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The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown

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The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown Empty The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown

Post by Aubrey Pomme Bouffónt Tue Aug 31, 2021 10:21 pm

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown Abby


High above the city, on a tall building, upon a flat roof top stood the lean figure of the pensive boy. He was unseen by all. A night like this was rare, to undergo hunger as he did at present and it stressed the tailor so much that he had to retreat into that strange, dark place called sadness. He was optimistic always, raised in a world so full of magic, where love was such a prevalent force and the impossible could be possible. On his own he learned that gold moved mountains, not dreams or ambition, and no matter how well he planned things out there would always be a variable in the equation of life.

There were times he considered going back to the circus a failed fashionista, but a beloved one nevertheless with colorful stories to share with his folks. They would support him, love him unconditionally as they always had, and it would be a song and a dance forever and all time. He would still live on his own and gain endless stability traveling with a bountiful troupe; there was no shame in the profession for he thought it was the highest honor to be called a clown— a title he believed to be above all kings and queens.

He just wanted something he could call his own, and not have to go on a borrowed legacy.

But Aubrey looked so defeated that he continued to breathe through his nose and felt his eyes burn with that rare feeling of personal dissatisfaction, and it poured out of his eyes, it bit furiously at his now very pink nose.

“If you have no voice: scream. If you have no legs: run. If you have no hope: invent,” said the young man, clinging to a nonsensical line to get him through his troubles as he furiously wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. So he picked out a flimsy parasol, the type you would typically find on a tightrope walker, from the great nothing and flew away with it in his hand over the roofs of the town. The enchanted parasol was the palest shade of pink, bordering on sheer ivory, and while it did glide; it would not stay in the air for very long and he would be careful to keep his eyes peeled for a good spot to land.

The fiery-haired Mary Poppins, a name that would never grace Vyldermire and would remain unknown to the adrenaline junkie, was startled as a strong gust of wind pushed him in a direction that wasn’t home. The unexpected detour might have annoyed him here and there, but the adventurous soul was also very welcoming of the surprise—- so he hardly resisted the change. He would roll with it, for he needed a distraction from his dreary mood.

“There are no accidents,” he chirped, his sensitive blues tearing up from a breeze passing through him, not necessarily because he was growing emotional over his vycon-worthy line or anything, and he sniffled with some finality, “I am needed elsewhere. Forget that I would rather like to go home, dream about a meal, and cry forever! Look at me and my first world problems; I can't even look at myself. The shame, the embarrassment, the misery~!”

When the enchanted item in his hand started showing the signs of early descent he pierced through the polluted smog and narrowly dodged plummeting into concentrated trash. He found himself in a narrow alleyway that smelled of hot garbage and fresh urine.  His umbrella vanished. He wished his nose had gone with it too, but to the rescue came his emergency rose oil that he plucked from the pocket of his undershirt. He kept it in a very small vile as he seemed to smear his neck with the drops. He stopped rubbing the stuff onto his skin the instant he heard, not far from where he stood, the voice of a man that was much older than himself, “You askin’ me what I think of that strawberry shortcake? He ain’t nothin’ too intimidatin’. I can take him out in two. Two, I says!”

Pomme, still watching the two questionable men, reclaimed his hiding spot behind the dumpster and used the darkness to his advantage as he pitied their target of the night. He witnessed this and thought back to his earlier concerns with a fresh new outlook; his financial struggles weren’t so bad after all because —

He had fallen even deeper into shit.

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Aubrey Pomme Bouffónt
Aubrey Pomme Bouffónt

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The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown Empty Re: The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown

Post by wes Fri Sep 03, 2021 4:46 am

all these little lies
and most of them are mine
my words are coated in honey and wine
He looked around the throng of strangers, outlined in red neon from the sign of some Otherwordly lounge, the faces breezing by him without as much as a glance in his direction. The city never stopped moving. Normally, he wouldn’t either. But the wind nipped at his nose and the night was particular and he wanted nothing more than to go home and rest his bantam figure. Rivengate had always been exhausting. The mob boss rarely frequented it. There was something within its familiar cement palaces and grandiose fixtures that uncovered a veritable heaviness to his chest. Nostalgia, Wes had figured long, long ago — and not the good the kind, either.

“Shit, lookit that!” said one of the two bodyguards looming behind him, body glowing in the pulsing, buzzing neon. They’d been milling around near the entrance to some dank alley, the two bodyguards bantering away while Wes resigned himself to his thoughts. The two men started, for what made the night particular had just debuted. With a few hardy honks, an old timey convertible pulled up the side of the street, dark chassis reflecting the myriad city lights. “Awe, she a ‘beaut. Just lookit ‘er, boss!” the man exclaimed once more, before he and his buddy ambled off to admire the ebony finish with child-like glee.

“Well, yeah, just who do you think picked it…?” the boss mumbled after them, grey suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He’d been left behind, much to his growing chagrin, the usual set of fighting words nowhere to be found in the face of a few drinks. He’d tried to drown his memories in bourbon earlier that evening, but the bastards had learned how to swim.

Maybe it’d been this growing intoxication which kept him from reacting, from noticing just how close he had come to the open alley, when the back of his shirt collar had been violently tugged. Then, darkness swallowed him up.

Now, manhandling came and went. There were times were things tended to go more south than they did north in his line of business. But it was when said manhandling went unwarranted that it really brought out a whole slew of questions. The first and most prominent one being: ‘Who the hell did I piss off this time?’

His body collided with trash bins, the yellow haze of garbage fumes stirring in the stagnant air. The black veil used to blind him had been lifted, cloth thrown to the side in a crumpled heap, revealing a head of fiery hair and blue eyes that blinked around at their surroundings. Just how far he’d been dragged into the urine-drenched corridors, he wasn’t sure. “See? Told ya he ain’t nothin’ special,” came the mocking voice of an older, bald fellow. All around him stood several thugs, much larger than the boss, and dressed in a manner he couldn’t recognize — no suits nor familiar colors nor telling marks. Not the usual set of goons, it seemed. Weird. The bald thug spat at the ground near him, “So, I’m sure ya remember—”

“Nope. Can’t recall,” Wes interrupted, brows lifting and mouth curving into a smug expression. The thug had gone silent then, his jaw clenching in annoyance, and before another word could get in the polyester piece around the redhead’s shoulder flew and wrapped itself around the large man’s head like a bag. He pulled down on the fabric, knee connecting with his captor’s face, then swung the thug with a strength unlike his usual. In seconds the thug had toppled into a few of his lackeys, sending them stumbling back. He smiled. For as tired and annoyed and pensive as he’d been, a good fight could always lighten his mood… much more when drinks were involved. So it was safe to say: he had no chill.

The remaining few closed in and his gaze tightened. More punches and blows were exchanged, and he could’ve sworn he saw the glint of a knife somewhere as he weaved and bobbed attempting to not catch any hands. And he thought, bourbon be damned when a fist landed on his cheek.

Sometimes you just needed a good brawl.
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