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Improvisation	By : Rina76 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Tokio Hotel Views: 1721 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know Georg Listing, Tom Kaulitz, Bill Kaulitz or any members of Tokio Hotel. This story is a complete work of fiction and not true. I don't own this fandom am not making any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Georg believes they have gotten away unfollowed. He’s been checking behind him and can’t see any flashing blue lights or any other cars close on their tail.

Shooting Tom an anxious look, Georg tries to see in the dim interior of the cabin past the second boy’s long, tangled hair to assess the damage. It’s a bit difficult to judge what injuries Tom has got with all the red gore over his face. It’s glistening around his nose, mouth and chin, looking nearly black in the faint green light emanating from the dashboard dials.

“Did you get that guy’s blood on your face or in your mouth?” Georg asks, hoping to the Gods that the bodybuilder wasn’t positive for HIV or hepatitis C. If their bodily fluids intermingled, Tom will have to get tested.

“No, just on my top,” Tom says, looking down. It’s then that the teenager notices his own nose is bleeding, sluggishly dripping onto his long-sleeved cotton T-shirt which used to be a sparkling white but is currently ripped, sweaty and filthy from the tussle. He licks blood off his lip and makes a sound of frustration.

“Shit. That top was brand new.”

Taking his focus off the road for a second, Georg questions, “Are you all right, kid?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” Tom strips his grimy T-shirt off and balls it up, holding the clean side against his nose.

“Is it broken?”

“I don’t think so. Just bloody,” the blond boy replies in a muffled voice, dabbing at the crimson fluid emanating from his nostrils. Since adrenaline is still flooding his system, he can’t feel any pain yet. He probes inside his mouth with a finger.

“I think he loosened a few of my teeth too.”

“You’re fortunate he didn’t knock them right out. Tilt your head back,” Georg orders. “That’ll help stop the bleeding.”

Tom leans back in the passenger’s seat, gazing at the roof of the truck, shirt pressed against his face, while Georg drives them down the highway, worrying.

“Tell me right away, Tom, if you feel dizzy or nauseated, okay? Or if you have stars in your vision. It might be concussion.”

“I’m fine, dad. It’s just a nosebleed,” Tom reiterates patiently, tipping his head forward, checking to see what the level of leakage is. “See, it’s stopped. I’m not gonna hemorrhage to death in your truck. Oh. But I got blood on your seat. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. With my dog being my most frequent passenger, it’s not exactly the height of cleanliness in here.” Georg gropes one-handedly around in the back and pulls out a plastic bag, used for the disposal of trash. “Here. Put your top in this.”

Giving his nose one last swipe, Tom stuffs the bloody shirt into the bag and Georg returns it to the back of the vehicle. The first boy is buzzing, heart still racing from the brawl, feeling elated after he and Georg emerged as the triumphant champions.

“That was awesome! Wasn’t that awesome, G? And you rushing in all heroic and shit. That was so fucking cool.” Tom is grinning at his partner. He has a brand new respect for Georg after seeing that.

“Well, you sure as hell weren’t going to beat him on your own. That was the first time I’ve ever hit anybody,” Georg discloses, sparing a glance for his reddened knuckles. “God, my hand hurts.”

Finding that funny for some reason, Tom sniggers. Georg frowns at him. “It’s not a laughing matter, Tom,” he reprimands, flicking on the interior light which is centered above the rear view mirror. “Take a look at yourself.”

Curiously leaning forward, Tom adjusts the rectangle of shiny glass and peers into it, inspecting his illuminated features, beholding his own lumpy brow, mangled mouth and blood-encrusted nose and chin, the redness of his bodily fluid contrasting starkly with the paleness of his skin.

“Fuck.”

Tom’s singular curse concisely sums up the magnitude of his facial ruination.

“Now do you see why I’m concerned?” Georg persists. Aside from the large, round bump that has popped up on the boy’s forehead resembling a third unopened eye, his lips are more swollen than a supermodel’s after collagen injections and the bottom one has been split right open down the middle like ripe fruit, oozing red juice. It’s a damn miracle his lip ring is even still in place but it’s probably only because the piercing is located in the corner of his mouth, out of the way. There’s no chance of Tom shooting any scenes tomorrow with a face like that.

“Gustav is going to fucking kill us both, you know that, kid?”

As Georg is the older, more responsible of the two, the task of keeping Tom safe and sound falls onto his shoulders and tonight, he failed to live up to his responsibility.

“Hey, it wasn’t our fault,” Tom objects, slouching back in his seat and sulkily kicking the underneath of the glove box. “That steroid-swallowing prick was the one who started it.”

“I know,” Georg grants, straightening the mirror and snapping the light off, “but I was trying to get you out of there before THIS happened.” Here he motions to Tom’s mauled mouth. “But no, you couldn’t let it go, could you? You couldn’t just walk away - you had to prove something. And look where it got you.”

“This is the part where you yell at me for being so stupid, right?” Tom acknowledges with a mutter, looking out of the window at the streetlights going past. “Just so you know, I’m an expert in zoning out so you may as well save your breath.”

Georg drums his fingers on the steering wheel, knowing that yelling at Tom, while an effective method for venting emotion, won’t change what actually happened. Yelling does not turn back time.

Sighing heavily, he concurs, “You’re right. As you keep reminding me, I’m not your father so I won’t raise my voice at you. I guess you’ve been punished enough for one night. I just wish the evening ended on a more pleasant note.”

“C’mon Georg, admit it. You enjoyed that,” Tom teases, slapping his co-star on the thigh. “You’ve never been in a real fight before and you loved it. You got a rush bringing that dude down. I know you did. Nothing like kicking some fuckin’ ass, huh?”

Although he doesn’t generally condone the kind of uncivilized aggression he displayed in the street outside the karaoke club, Georg can appreciate that violence is a necessary evil sometimes, especially if someone’s life needs saving. He just did what he had to do to save Tom from certain death, without really thinking about it. It was a primordial, instinctual action, fed by testosterone and his adrenal glands going into overdrive. He’s astonished that he, a passive wimp with no prior experience in hand to hand combat outside of stunt acting, was successful in disabling and immobilizing someone who almost certainly guzzles muscle-building milkshakes with every meal.

“I suppose it DID feel empowering,” Georg confesses, relieved now that the ordeal is over and they both lived through it. “Did you see how quick he passed out? I amazed even myself there.”

“Where’d you learn a cool move like that?”

“On one of my films, where I was playing a wrestler. It’s called a sleeper hold. I’ve never actually tried it out on anybody for real, though.”

“I really thought you killed him,” Tom says, his eyes round with awe. “You sure looked like you wanted to. I’ve never seen you so pissed off.”

“Well, he was hurting you,” Georg stresses, forehead wrinkled with seriousness. “I couldn’t stand there and let him do that.”

“That was awesome,” Tom repeats cheerfully, putting his feet up on the dashboard. “I need a fucking smoke. You want one?”

A squashed packet of cigarettes thrust in his face, Georg eyes the appealing items, his lungs screaming for nicotine like two hungry fledglings in a nest, but makes himself turn away, knowing it’s for the greater good if he rejects the offer.

“No thanks.”

“Go ahead, treat yourself,” Tom says persuasively, waving the pack under Georg’s nose so he can smell the tobacco. “You deserve it.”

Resolutely pushing Tom’s hand aside, Georg replies, “If I have one, I’ll have another and another and before you know it, I’ll be right back where I started. I’d like to continue quitting smoking, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re really gonna do it, aren’t you? Good for you, man.” There is surprised admiration in Tom’s voice. He pulls a cigarette out of the packet with his puffed-up lips and digs his lighter out of his pants pocket. “But I’m still gonna smoke, if that’s okay with you. Too bad if it’s not.”

“It’s your choice.” Georg shrugs, understanding that nobody can force anybody else to quit. “Just do me a favour and wind the window down.”

So Georg doesn’t have to breathe in second-hand smoke, Tom opens the passenger side window and enjoys the cool breeze blowing his hair back and washing against his battered face as he sucks on his cigarette. Rather than making him feel better, the cigarette makes Tom feel slightly unwell and he flicks it out of the moving vehicle only half-smoked. His stomach gurgles and his head swims. The movement of the truck over the bumps in the road and around sweeping corners intensifies the ill sensation until Tom feels positively sea sick. He leans against the door, groaning.

“Could you drive a little smoother, Georg? I don’t feel so good.”

Peering at Tom and seeing the boy’s face turning greener by the second, Georg deduces, “It’s not my driving; it’s you. Hang on, there’s a rest area up ahead. I’ll stop there.”

Tom just groans again, sticking his head out of the window and gulping in fresh air in an effort to reduce his queasiness. As soon as Georg leaves the road and screeches to a halt beside a dark, vacant recreational park with a brick restroom and picnic table, Tom flings the door open and ejects partially digested corn chips, chili and prawns onto the grass.

“Are you okay there, kiddo?” Georg hesitantly asks when Tom takes a while to get his head out of the lawn. All he can see is Tom’s bent-over back and a clammy hand on the armrest of the truck door.

Finally surfacing, Tom swallows, nodding at his apprehensive partner. “Just a combination of too much food and too much alcohol sloshing around in my stomach.”

“And getting smacked about the face and head had nothing to do with it,” Georg rebounds dryly, switching off the engine and headlights.

“Yeah. That too probably.” Tom spits on the grass and sits back up, appearing a little less green in the soft yellow glow of the vehicle’s inside light.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Georg quizzes again, brow lined with concern. “Do you want me to take you to a hospital?”

“Georg, quit fretting. It’s not like I’ve never been beaten up before. I’d know if I was seriously injured.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I feel a lot better now that I’ve puked.”

“There are toilets over there.” Georg points. “Why don’t you go clean up? Rinse your mouth out and wash that blood off your face. You look like a horror movie.”

Agreeing with that comparison, Tom does as he is told and disappears into the small brick building through a doorway labeled MEN while Georg stands outside keeping watch for potential muggers and assailants with a newfound confidence in his body guarding capabilities. If he can take on approximately three hundred pounds of beefcake and win, he can take anybody on. Pity the fool who tries to mess with him tonight. But his readiness is only a precaution. It doesn’t look like he will have to choke anyone else because there are no other people around. Being hours past sundown, the park is deserted, although the restrooms are lit up for those needing a pit stop on their evening journey, as Tom and Georg do. Moths flutter around the plastic light fixture affixed above the entrance. Splashing noises and the shriek of ancient plumbing from inside the bathroom overlay the droning of passing automobiles along the highway, their headlights on.

For the first time, Georg becomes aware that there are red stains on the sleeves of his light brown blazer. The blood did not come from him as he doesn’t have any open wounds. It came from the man he throttled. He still can’t believe he did that. If any of his friends hear about what he did, they won’t believe it either. Hanging around with Tom is changing him in so many ways.

Since he’s met the teenager, Georg feels as though he’s aged ten years but not in a wearisome and tiring way. Sure, being with moody Tom can be wearisome and tiring from time to time but more importantly, Georg feels as though he’s evolving and maturing, becoming more of a man, feeling manly emotions and doing manly things such as protecting and defending. Loving someone so much that he’d risk his life for them is the chief explanation for the change. He’s never loved anyone with such strong intensity, not even his first girlfriend – the one he wanted to marry. Looking back on that doomed relationship, Georg realises that they were both too young and inexperienced and it was more puppy love than the real thing. This, with Tom, is the real thing. Georg knows it. He knows it with every molecule in his body. He didn’t know he could love anyone this way, least of all a young man. People can have an idea of what kind of partner they wish to be with, however, who they actually fall for may turn out to be the complete reverse of what they pictured in their mind.

Just like what happened to him.

Georg would have fallen for Tom even if his co-star had been a girl. His co-star could have been named Tammy instead of Tom and it wouldn’t have made a difference. Tammy would have been one difficult, temperamental bitch at times but Georg would have fallen for her just the same. Tom would have been a stunningly gorgeous girl, just like he is a stunningly gorgeous boy. But Georg doesn’t love Tom simply for his external beauty. He loves Tom for his fearless heart. For his expressive character, musical soul and creative mind. For his surprising sweetness, his hidden vulnerability and for his feisty, resilient spirit. That spirit simply inhabits a male form, that is all. The spirit that Georg loves is inside that restroom, washing blood off his beautiful broken face and Georg thanks the universe for giving him the strength and the guts to fight along with Tom. To fight FOR him. If Georg hadn’t fought, Tom might have been the one left lying and bleeding on the cold, dirty pavement.

And he might not have gotten back up again.

“Hey, Tom?” Georg calls out through the doorway.

“What?” Tom is taking a leak in the steel urinal.

To mask his deeper feelings, Georg says in a light-hearted tone, “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Brittle chuckling reverberates in the brick space. “Yeah, me too. I haven’t painted up my coffin yet.”

“Your...coffin?” Georg echoes. This must be one of those eccentric Tom idiosyncrasies, one of those weird things that make him unique. Georg’s right.

“Yeah. Just to be prepared ahead of time, I’m gonna buy a pine coffin from a funeral parlour and personalize it,” Tom describes. “I want to paint it in the colours that I like. Maybe a mural or two. Until I need it, I’ll use it as a coffee table or something. I don’t want to be buried in no boring, ordinary, run of the mill casket that my unimaginative relatives pick out. You know me. I like to be different. I like to be an individual.”

“Individual or not, you better not start any more fights when I’m with you or I swear I’m going to be the one who puts you in that damn coffin and shovels dirt on top of it,” Georg guarantees him sternly. “You got that, sunshine?”

Reappearing with his hair damp and face cleaned, Tom impertinently flicks water at Georg from his wet fingers. “Yes, dad.”

“Well, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you. Even though one of mine is turning purple as we speak,” Georg remarks, walking past Tom and entering the public bathroom. The older man finds the nearest basin, turns the faucet on and throws cupped handfuls of water onto his face. For the protection of the park visitors, there are no glass mirrors inside the restroom but Georg knows without looking that his entire left eye socket is starting to swell up from the backhanding and his cheek feels like it’s glowing and red. The water won’t heal his burgeoning black eye but the coldness temporarily numbs the hot throbbing. He pats his face dry with a paper towel, wishing he had an ice pack handy. The only medical supplies he has with him are in a small first aid kit in his glove compartment. You never know when you’ll need a pair of tweezers, some burn cream or a triangular bandage - none of which, regrettably, will help with his eye or Tom’s assortment of wounds.

When he returns, Georg tells Tom to get in the rear of the truck because he wants to have a closer look at his co-star’s injuries. While Tom climbs into the back seat, Georg takes off his soiled blazer and stuffs it into the plastic bag on the floor of the vehicle. Dry cleaning should get the bloodstains out but after the traumatizing events of this evening, he’ll probably never want to wear that article of clothing again. Beneath the blazer Georg has a cream sweater which miraculously escaped staining.

“You wanna wear this?” he questions, beginning to lift up the bottom edge of the clean garment covering his torso, loathe for Tom to catch a chill on top of everything else.

“It’s all right. I’m not cold or anything,” Tom dissuades, sitting there in just his jeans and sneakers. “Besides, I still got my jacket in the front.”

“And your precious pipe.”

“The most important thing.” Tom smiles as best as he can with lips the volume of sea cucumbers. He glances at the bulge in the jacket pocket. “Hey, can I use it now?”

“No way. Do you know how much pipes stink?” Georg says disapprovingly, getting in the back of the automobile alongside Tom. “I’ll never get the smell out of my truck if you light it in here. You wait till you get back to your trailer before doing that.”

“Killjoy.” Tom pouts.

Sensibly, Georg advises, “It will probably only make you throw up again anyway. Now, let me check you out.” He takes Tom’s chin gently in his hand and turns the boy’s head from left to right, checking for delayed reaction of the eyes or any unevenness in pupil size. He doesn’t see any abnormalities.

“How’s your vision? Seeing spots?”

“Nope.”

“Hearing any buzzing or ringing?”

“A little.”

“Headache?”

“Why, you want sex?”

“Ha ha, funnyman,” Georg rebukes. “Be serious. You’ve got a lump the size of an emu egg on your forehead.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt that much,” Tom says, feeling the fluid-filled bump.

“Might be a different story in half an hour or so,” Georg warns him. He places a palm in the middle of Tom’s naked chest. The other boy’s heart doesn’t seem to be thumping excessively.

“Take a deep breath.”

Obligingly, Tom sucks in air, expanding his ribcage.

“That hurt?”

Letting his breath out, Tom winces. “A bit."

“Where?”

“Right where your hand is.”

“What about here?” Georg carefully presses along the sides of Tom’s chest, outward from the sternum. “Any pain?”

Tom shakes his head. “So, what’s the verdict, doctor?”

“Doesn’t look like any major brain damage or cracked ribs. Maybe a mild concussion. You’re lucky.”

“You’re the lucky one,” Tom contradicts. “You only got hit once.”

“But that was enough for me. My head almost went rolling down the sidewalk like a bowling ball. Yours was used like a punching bag,” Georg embellishes. He delicately runs his fingertips along the bruises and swelling spreading across Tom’s jaw, his thumb skimming the boy’s bloated lips. No makeup artist will be able to camouflage these battle-wounds, no matter how talented they are.

“Oh yeah, Gustav’s gonna have us on toast for breakfast.”

“So we have a couple days off. So what?” Tom says dismissively. “He can’t fire us. The movie’s just about done, anyway.”

“True, but you are still gonna be sore and sorry in the morning.” Georg wags his finger at his troublemaking co-star. “That’ll teach to you to get in a brawl with the biggest, veiniest guy in the whole city.”

“Again: I wasn’t the one who started it,” Tom reinstates sulkily. “That fucker just didn’t like the way I looked.”

“I know. I’m not really mad at you,” Georg replies calmingly, tucking Tom’s tangled hair back behind his ears. “I just thought you’d end up in a hospital bed, hooked up to life support, that’s all. Next time, do us both a favour and just walk away. ”

Grudgingly, Tom replies, “Yeah, I probably should have done what you said.”

“And on top of all that, I never got to hear you sing karaoke,” Georg continues in disappointment. “I was really looking forward to seeing you on stage, Tom.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take you along to our next gig. We got one coming up soon and you can see me play then.” Next, Tom casually comments, “Did you realize that when you were choking that guy, you called me your boyfriend?”

“I did?” Georg was so incensed he didn’t even know what he was saying. He was just trying to stop the guy from hitting Tom. “I’m sorry. It must have just come out without thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Tom permits somewhat bashfully, lowering his lashes and picking at his thumbnail. “Maybe one day I really will be your boyfriend.”

“I hope so,” Georg returns. “To be honest, it’s getting harder and harder to just stay friends with you.”

“We can be more again if you want.”

Georg frowns. “Huh?”

To show exactly what he means, Tom reaches past Georg and slams the back door of the truck shut, cutting off the never-ending stream of cars whizzing past. The small light above the rear vision mirror turns off and darkness encases them, quiet and private, the two actors set apart from the rest of the world by the metal shell of the vehicle.

Tom glides his palm up Georg’s thigh, a roguish spark dancing in his chocolate eyes. “Nobody can see us in here.”

“But you just got the snot punched out of you,” Georg recalls in disbelief. “That was the most frightening, un-erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. How can you possibly want sex after that? That’s bizarre!”

“You know what’s bizarre? I thought I was gonna have to scrape myself off the sidewalk with a spatula. I thought my time was up. Nearly dying just makes a guy feel more alive,” Tom says excitedly, clutching Georg’s hard bicep, his irises glittering like gemstones. “Don’t you feel alive? ‘Cause I do.”

“Well, yes, I am quite thankful to still be breathing,” Georg confirms. “And I’m quite thankful that you are too.”

He lays a hand over Tom’s breastbone so he can feel the rise and fall of his co-star’s chest, as if to reassure himself that Tom is fine and well. He can also feel Tom’s heartbeat. The living organ thumping against Georg’s palm erodes the strength he has been showing, the sudden urge to cry swamping the older male, tear ducts prickling in readiness. He’s been acting strong for Tom’s sake but inside he’s a wreck. Tom could have breathed his final breath lying there on the pavement outside the karaoke club. If events had unfolded differently, Georg could have watched the boy die before his very eyes. The thought terrifies him.

“God, Tom. I was so scared that you were really hurt back there...” Georg’s voice roughens as tightness hits his throat and he halts, his green gaze glistening wetly in the dark. He closes his eyes and swallows, his whole body trembling. “Fuck, I’m still shaking.”

Suddenly, he turns to Tom and hugs him fiercely with both arms. Georg tries to breathe in the sweet scent of Tom’s hair but all he can smell is blood and it makes him start to cry.

“Hey. C’mon, stop it,” Tom chidingly says, as the older man presses into his neck, clinging to him as though this is the last time they’ll see each other. “You’re not at my funeral. I’m okay. I’m a little hammered but I’m still here.”

Tom rubs Georg’s back, trying to soothe him. Once again, the older actor’s emotional sensitivity shines through, reminding Tom of how very different they are. Even though Georg jumped in and helped Tom win the fight, he’s clearly been affected by it and won’t forget the whole experience in a hurry.

“Just don’t do anything like that again,” Georg chokes out. “Please. I don’t ever want to watch you get killed because of some stupid bar fight.”

“You won’t. Quit worrying about what could’ve happened and focus on the here and now,” Tom admonishes, squeezing Georg supportively. “And right here and now, I am with you, Georg. If you wanna treat me like your boyfriend, go ahead. Even if it’s just for tonight. You can do whatever you want with me.”

Georg sniffles into Tom’s shoulder. “I can’t. Not after what happened.”

“All right. How about you just take me back to your place? I’ll stay there tonight so you can keep an eye on me, make sure my concussion doesn’t get worse,” the battered teen suggests. “I’ll even let you clean my injuries and put Band-Aids on them, if it makes you feel better.”

Slowly, Georg nods, pulling away from Tom. “Yeah. Yeah, that would make me feel better.”

The older male wipes his eyes and attempts to collect his strength again. He’s gonna need it tomorrow morning when they face the mighty wrath of Gustav Schafer.

“Can I stay in the back while you drive?” Tom yawns, feeling sleepy all of a sudden. “There’s more room here. I can lie down.”

“Sure,” the brunette replies, crawling into the front of the vehicle and slipping into the driver’s seat. “But I draw the line at carrying you inside when we get back. I’ll be waking you up, kiddo, and you can walk.”

A pale hand catches Georg’s forearm, stopping him from turning the key in the ignition.

“What?”

“I just...I just wanted to say thanks, G. You know, for doing what you did back there.” Tom is talking about Georg putting himself in danger to help him in the fight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.” Georg gazes steadily at Tom, a solemn expression on his angular face. “And I’d do it again in an instant. I’d do anything for you, Tom. Just remember that. ”

“Well, thanks anyway.” The boy smiles sleepily with his cracked, swollen lips. “You know, man, this has been one of the best nights of my life.”

Georg blinks, looking at Tom’s mashed face. “I’d hate to see what a bad night is like, then.”

“A bad night is a boring night.” Tom reclines onto his back, hands resting on his chest, all set to get in a short nap while Georg takes them back to the parking lot of the studio. “That, Georg, was excitement. Excitement is fun. See, the more you hang with me, the more fun you’ll have. The more fun you have, the less uptight you’ll be. I’ll make a badass out of you yet.”

“I can’t wait,” Georg says drolly. “Hopefully the next time we go out for dinner, we can spend all night in a jail cell.”

“Done that,” Tom returns wearily. “Being locked up overnight ain’t so bad. I used to get thrown in the watch house all the time for fighting in public and resisting arrest. Then there’s the shoplifting and possession of narcotics. I used to have tons of unpaid fines.” He ponders this. “I think I might still have some.”

Turning the key and making the engine rumble to life, Georg gripes, “I can’t believe I’m chauffeuring around a criminal. You’d think my standards would be higher.”

From the back comes, “I prefer the term ‘non-law abiding citizen’ thank you very much. And can we stop at the nearest convenience store?”

“Why? You want to rob the joint?” Georg mocks. “Sorry, but I didn’t bring my ski mask.”

A raised middle finger pops up into view in Georg’s rear vision mirror. “Asshole. I just want some more smokes.” There is a pause and the click of a lighter. Smouldering tobacco and noxious chemicals drift into the front as Tom draws and exhales on a lit cigarette.

“Can you buy me another packet? This is my last one.”

“Of course it is. You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” Georg grizzles, driving the truck out of the rest area and waiting by the edge of the road for a gap in the traffic. He doesn’t care about having to buy Tom more cigarettes; he’s thinking about tomorrow and how much trouble they’re both going to get into from Gustav. Georg is not looking forward to telling their stern-faced director that they got into a fight and busted their faces up, causing the delay of filming and subsequently the loss of thousands of dollars out of the budget. Much shouting and arm waving is anticipated.

Joining back into the flow of automobiles on the highway, Georg puts the truck into second gear and mutters to himself exasperatedly.

“Why the hell did I ask Tom Trumper on a date? I should have just stayed in my damn trailer.”
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Improvisation