whatta horrorshow!

For a fleeting moment, Frank was almost offended—and truly, it didn’t take much to accomplish such. But, before he could offer a comeback, the other revealed his words as a JEST. Good thing, too. At the compliment, he smiled; more of a smirk, really, and his hands trailed over his sparkling front as if to smooth its nonexistent wrinkles. “Thank you.” He hummed, a single palm now resting at his hip. “I do try. Contrary to popular belief, I CERTAINLY don’t wake up like this.”

    Luci’s smile is the crawling, smarmy grin of a cat and he walks forward, hooking his thumbs in the garters that clad Frank’s thighs. He pulls them back and then snaps them against his skin and walks around him, tail swaying with feline mirth.

“Oh really?” Luciano raised his eyebrow, watching the ripple of his drink from the small impact.

“What was your name again? I didn’t catch it.”

That’s funny..

Now that Ci thought about it, he didn’t remember ever telling this man his name.

    “It’s LUCI! I said that!”

     His aggression is voice is disproportionate with the grin he totes, no malice evident on his freckled face at all.

Kat’s eyes widened quickly, picking her hand up quickly, feeling all color quickly drain from her face. Her bad.

❝Uh– sorry. I didn’t– mean to.❞

    “Oh, it’s totally okay!” His voice is all tainted mirth--a beautiful brush infested with lice. Luci grabs her hands and presses his thumbs into the middle of her palms.

   Defeated, Remilia says nothing and instead clings to him tighter. She knew asking him was a mistake, but for now he is simply grateful that he hasn’t pushed her away. When he treats her like a stranger it drives her crazy. ❝Can you take me to bed…? I’m tired Luci.❞

   “I don’t know, why wouldn’t you need blood? You’re the devil, you tell me.”

They feel his foot prodding theirs and stamp on his toes in retaliation.

  “Art.” Said with all the loud, obnoxious confidence that you would expect from someone who hacks up old computers with a chainsaw, covers them in animal viscera, calls the resulting mess ‘god in the machine’, then sells it for 300 dollars. “So whatever you’re selling, the cost can’t be the use of my hands or some shit like that or I will literally kill myself right here in this store.”

    “People can make art sans-hands, baby,” he points out, holding his wounded foot in his hand. Fine, fine--no flirting on his part. And he thought he was being nice. He pulls his oxford off and tosses it on the table and goes at rubbing his toes with his thumbs.

“No, not a chef. I can’t cook, believe it or not. It either ends up under cooked or burnt to a crisp. Just not every one of my knives is used for killing!” The 50′s clad demon shrugs about to take another puff of the cigarette when it’s snatched from his pale fingers. He looks mildly annoyed.

“Oh yes, I am. But I’m not into knife play. I like knives, don’t get me wrong, but not like that. And torturing people is a thing I do yes. That’s one of my jobs.” He laughs. “Punishable by you? Well then go ahead, punish me then. I’ve been bad.” A giggle passes the blackened lips, a kind that would make most men uneasy.

He growls quietly at the poke, swatting away the tail and rearing his head back. “Don’t touch me.”

    Luci’s over-counted and yellow teeth light up on his face and his eyes go into joyful slits under the bunched up apples of his cheeks. He’s tempted to poke him again but before the demon completely damns himself--or loses his privilege to do the damning, he supposes--Luci has more to say.

     He sits back down, legs spread so Scorpion has a nice view of his crotch, clad in dirtied jeans, and he nurses his cigarette calmly. When he speaks, wisps of smoke curl out in tendrils from between his lips. “And who do you torture? For what purpose? Ain’t no reason to prolong sufferin’ unless you’re a real nasty person--can’t imagine anyone who’d get a kick out of hurtin’ people for a real long time or nothin’!”

✞ Deïanira didn’t quite understand what he wanted of her when he said the thing about bears, but she assumed he was right. She’d always wanted to tame the evil in HIM, to get HIS love and approval and anything good HE had to offer, and what did it get her? Nothing but pain and hurt, so she’d learned her lesson in that regard and left evil be evil, but far away from her.

She stiffened up when he took her hand, immediately assuming the worst but following him automatically, fight, flight or freeze, her brain freezed, her body moved by itself, and she went with him into that odd room full of stuffed animals, a paradise for any child, and her, too, it was a paradise for her and she loved the room with every fiber of her being.

»This looks great! I can’t believe you have so many stuffed animals! Do you collect them?« She was back to being bouncy and excited and loud, too loud, maybe, but she was just so happy that she couldn’t contain herself and she enjoyed this room so much and almost forgot about his company, wandering around the room and taking a good look at each of the stuffed animals, without touching them, of course, but still admiring them in all their worn-out beauty.

    It’s so easy to please the stupid. All these things are empty and caked with frosting and mean nothing. It’s why he only sells the vintage. The only thing that’s worth value in toys is the emotional connections that have been implicated behind them; only thing interesting about the fake is the real that created it. It’s why he’s so adamant about sharing the history of each toy--there’s always something dark in them.

     “Yeah, I collect them--it is a toystore, after all. A bit of a resale one, at that,” he picks an elephant off the shelf and hands it to her, its pink fur now bleached and pale peach and stiff with some tears or snot from the 1800s. What kind of pain implicated onto the owner does this cute little thing now carry? Oh, he wonders.

     (He knows, too.)

   ‘what are you – ?’ he couldn’t quite get it out before he’s already swaying, facial expression scrunched as his favorite boots are being stepped on. unamused might be the better word, yet he does not let go of the man’s hand and he simply sways along as if he had a choice. but, there might be the smallest smile forming. 

   ‘right, right — satan himself. dancing with the devil! what a lovely cliche that is.’ should be noted that nadav doesn’t believe them. not a chance in hell…no pun intended. ‘raid the kitchen, I don’t know.’ his free hand waves towards the cabinets, refrigerator, so on. ‘but, wait,’ now he comes to a complete stop, no more swaying, ‘are you fucking with me?’

    People now have forgotten what it’s like to take something that’s right in front of your face and digest it. Everything must be hidden and laced with trickery and lined behind fancy implications. But it’s 2017, and things slap you right in the face now--no bullshit, no wordplay. Bland, straight-up, honesty. The devil is here and he admits it. He wears no guise of seduction.

     And people still go to it because some primordial urge in them tells them to.

     He swings open the cabinets and retrieves a box of saltines, emptying it on the counter, crumbs and salt particles and all.

    “Got a bone to pick, sweetheart?”

    “But what’s the point of followin’ orders after all these years, all mindless ‘n’ in imitation of purpose--what world are you tryn’a advance to? Where are you tryn’a lead to? Or do you just do what you’re told?”

     He unwraps the skin of a lollipop wrapped and smashes it into a ball and then flicks it at his lowset eyebrows.