Reminds me-did ya look up what tits can be used for like I said to?I did-
Why did you have to remind me.
Christ, woman-you’re acting like I sent you to read your husband’s obituary or something.
I dunno. Some women just get off to havin’ people watch.
…Eugh.
Reminds me-did ya look up what tits can be used for like I said to?
You’re…the guy that goes to people, drags ‘em off to hell?
Shit, that’s not why you’re here, is it?
No, I’m not.
I take those who have reached the end of their time, and then a Reaper guides their soul to be judged. From that point it’s decided if the soul goes to Heaven or Hell.
I have no control over where you will end up.
And no, that is not why I’m here.
I…God, this has been a hell of a year for me..
So you’ve got a true form that’s less easy on the eyes?
There ya go. I remember when I was your age-it was easy to start feelin’ like just a number.No, my name is literally a serial number on a test tube. I’m an experiment. You have noticed the wings, right?
Ah, well. You know what I mean.
The rope always cut into his skin, and he always forgot to bandage his wrists before putting up a show. It didn’t bother him that much, really, but the boss (otherwise known as Daddy) reckoned the audience didn’t enjoy watching a wounded child perform on stage.Not that he was a child. He was far from it - almost legal, even. But his unfortunate height and complexion would usually lead people to think otherwise. As he would often work the bar, the regular customers already knew him and his true age and didn’t mind his young appearance all that much. He doubted they’d mind if he really was but a boy - all that mattered is that he could put on a show and serve them their hooch. Which… was proving to be a difficulty. Mr. Benson, the Cabaret’s bootlegger, wasn’t seen or heard of for the past two months or so. At first no one gave it any thought, as Mr. Benson would travel from afar to provide the Cabaret his fine liquor and would reappear every now and then with a new supply. But it’s been far too long since his last visit, and they were running thin. Mike felt bad for the man - he was friendly enough and would entertain Mike and his unusual beliefs (which not a lot of people were willing to put up with), and was now presumed to be either dead or imprisoned.
Mike hoped he was dead. If there was one thing he hated; it was cops.
He was tending to his wounded wrists when he heard someone call for him. He didn’t like being called anything other than Mike, especially not Fish Lips, Houdini, Kid and the such, but obviously it couldn’t have been directed towards anyone else present backstage.
He got up off the crate he was sitting on and wiped his hands on his oversized trousers before offering one for shaking. He would wander about the crowd on occasion and make idle conversation, but no one had approached him before. Especially not… well, he wouldn’t call her an ‘elderly’ woman, but she was distinctively older than he was. “Mike. I appreciate your kindness, ma’am. Glad you enjoyed the show.” He tried something of a smile, though it came out as more of an awkward twist of his lips.
She blinked, hesitating for a moment before reluctantly shaking the boy’s hand. Something about the way he’d wiped them on his pants told her they might be less than clean. Lucille could clearly be seen stripping off her glove and tossing it into her purse afterwards, despite her best efforts to do so discreetly. The woman took a mental note to have the maid scrub it clean as soon as she returned home before speaking.
“Pleased to meet you, sweet pea,” she greeted in return, “I’m Lucille. But you can call me Lucy if it suits you-everyone does.” She glanced down at the boy’s injured wrists, but said nothing. It’s wasn’t as if injuries on the job were uncommon. Especially in an industry like entertainment. “Used to work for a circus. Magician’s assistant. I have a pretty good eye for this sort of thing.”
“You know,” she began again, “In my days with the circus, we never would have let a little thing like you get to performing something this dangerous-especially not at your age!” She gave an amused little smile, “Times change, hm?”
It’s not like they don’t get paid for it! Yeesh.And that is even worse! Making a living from such a degrading act. *She’s just going to sit down and tsk in disapproval.*
I dunno. Some women just get off to havin’ people watch.
a-day-at-the-circus replied to your post: z-Though I’m guessing you’re into the historical…
Oh c’mon, I’m sure by now you’re a connoisseur of the wayward Victorian porno.I-
Why would I ever want to intentionally witness other people fornicating?! It is pointless, crude, and downright disgusting!
It’s not like they don’t get paid for it! Yeesh.
True form?
I forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I?
I’m Death and my true form is hardly ‘handsome.’
You’re…the guy that goes to people, drags ‘em off to hell?
Shit, that’s not why you’re here, is it?
She’d been idly exploring the city, Lucille Loomis, when she decided to see what the local theater had to offer. Being a former performer herself, it was somehow refreshing to sit back and be entertained without having to contribute to the show. Memories of her glittery green vest and top hat, as well as being the driving force behind many a disappearing act, were fresh on her mind. But she did not regret her switch fro magician’s assistant to devoted wife-or in this case, audience member.
The show, from what she gathered, was some sort of showcase. A freakshow, if she’d ever seen one. But what caught her attention among all the showmen that day was the escape artist. She couldn’t help but wonder what they were doing, hiring a boy so young to a job so dangerous, but Lucille said nothing. Rather, she felt the need to make comments on the boy’s appearance to the couple seated next to her, usually in the form of jokes about the boy’s height and plump mouth.
“Why is it that the ideal lips for women can only be found on a man?” she asked at one point.
But when all was said and done, she had to admit: the boy had talent. Years of moving from magician to magician had given her a keen eye for it. Once the lights as well as the applause following the show faded, she stood to make her way backstage to congratulate the boy on his performance. Moving through the crowd, she pushed her way backstage, eventually catching sight of him.
“You-Fish Lips!” she called out to him, “That was some damn fine performing out there!”
Oh, false modesty doesn’t look good on anyone, darling.
Neither does my true form, but that hardly matters.
True form?
