kickback from the URC on every credit those people invested--

DH: Now hold on, it was NOT vaporware, there was, there was a protoype test between Rigel-3 and--

TR: Which was closed to the general public, I understand, and on top of that it kind of didn’t happen, something about the equipment getting lost in transit--

DH: I’m not aware of that. I was told the test was successful--

TR: Really? Because on your show, you said you were there. You said you saw them do a, uh, demonstration with some test animals.

DH: I never said I was there, I said--

TR: Juna, roll 11-131.

[clip plays--yes, that’s exactly what he said]

[audience reacts]

DH: I... I did say that.

TR: Yes, sir.

DH: I may have exaggerated.

TR: Exaggerated.

DH: Yes.

TR: No, sir. “Exaggerating” is when you tell your buddies you shot a 70 at the golf course and leave out the part where you only played three holes. Telling your audience you watched a test you weren’t there for, a test that never happened, of equipment that wasn’t there, to convince them to throw money at R&D that’s not happening on technology that doesn’t exist is--sir, what would you call that?

DH: I--listen, you’re right, I shouldn’t have said that, but Tom--

TR: So you’re saying I can call you Dagreh again, is that--

[audience laughs]

DH [laughs nervously]: Your point, right--what you have to understand here is, yes, I’m trying to convince people to invest, and if I have to polish things up a little to--listen, when you get right down to it, I’m an entertainer, just like you. I have to make it interesting.

TR: Except you’re not just like me. Sir, my show is exactly what it says on the tin. All right? It’s a comedy show. I’m not trying to pass it off as anything else. I don’t pretend to be a serious journalist here. Your show, sir, your show is ten pounds of bullshit stuffed into a three-ounce sardine can with “SERIOUS NEWS” scribbled on the lid in crayon. That’s the difference between you and me. Well, that and I didn’t make a hundred thousand cred to piss away on this [holds up ring] by bullshitting people out of their money.

[audience reacts]

DH: It wasn’t just me, Tom, there’s also--

TR: I know it wasn’t just you, sir, and believe me, I wish I could have brought everyone who had a hand in this on the show, and I have to give you credit for being as good a sport as you’ve been and hell, for coming on the show at all, most of these guys won’t even return our calls. I have to--don’t get me wrong, I--personally--I think you’re despicable, sir. I’ve got people in my family that lost a lot of money investing in R&D on the Portal system because they know your society has its economic shit together in a big way and when a rich Urdah lord says “this is where you need to put your money,” they listen. They could have listened to Gungah Hah-Mrrn, who I understand got stripped of his title because he advised against investing in some other sketchy Urdah tech that, surprise, also turned out to be bullshit, but they didn’t. They listened to you, sir. So yeah, I personally think you’re despicable. But I have to give you credit for having the backbone to come on the show at all, which is more than most of these other bastards can say.

DH: Uh. I, uh. Thank you.

TR: My guest is Lord Dagreh Hrr-Bah, his show is Money Talks on GBNC. We’ll be right back.

[commercial break]

***

It was probably a good thing Michael decided to wait and catch Tom’s show on the air instead of sneaking backstage to watch that shit go down live, because... well, he probably would have had some trouble taping his own show without breaking down into a half-hour monologue that consisted entirely of gibbering and flailing on the subject of how ridiculously awesome Tom Rosenberg was because holy shit on a lilypad, great ass-handing or greatest ass-handing, seriously, holy fucking shit.

So instead, he watched it on the couch in his office, with a big old bowl of popcorn in his lap and a beer in his hand and his feet drumming on the floor in glee every time Tom drove another lovely poison barb into Hrr-Bah’s squishy bits. And then when it was over, he backed it up and watched it again. The look on the toady little bastard’s face when Tom pulled out the ring, oh God, that was the most glorious fucking thing Michael had ever seen. Even more glorious than the look on Trisha Harr’s face that one time, that time when she realized far too late that the model conservative she’d invited to speak at a dinner full of conservative human supremacist assholes was 1) not actually a conservative asshole and b) not actually human.

He would have watched it a third time if he hadn’t decided he really needed to go hunt Tom down and tell him in the most direct possible way that he was the most awesome person ever to walk the Earth.

Although he had a pretty good idea where Tom was right then--if a guest pissed him off, he usually hung around his studio and/or his office for a while to cool off before he went home--Michael figured it’d be a good idea to make sure. He fished his little comm thingy out of his pocket, clipped it on, and told it to call Tom.

“Hey,” Tom said after two rings.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Office.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Okay, but--”

“Don’t. Go. Anywhere.” And before Tom could argue that further, Michael hung up on him.

***

It was a short elevator ride up from the Laurent Assignment studio and offices to the Nightly Review studio and offices, so even if Tom did decide to bail, Michael reasoned, he wouldn’t get very damn far.

All of Tom’s interns and writers and other assorted minions had gone home for the evening; one lone janitorbot remained, cruising the carpets in a weird jerky spiral, sucking up paper bits and dustbunnies and occasionally bumping into a wall or some furniture and beeping at it.

Perfect.

Michael marched on down the hall, past the dartboard that currently had Steve Webster’s picture tacked on it and a cluster of darts right between his eyes, past the Mental Health Room and its assortment of toys and games and the occasional piñata or keg, past the office he himself used to occupy back in his own days on the Review. And there, at the end of the hall, was Tom’s corner office with a little bit of light spilling out from under the closed door.

Now of course this wasn’t the first time he’d visited Tom in his office after a show or before a show or during lunch or whatever--and, to be perfectly honest, it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d visited Tom in his office with certain...intentions.

It’s just--well, he usually knocked first.

But not this time.

No, not this time; instead, he just grabbed the doorknob, wrenched it counterclockwise, and slammed the door open. “You,” he thundered, pointing one finger straight at Tom.

“...Me?” Tom offered in reply; he was half-sitting half-leaning against the front of his desk, a beer on the corner far enough out of the way that it probably wouldn’t pose a threat to any sensitive equipment. “Michael, uh--”

“You. Magnificent. Bastard!”

"Uh, M-Michael, wait a--"

And in one smooth motion, Michael kicked the door shut, locked it, slapped the privacy switch, and pinned Tom against his desk before he could say another word.

“Um,” Tom tried to say again, followed by some little unintelligible muffled thing Michael didn’t catch and couldn’t be bothered to ask Tom to repeat on account of him being a little too busy yanking Tom’s already-loose tie even further down so he could gnaw on parts of Tom’s neck his makeup girl wouldn’t bitch about.

“I can’t believe--" Michael paused for a second to gnaw his way back up the side of Tom’s neck; he found his way back to Tom’s mouth via teeth scraping along his jaw just hard enough to sting a little. “Lord Rosenberg, Jesus, Tom, I can’t believe you bought yourself a title--you knew he was going to--” Tom's lower lip was right there, how could Michael not pause to nibble on it, makeup girl be damned-- “you knew he was going to try hiding behind his, didn't you, God, you fucking genius--”

“Bought it ‘cause chicks love nobility," Tom mumbled into Michael’s mouth. “Great for parties. Mmm. Michael--hey--”

Tom didn’t get to finish that sentence, because Michael shut him up in the most effective way he could given the situation. So instead he made some little muffled noises that might have been protests, but his arms went around Michael’s waist and his hands clawed into big handfuls of Michael’s shirt and one of his knees came up around Michael’s hip anyway. Still all wound up from the interview. Well, good--that meant they could both use this.

And the noises Tom made when Michael pushed that knee back down and dropped to his own knees and yanked Tom’s belt loose, that stream of oh Jesus Christ yeah fuck don’t stop Michael oh God, Michael figured it was safe to say those noises weren’t protesting anything. He thought he heard something else somewhere in there, this weird little girly squeak, but he didn’t think much of it then. Besides, he was too busy trying to get Tom’s dick out of those boxers and into his mouth to worry about it.

The noise Tom made then--yeah, definitely not a protest.

One of Tom’s hands knotted into Michael’s hair--the other, Michael guessed, was probably white-knuckling the edge of his desk. He thought briefly about that beer, decided it was still probably okay where it was, decided he didn’t need to try and reach over and maybe set it somewhere else, and thought nothing else of it. He had more important things to do with his hands anyway, like clutching at a handful of Tom’s ass with one and--

“Jesus Christ,” Tom wheezed somewhere overhead, “holy shit, are you jacking off--”

“Mmmhmm,” was the only reply Michael could muster, his mouth currently being occupied with more important things. Tom made this groaning growling noise and then both of his hands were in Michael’s hair, clawing in that distinct trying-not-to-pull-but pulling-like-a-motherfucker fashion and Michael let him, in large part because he knew Tom wouldn’t be doing that for long. Sure enough, maybe two or three thrusts and a few encouraging “mmhmm”s from Michael later he came hard in Michael’s mouth, hard and loud and yeah, good thing everyone had gone home for the night because Michael wasn’t sure the soundproofer could keep all that noise confined to Tom’s office. He thought he heard that high-pitched squeak again, kind of muffled and that was weird, because both of Tom’s hands were in his hair.

Michael spent half a second pondering what else Tom could have been muffling himself with and then let it go; he had more important things to think about now, like making sure he was coming in his hand and not on Tom’s pants leg. Aside from that being a really, really rude thing to do to your dearest friend, it was a potentially huge source of embarrassment for Tom, who probably didn’t have an extra pair of pants lying around his office. And it would also earn Michael no end of leg-humping jokes in the future.

Slowly, Tom’s hands unknotted from Michael’s hair; as he dropped his forehead against Tom’s hip, he felt Tom’s fingers absently trying to pet it back into some sort of civilized style.

“So, uh,” Tom panted somewhere overhead, with a little hint of a laugh, “you liked the interview, is what you’re trying to tell me?”

Michael puffed out a laugh of his own against Tom’s hip; with his clean hand, he reached up and groped around on Tom’s desk until he found a box of tissues. His fingers caught the corner, and then the box scooted well into his reach of its own accord--wait, what?

Michael took a moment to ponder this.

Both of Tom’s hands: still in Michael’s hair.

So unless Tom had acquired some sort of goofy little tissue-box-carrying bot desk toy...

Oh.

Without turning his head or moving anything else or even breathing, Michael looked as far to his right as he could, in the general direction of the couch in Tom’s office, as he began to realize exactly what had just happened here.

Oh no.

Michael swallowed and turned his head to get a better look and confirm what his peripheral vision had just told him. The first thing that registered: the great big violet eyes, pupils wide, peeking out from under a soft fringe of blue hair.

“Um,” Tom chuckled, giving Michael’s head a little pat, “I, uh--I kind of tried to tell you--”

Oh shit.

The second thing that registered: the violet-flushed cheeks and the great big smile on the pretty blue face those eyes were set in.

The pretty blue face that belonged to one Kayani Leelina... otherwise known as Mrs. Tom Rosenberg.

Michael let out a little whimpery groan and dropped his forehead back onto Tom’s hip. “Hi, Yani.”

“Hi.” Michael could hear the little sparkly heart on the end of that little word. Yani looked like the last few minutes had been her birthday, Christmas (or, well, whatever sort of Christmas-like thing Regulans did), and a delivery of ten cases of chocolate-covered strawberries, champagne, and things that went bzz, all in one.

Because Yani was otherwise otherwise known as--well, Michael didn’t know what her nom de Net might be and Tom had no concrete evidence, but they had reason to believe it was also a nom de writing-fan-fiction-about-her-husband-and-his-best-friend-Doing-It.

As Yani giggled at Tom petting his hair back into place, Michael made a mental note to steer way the hell clear of the fansites for a couple of days. Also to knock next time.