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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


TAKE ME TO WONDERLAND----



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

Post by Aubrey Pomme Bouffónt Wed Oct 06, 2021 2:35 am

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Mafioso & Clown Abby


TAKE ME TO WONDERLAND----



While Aubrey listened closely to the murmur of the alleyway goons, alternative outcomes came with different plans and none of them sage or wise for the hidden tailor to act on. He thought of moving quietly on all fours and creeping to a more inconspicuous spot, but before he could do anything remotely useful, there came a clatter of trash cans as he gagged inaudibly on the smell of putrid, contaminated articles that littered the ground like copious maggots. In the waste, the gagging Aubrey spied on the brutes alone and showed greater concern when he caught sight of an innocent bystander being totally and completely outnumbered by a string of burly-looking men.

Things were not looking well for the petite stranger tonight, or so Aubrey believed, and yet the odds did not stop him from fighting back. The ballsy gentleman swung the miscellaneous fabric over the head of his attacker and slammed his knee into the face of his captor without a second thought, and swung him like a bowling ball to an assortment of bowling pins.

Like dominoes they fell, though the ones that were still relatively unharmed ganged up on that brave, brave fellow like vultures picking at the scraps. This was quite unfair and Aubrey took it upon himself to do something about it. Not as quickly as he wanted to, but he would try. He liked to plan things, usually, but to hell with it all. Nothing ever went as planned and everything unexpected would always throw a wrench in the twirling cogs of life.

It is important to emphasize that while Aubrey did not throw a wrench, he did manage to toss something lighter, thinner, softer. A roll of colorful red fabric rolled deftly, quietly from his place of obscurity, past the scattered garbage and the dancing feet of angry men; so did another line of fabric— and then another — until it was far too noticeable to ignore that pooling about their feet were streaks of crimson silk lying harmlessly over their shoes and on the floor.

“What the hell?” one of them said,

As eyes followed the mystifying trails of fabric that led to the side of a really smelly dumpster, the seemingly innocuous aerial ribbons slithered their way around the legs and arms of at least one of the men and, almost violently, hoisted the unfortunate buffoon high into the air without so much as a warning and dropped that same person from a fairly terrifying height. Such a landing would break a bone or two at the very most, as he would not have anyone’s blood on his hands.

The ear-splitting collision of that great fall was rendered cheap by an unanticipated maelstrom of confetti that consumed the dark depths of the alleyway and flicked noisily at the walls and bodies of all involved in this pretty brawl.

It was a useless gimmick, really, but it gave Aubrey more than enough time to come out of the darkness and into the proverbial light. In a flash, the mysterious ally appeared beside the smaller male and he leaned in with a smile and a pleasant wink.

“You look like you’re in dire need of my help, sir! Well, aren’t you just the luckiest thing? I’ll have you know that I am in quite the mood today!” Pomme cooed, took him into his arms like a diminutive little kitten, and swung him out of the circle of doom. Before Pomme could fully register the poor victim of circumstance as the baker and Emi’s date, he left himself open for a punch in the stomach.

“Thank you for not punching me in the face,” he gasped, doubling over and narrowly missing a dagger to the neck. “Did you just try to stab me,” he wheezed boldly, “with that? I’d rather die a beautiful man than an ugly one. Why is death so painful? Oh, woe is meeee!”





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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 Tue Oct 12, 2021 8:01 am

all these little lies
and most of them are mine
my words are coated in honey and wine
He’d stepped around a fist, throwing his forearms over his face to fend off another assault. The attack, in its quickness, set him off balance and he stumbled back into the chest of one miserable thug that had snuck up on him. An arm snaked along his neck, but before his pipes could get the life squeezed out of them one odd thing caught his attention.

Through the shoddy, yellowish light of the alley rolled something red — then many red somethings after it. And before he knew it, they moved along the ground like serpents. One of the men voiced their surprise, bringing awareness to the pooling scarlet at their feet and halting the brawl momentarily. It’d been enough of a distraction for the chokehold around his neck to loosen, and he bit down on the thug’s arm without much thought. The scream that ensued was more than he expected and so Wes turned, only to see the thug being lifted by fabric and dropped onto the cement in a rather terrifying display of what could only be magic and... was that confetti!?

Before he could gawk anymore at the explosion of colorful little flecks, though, he gauged movement at his side. In a split second, he pulled back his arm with a clenched fist but held back before the action could go any farther. “W-what?” Wes softly stammered. Some of the tension in his body released, his shoulders lowering marginally at the unexpected presence. “Andrea…?” confusion laced the weakness of his voice. At that moment, the image of his brother had stood smiling beside him as if nothing had ever happened. A needle-point prickle —small and unassuming— stabbed at his chest. And if only for that moment, he realized how much he missed his younger brother's smile.

...Then, he was sent flying.

"FUCK!" Wes shouted.

The sentimentality receded in an instant.

Like a frazzled wide-eyed cat, he pawed wildly for something to grab hold of. Wes must've been a mess of flailing limbs before his knees and hands unceremoniously kissed the ground. Not the most flattering look: covered in confetti and slightly disheveled while on all fours. But getting caught off-guard twice hadn't been on his agenda for the day. It did, however, afford him some amount of clear-mindedness from the booze if getting punched hadn't done so already.

Still, that wasn't about to stop him from inflicting violence on the men that ganged up on him. So he sprung to action once more, grabbing the bent-over not-Andrea by the wrist and yanking him. The man spun and coiled into Wes's arm rather snuggly, like the startings of a dance, narrowly missing an incoming tackle. "Aubrey!?" he exclaimed, finally having taken a good look at the person who tossed him. "What're ya doin' here— Oh!" instantly he unfurled the colorful individual, sending him twirling away as a knife stabbed the air between the two redheads, only to snap him back in another whirling flourish when it was safe. "Kick ‘em!” he ordered right after, and in that same momentum buckled his knees and lifted the taller bloke by the waist with impressive strength, hoping that it’d be enough to push back or stumble any nearby guys, before settling him down.

Now that Wes had properly registered who exactly had come to his aid, he couldn't help the furrowing of his brows. His mind raced, manifesting a crooked, uneasy smile. Emi would kill him. This was her brother. Blue eyes flicked between the assailants and the new arrival with uncertainty. "Can you fight?" he asked, though the question was meant to be more of an 'are you okay?' than anything. "Ya took a pretty nasty jab there."

Another jerk to the side, another punch missed, and Aubrey would find himself somehow being dipped low to the ground. He was about to ask a question about the weirdo party magic, but suddenly sniffed instead, "And... and is that rose oil!?" an amused smile this time, contrasting the slight worry in his expression. "Good choice!" Although the mob boss was used to piss-drenched alleys and dank-smelling places, it didn't mean he had to smell like them. He'd dabbled in oils once in blue moon, but ultimately switched to cologne. Maybe this was a sign he should start using them again... or maybe the bourbon was still in his system.
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