From a tower window in Nottingham Castle, two men stared down into the moonlit courtyard. Nottingham, in its nuclear twin hulks, from regal to fat man’s stance a mansion to spread, no to horde, a place of distasteful hording, for there are those with plenty of gold coin, but very little in the way of taste and this is how at least one of these men stood.
Kev thought immediately of the log cabin mansion built on one of the richest beach approaches, a bluff above Haystack Rock, on the sand, where the counselor likes to use hypnosis brings you into her basement, daylight of course (in a cabin!) to bring you back first through dangling watch and countbacks, and then have you pick up a marker and draw all of your horrors on large newsprint attached to an upright easel, the kind nursery school teachers love. He'd only gone once for feeling a child too old in some last world to sit comfortably down to this puritan, in her swirl of new world mumbo jumbo! His now ex, Mindy, had told him the woman had no taste, but he wasn't sure why?
These men, one in tweed and smart shoes with a bit of point and clearly top grain leather stood next to this bulging-at-the-waist American in his white tennis shoes. His gut and floppy arms stuffed into Under Armour gear on top too, all paired with an old flannel he’d bought at a strange sale his wife had made him stop at in rural Scotland the day before. The American, Kev, short for Kevin, as he’d said he wanted to be called, looked up to this Brit though he’d forgotten his name even though the guy must have told him ten times! He liked all of his style and knowing, but also felt outside of all of his pomp and air, that he was superior in his way with guns--knew with a confidence only the offspring of throw-away rogue’s have, thought for sure he’d bag the first fox next morning’s hunt.
Next morning, they were roused by early knocks on their doors. The American had had some crazy dream in which a Queen, some royal who probably once slept in this cold and echoing bedroom had come to him with her very tiny lips, her large English calves and ears, pulled up her petty coats and winked, but when he’d reached in the dream she turned suddenly into a glowing, red-eyed wolf and had tried to bite his neck. He’d struggled several seconds in the in-between trying to pry her snarling teeth and mouth open before shooting bolt upright and having the feeling the room was colder and someone was watching him. Eventually, he had managed to fall back into a blissful sleep and groaned at it already being time.
This was not a fox hunt of old, but a new pilot for HBO. Something like Fantasy Island, where there were several beautiful and multi-talented women, of course there were none overweight, or sore of eye, who ran around giggling and hoping to be the next bride. The girls had auditioned from all over the world and there’d be some kind of showdown after the men had picked their top two.
Isaac, their host led them both to breakfast, went over what was expected, what not to say on camera and details such as what they could and couldn’t say to the women and how there is usually a picnic with dancing and singing at the beginning of each show.
So, this was the new teaser that producers were sure would bring in top dollar through viewership on both sides of the pond. Who would prove most manly, most capable, most debonair? Harry, Isaac addressed the Brit, and Kev immediately made a mental note, tried to do one of those hinge remembrance tricks, Harry is quite scary and a fairy! he thought as he sized up his white shorts and navy sweater wondering how he thought he’d sit without getting shit on his ass somewhere on the grasses to chat one up, as he’d heard him say earlier.
Eyebrow raised, Harry gave a different air this morning, no longer a pal, but in competition with this poor bloke who thought he had any chance again, in jeans and white tennis shoes and trucker belt and sunglasses!?
The first round of choosing began, and this one they gave to the girls, a funny show to begin where the women turned on their favorite songs and made the men dance in front of the entire group. A woman named June Magnolia, no telling if that was her real name, and Kev heard some kind of accent, but couldn’t quite place her, the states, or Canada she had that slow way of rolling words into one another. A southern bell with a northern tongue?
Isaac announces that women can choose to dance with the men if they want to and June wasn’t shy, no sooner had the suggestion left his mouth and she’d already managed to jump onto the platform built haphazard in the yard and turned to grind her well-developed butt in his lap. He, embarrassed, chose to sing along to boys, (he’d let his niece play it in his car because his sister wouldn’t allow it), rather than shake-his-booty after the grind pushed him off balance, but his voice scratched like a toucan and she said her ear hurt before leaping off stage and onto white shorts who nearly fell out of his chair.
This is a weekend three-prompt freewrite and the prompts are in italics. See 
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