16 Déjà Screwed

Notes:

Blindknyttstories – Again another chapter…I get the feeling JP wants me to see how a real author writes…Huh…Well anyway, I hope you all enjoy it now if you will excuse me I have to cut these handcuffs off.

JP – *wicked grin* handcuffs indeed. Oh, this inspires the naughty little “artist” within me…stay tuned for the next chapter, folks! 😉

Zippers Bar – January 28, 2025

It was because he was downright poleaxed by all the events that happened to him within one day – hell, his throat still hurt from that lunatic, backassed twaddle fuck’s attempt to make him deep throat her strap-on! – that Phoenix allowed himself to be hauled back up to his feet by a pair of arms belonging to an overly familiar person, one the ex-lawyer undoubtedly couldn’t forget if his life had depended on it, even though he desperately wished he could!

Standing before him was the all-too recognizable, husky figure of a man whom the hobo hadn’t seen in ages, but still looked exactly the same as when the poker champ had seen him last. Enormous muscular arms, a mop of short, tightly coiffed honey-colored curls, rosy pink cheeks, and a small mustache that looked like a piece of elbow macaroni on each side of his upper lip. He was dressed in a baby pink sleeveless tank and pants, and in his mouth held his trademark red rose, as was tradition!

It was the former owner of Trés Bien, aka the worst, overpriced haute cuisine French restaurant he’d ever had the misfortune of dining at.

In other words… the ever flamboyant but hardly fabulous, walking pink pastry pouf, Mr. Jean Armstrong, himself!

“You already ‘ave your Prince Charmant, you depraved fille facile!” Armstrong’s phony French accent only further increased in intensity and volume as he disapprovingly waved his finger at the indignant-looking bartender. “Alors, let someone else ‘ave a chance at zis délicieux, bel homme! Not everyone has been so chanceux as to find l’amour vrai as you!”

“Why don’t you mind your own damn business you meddling creampuff?” Jackie snapped, looking sulky at the interference. “This doesn’t concern you!”

“Ce qui est faux!” Armstrong crossed his arms across his wide chest and treated the blonde to a withering stare. “Perseverance eez most admirable in all zee suitors, however when being outright rejected, a girl must also know ‘ow to accept a loss gracefully and when to throw in zee towel!”

“Not at all said like a drunk, jealous bitch!” Jackie retorted cattily.

“I’m not drunk!”

“Yet I see that you’re unable to refute the rest of the allegation!”

“Excusez-moi? Bitch, please!” Armstrong waved his hand airily in response, completely unaffected by the onslaught. “Je suis so fucking fabulous I pee zee glitter, shit zee cupcakes and fart out zee rainbows! Aussi, half zee men in zis bar, z’ey can vouch zis est très vrai, firsthand!”

“Um, hello?” Phoenix interjected awkwardly, raising his hand like a schoolboy in a classroom. “I hate to interrupt this catfight in the works, but can I say something?”

“Mais bien sûr!” Armstrong turned twinkling eyes towards him then. “You ‘ad me at hello…” His voice trailed off as he saw that Phoenix was no longer looking at him but the bartender and his lower lip protruded into a pout. “Ah, never mind, you weren’t talking to me…”

The pianist ignored the former witness and turned to face Jackie.

“Er, thanks for the drinks. Larry said to put them on his tab. Um, I’ve had a lot to drink tonight and I’m probably going to vomit sometime within the next 20 minutes, so I’m just going to terminate this conversation… right about now!”

With those as his final exit words, Phoenix Wright spun around on his heel then, and hauled it out of there at such high-speed, he practically left skid marks in his wake!

The pianist raced up the stairs outside the exit door, and was halfway up the flight of stairs before he halted in confusion, not understanding how someone speeding as fast as he’d been suddenly no longer seemed to be moving whatsoever! It took another moment before he realized that it was because he was wholly stationary, and still had yet another whole flight to climb before he could claim freedom from this overly testosterone-soaked hellhole!

He was still mulling over his questionable immobile state when Armstrong found him. The stocky man smiled delightedly and clapped his hands with glee at the sight of him.

“What eez zis? I thought you were gone w’iz zee wind! I am so ‘appy to see z’at you’re still z’ere, ‘andsome lawyer man!”

“Er, yes, so I am…” Phoenix embarrassedly scratched the back of his head and felt himself turning bright red as he realized his error. “Fewer indicators of sobriety are as effective as when you realize the escalator you have been riding for the past half-minute is actually a stairway.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Also for the record, in case you missed the memo, I haven’t been a lawyer for the last six years.”

“I was in prison until only a few months ago, if you don’t recall,” the phony Frenchman reminded him, smiling ruefully. “I was doing time for being a naughty girl, aiding and abetting that burnished carrot look-alike of yours, remember?”

“Right…” The spiky-haired man felt his blush deepening. “Um, sorry, it utterly slipped my mind. It doesn’t matter what my occupation is, it looks like I’m always meant to be falling or tripping over something, whether it’s my own feet or my tongue…”

“Think nothing of it, mon beau ami,” Armstrong dismissed cheerfully. “For what it’s worth, you are too hard on yourself. People falling will always be funny. Unless it’s in l’amour.”

Phoenix leaned back against the railing, relief flooding his senses for not being taken to task over his insensitivity of the other man’s plight, as well as complete bewilderment how in a gay bar chock full of trannies and drag queens, the overly effeminate erstwhile chef appeared to be the most straightlaced one of the bunch!

Hell, compared to the other tavern patrons this guy’s nothing more than a fart in a hurricane! 

“C’est dommage, it has been way too long since we last spoke, non?” Armstrong ventured then, coming up behind Phoenix on the stairs and giving him a gentle nudge in the back to prod him upward. “My new café L’huître Bleue has its grand opening tomorrow and is just around the block. How would you like to come by and be the first to try la dish suprême! It eez mon pièce de résistance, mon divine, ambrosial Croquembouche, and you can sample it before eez unleashed to the general public!”

“I don’t know…” Phoenix began doubtfully, not all interested in anything had to do with Armstrong and the word bouche, which was French for mouth!

Ugh!

He shuddered at the mere thought.

“Why zee hesitation, ‘andsome?”

Phoenix struggled to find a way to not too cruelly convey that he was as wary as any man who’d just been asked to eat the questionable fare at yet another French eatery, run by the same man who was infamous for serving unpalatable cuisine in his Hell’s Kitchen! It also didn’t help that said Kitchen Nightmare had given his establishment that heavily inappropriate name which, in English, translated into The Blue Oyster!

“It’s, um, really nice of you to make the offer, but no offense…I had gut rot for days after dining just the one time at your last restaurant!”

“Monsieur, for zee record, I was revered for my cooking skills in prison, where I was part of the kitchen staff! I serviced – er, I mean, served, tee hee! – the inmates daily,” Armstrong informed him haughtily. “They all simply raved over my soufflé puffs! However, given your past unpleasant encounter w’iz my culinary skills, I understand your hesitation. Alors, can I not entice you then, with a glass of imported French wine and some conversation chez moi?”

Phoenix hesitated for a brief moment, then shrugged. He might’ve promised Trucy he wouldn’t drink anymore, but tonight had been a catastrophic disaster beyond measure!  Also, he was admittedly still a sucker for the occasional decent wine, despite kicking the wino habit some time ago. Moreover, the stuff from France undoubtedly wouldn’t be the cheap boxed crap, so why the hell not? He figured that he’d suffered enough that night, so he deserved a good drink. Besides, what harm could one glass do? The poker champ was already drunk, yet the other man was behaving himself and didn’t seem to be desperately eager to take advantage of his old acquaintance in his intoxicated state!

The former Turnabout King had never been homophobic or presumptuous.  After all, he reasoned, just because Armstrong was gay, it didn’t mean he didn’t have scruples, and surely he knew Phoenix didn’t swing that way! Ergo, he figured that he wasn’t in any sort of danger by visiting for a  short period. Besides, the man had gallantly come to his rescue back at Zippers, so he figured this was the least he could do to show his appreciation for the chef’s impromptu defense against the ruthlessly persistent Jackie!

“Fine, you twisted my arm,” he grinned. “Besides, it’s just around the corner like you said, which means it’s walking distance, and I’ve got to go past that way to get home, anyway.”

L’huître Bleue – January 28, 2025

L’huître Bleue looked like more of an English tea place than a French café. Phoenix couldn’t help but note that Miles Edgeworth, tea connoisseur extraordinaire, would’ve been right at home in such a faux chic atmosphere. It was completely different from Trés Bien, which had had a garishly pink, frilly, and overly fussy décor.

Inside this new place, the interior of the café was warm and cheery, with bright lights and colorful walls. Armstrong excitedly showed the former attorney the terracotta, rustic tiled floor, slow-turning ceiling fans, wall to wall large windows, and Monet prints framed on the walls. He seemed especially proud of the finishing touches,  provided by the small crystal vases of yellow carnation flowers on each glass top, round table, which mostly just seated two people designed to “enhance and encourage intimate conversation.” At the glass-fronted counter was an array of cream cakes and pastries, all with English-sounding names, and of course, there were the obligatory scones.

“To add a touch of zee class, all zee desserts will be served w’iz genuine sterling silverware and fine bone china! Even zee tea will be served w’iz real white china pots,” the phony Frenchman enthused, his upper torso so shaking in his slightly disturbing, yet customary fashion. “I just know it will be magnifique!”

“That sounds nice,” Phoenix replied noncommittally, taking a long, leisurely sip from his wineglass – what was it called again? Some snooty French name the chef had said… Chateau Libido or something.

Almost immediately, every time his glass drained, almost like a never-ending, magic pot of porridge, Armstrong swiftly refilled it, but Phoenix barely noticed, nor minded. The imported stuff was quite good. Also, it helped ease some of the pain from landing on his back when he had rocketed off his stool trying to escape Jackie! He uncomfortably shifted his back and shoulder muscles and took a larger gulp, frowning slightly at the uncomfortable sensation.

The action did not go unnoticed by Armstrong, who clucked his tongue sympathetically as he dished out a portion of his promised Croquembouche, which he had placed on the table next to theirs. The prided desert truly was a marvel to behold. It was a tower composed of profiteroles, piled into a cone and bound with spun sugar, artfully decorated with sugared almonds, chocolate, and edible flowers, then covered in macarons and ganache.

“Poor you! You were z’e nervous wreck back at the bar because of that pouffiasse! Zat was a très nasty tumble you took back at Zippers, n’est-ce pas?”

“I wasn’t really thinking about where I was going,” the ex-blue attorney admitted, shirking out of his suit jacket and rotating his sore shoulders some more. “I just knew I had to get away from there!”

“Zat Jackie has no shame whatsoever!” Armstrong sniffed disdainfully. “Also, he eez too wishy-washy w’iz his sexuality to be taken seriously! He flip-flops like a trout out of zee water!”

“Whatever do you mean?” Phoenix was confused by the loftiness and the other man’s tone.

“How can how can he call himself a true homosexual when he was still willing to ‘ave a woman …” He spoke the word as though it were blasphemy. “Partake in zee group festivities w’iz you and his paramour? No self-respecting gay man would be willing to settle for a pink taco even though it may have appeased his intended ‘andsome conquest!” The mustache man gave a dramatic shiver of disgust. “Just say non to that! Zee female Netherlands… zey look like the fridge scene in Ghostbusters!”

“Er, I suppose that’s one way to put it if lady parts aren’t your thing. As for Jacob or Jackie or whatever, yeah well, I guess they’ll just take anything that moves,” Phoenix shrugged again. “Although it’s not like Jackie the first, ah, non-born female I’ve encountered who would be willing to stick it in any hole, regardless of what sexual orientation the person attached to it was! Nobody is safe around people like that! It’s such a relief that you’re just… normal, good, old-fashioned, gay!”

He realized how odd that sounded and cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You are gay, right?”

It isn’t that idiotic or inappropriate of a question, I hope, what with the metrosexual craze nowadays… It’s kind of hard to tell?! Plus, there is also the fact that historically, this guy here was no stranger to blatantly flirting with everything and anything…basically a less attractive, more annoying, and equally flamboyant version of Klavier!

“I exclusively love zee hommes…” Armstrong confirmed, a knowing glint in his eye now, which unfortunately Phoenix was too busy finishing off his new glass of wine to take note of.

“Um, that’s good for you, I guess?” He wasn’t sure what else to say to that.

“It distresses moi to no end seeing you in such pain, Monsieur,” Armstrong cooed, sounding as though he were behind him now. Before Phoenix knew what was going on, he suddenly felt strong steady fingers pressing into the stiff muscles of his shoulder blades.

“Hey – what the?!”

“Relax, trust me, mon ami,” the mustached man murmured, his fingers sliding down the front of the unsuspecting pianist’s chest and expertly unbuttoning his dress shirt before Phoenix knew it was going on! He felt something warm and liquid on the bare skin of his back, and recognized the familiar scent of the chef’s pungent massage oils from back in the days of yore!

“I can feel zee tension you ‘ave! Allow me to ease you… Z’ere. Oh, oui, oui! Z’at feels good, non? Oh là là, what strong, firm, hard muscles you have! I can tell you’ve been working out over the years.  If I told you what a beautiful body you have… Would you hold it against me?”  

“Jumping vehicular homicide – no!” Phoenix felt his body tense up even more, despite the expert ministrations of Armstrong’s therapeutic hands. “Ah, I’m starting to feel a little bit uncomfortable here…”

He spun around in his seat and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

“Holy shit waffles! When did you take off your shirt?!”

“I did not want to get zee aromatherapy oil all over mes vêtements,” Armstrong batted his eyelashes coquettishly as he clenched his ever-present rose stem between his teeth, in a manner which he undoubtedly thought was alluring!

“But why  in name of Satan’s jockstrap did you also take off your pants?!” Phoenix felt himself beginning to sweatdrop. He wasn’t quite sure which was the worse case of eyeball rape: Jackie’s black lacy thong, which had barely covered his bits, or Armstrong, in his Barbie pink banana hammock Speedos! While they mercifully gave his junk more coverage than the bartender, they still left absolutely nothing to the imagination!

“Even when zey are nearly popping out of your skull, you ‘ave such beautiful, yeux bleus intenses, ‘andsome.” Armstrong began rubbing his index fingers in little circles around his nipples, making the recently ingested wine in the bindlestiff’s gullet nearly come up and take a bow! “Do you not like all zat you see?” 

“I think there’s been a grotesque mistake – although I don’t know at this point if it was more on your part or mine for agreeing to be here!” Phoenix’s panicked, clumsy fingers hastily re-buttoned his shirt. “I appreciate the wine and all but that’s all I came here for! I didn’t turn down Jacob because he’s pan-sexual or a tranny or because he’s the current Sugar Tush of my recently ex-best friend! I shot him down because I am an avid fan of lady parts – exclusively! I absolutely, positively don’t swing that way!”

Moreover, even if I were gay I’d still like to think that I could do better than you!

The pianist’s chest was heaving as his indignant eyes raked contemptuously over the nearly naked pile of fleshy jiggle. He was beyond furious with himself for getting so drunk that he had overly relaxed his guard, and then foolishly believed this hard-up cream puff hadn’t had ulterior motives this entire time!

“However, I’d also like to make one more thing irrefutably clear!” Phoenix was so incensed and filled with self-pity for his poor eyes at that moment that he couldn’t even bother trying to be nice anymore! “Even if I ever decided to play for the other team – I’m sorry, but there’s no nice way to say this, Jean –there’s not enough wine on the goddamn planet!”

Armstrong’s lip protruded slightly, but the poker champ remained unmoved. 

Hey, I could’ve been even meaner! I ought to have instead told him: “It’s not you; it’s your facial hair. And your shirt. And your terrible phony French accent and your butchering of the romantic language! And your personality!”  

“Perhaps I could pour you something stronger then?” Armstrong offered silkily, completely undaunted, in what he obviously thought was a sexy tone. “Mon Dieu, those eyes! I ‘ave la shivers! Zey blaze w’iz zee fury of icy flames and zey pierce my heart like cupid’s arrow, Monsieur Wright! S’il vous plaît, take me now and be my Monsieur Droite!”

Normally, Phoenix would have smiled at the semi-amusing bon mot of his last name, had he not been so afraid of getting strong-armed by Armstrong if he did anything even marginal in encouraging the overly persistent man!

Un-be-fucking-lievable! The enraged ex-defense attorney turned man candy thought with total disbelief.  I cannot believe the day has come that I have found a moment when I completely despise the use of a pun – and especially the ever-present one that exists in my very name! However, lo and behold, whoomp, there it is!

He jumped out of his chair and turned to grab his suit jacket, which had been hung over the back, and was about to storm out the door when the sound of Armstrong’s voice stopped him cold.

“Monsieur Former Lawyer who eez still sexy enough to debrief moi, regardless!” Armstrong tittered girlishly. “Are you absolument positif  zat you don’t want to get w’iz zis?”

Phoenix had no idea why he turned around – he honestly didn’t. The moment he did, he wished on all that was holy that he hadn’t, as he wasn’t sure his brain would ever recover from the vision that greeted him.

Draped over one of the tables, adjacent to the one the unsuspecting hobo had been occupying, beside the towering dessert, was a site even more mondo disturbia than getting flashed by Jacob! Poised in a harrowing ‘paint me like one of your French girls’ simulated pose, was the now oiled and glistening Jean Armstrong, still in only his Twinkie-Pinky underwear, with a rose clenched between his teeth to finish the very non-stimulating image that the pianist knew would forever be emblazoned into his horrified mind!

The anterior legist literally felt his balls jumping back up into his body!

What in the blueberry muffin fuck is this shit??! Evidently, I’m still being punished for unwittingly flashing my daughter and her two minor-aged friends last year! Wait… Is that the sound of wood bending?  

It appeared that the good Lord at long last had decided to give his Fortune’s Fool ass a break, as it were!

“Jesus Christ on a Tramp Stamp!”

“Sacré bleu!”  

There was a horrendous, earsplitting screech in the next instant, followed by a flurry of rose petals as the poor abused table beneath Armstrong chose that exact second to bite the dust beneath the hefty chef’s weight. The now whimpering man created his own dust cloud in the direction of the door. He looked up tearily at the thunderstruck blue-suited man, and his jowls began to quiver as his face crumpled. Clutching his beloved croquembouche against his chest as though it were a sacred monument, the sobbing and disgraced wannabe seductress glared at Phoenix over the top of the profiterole mountain.

“It’s too late!” Armstrong let out an ear-splitting that wail of humiliation as he proceeded to dive headfirst into the desert using just his teeth, and glowered at Phoenix with watery eyes over a mouthful of creamy, sugary goodness. “You can’t have any, you meanie!”

The last nightmarish image Phoenix Wright had as he bolted out of there faster than a speeding bullet, for once uncaring of another’s plight, was of the wailing, weeping and nearly undressed Jean Armstrong collapsed on the floor, wearing white dessert cream smeared all around his mouth like a rabid dog! The distant sound of screaming French obscenities rang in his ears as the former lawyer man ran like the dickens!

It was amazing what a little terror-fueled adrenaline could do! The spiky-haired man in blue vaguely resembled Sonic the Hedgehog as he raced on, appearing to be nothing more than a very strong gust of blue wind as his brain screamed: I don’t care if this is the world’s most ironic déjà from hell! Fuck this shit! I need someone with a vagina, and I need them NOW!

He had easily gone a good kilometer away from the restaurant before he finally slowed down to a brisk jog, and then finally began walking at a normal pace.

Phoenix ambled down the street, utterly devastated by everything that had happened He was dimly aware he was still in his old blue suit and didn’t even have his identity-concealing beanie, but he didn’t care. Sighing desolately at his twisted fate – if all this wasn’t proof that God had a warped sense of humor, he didn’t know what was! –he strolled on the street, hunched forward with his hands in his pockets.

It was because his eyes were also downcast. After all, his head was hanging lower than the rent on a burning building that he didn’t even notice the site of a familiar individual with large frizzy orange had full of cotton candy hair, similar to Disco Stu from The Simpsons until he’d almost run into her.

“I-I declare! What in tarnation!?” She gasped in fright, more at the burning expression on his face than from the shock of him nearly plowing over her like a tractor!

Pointing at the Southern She-Devil journalist, Lotta Hart, who had her hands in the air like she was under arrest, the still drunken Phoenix asked, possibly, the most outrageously impertinent question that a man could ever ask a woman!

“You … are a cis-gender born and bred member of the female persuasion, yes?”

Wide-eyed, the befuddled woman glanced between the little skid-marks of ice blue flames and the very hot ex-lawyer from her past who had materialized from the very air.

“Y-yes.”

“Born with exclusively indoor plumbing?”

“Darn tootin’ I was!”

“Still have it intact?”

“Why ya askin’, stud? You interested in giving this a ride?”

“Oh, hell yeah!”

“Good enough for me!”