About the only thing Moulin Rouge doesn't have in it is werewolf smut which is in my opinion an oversight.
Several hours after detaching its trailer, the red Kenworth was parked at the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, Saskatchewan.
Maeve sat on a folding camp chair behind the cab, holding her tablet. "Sentry, is Peter busy? I don't know what time it is there."
"It's 9:35 in London,” the virtual intelligence replied. “One moment, I’ll check.”
“Maeve! Good morning,” Peter said brightly from her tablet screen. “How are you?”
“We’re fine, hi! Sorry if I’m bothering you.”
“Not at all,” he replied, leaning an elbow on his desk. “I welcome any opportunity to avoid one of the tedious meetings that plague me. What can I do for you? Has Veronica gotten into trouble?”
“No more than usual. We met a real werewolf!” Maeve said, then quickly changed the subject. “Anything new from the System?”
“No, not so far—at least, nothing I can detect, which is probably more worrisome,” the Englishman admitted. “I would like to circle back to the actual werewolf, please.”
“She’s nice, I like her,” Maeve said, tilting an ear to the sounds emanating from the sleeper cab. “Veronica is, um… liking her as we speak. Uh, sorry if that’s…”
“I appreciate your attempt to spare my feelings, love,” Peter interrupted smoothly, leaning back in his chair, “but you know my relationship with Veronica is nowhere near monogamous. Or romantic. Particularly not on her eminently unfettered end.”
“But that makes me sad!” Maeve protested.
“Don’t be. I’m sending you a movie about the folly of trying to own the unownable. It’s called Moulin Rouge. You’re going to love it.”
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