YOUR FAUX HOLINESS.

                “that’s where you’re wrong, mister. im bold as hell!” crust of pizza is shoved in her mouth, but it doesn’t stop her from talking .. nothing does. “i ain’t scared of the world and its judgment. i only hide who i am from the law.” people like her get locked up with the key thrown away. people like her get poked and prodded with needles. the first signs of someone with supernatural powers, and that someone is a murderer? great representation. if there’s more people out there like her, it’s safer for them if she kept to the shadows.

                but of course, she isn’t thinking about them. she’s thinking i don’t care how i got these gifts, and im gonna use them how i please. nobody is gonna stop me. she’s likely to set something on fire while standing right behind a boy in blue.

                “i especially ain’t scared of strangers who i know ain’t gonna turn me in. now, you ain’t scared of me, are ya?” red sauce is wiped from the corner of her mouth, eerily resembles something else red and thick.

AND THUS THE PERSONALITY TAKES GRIP    ;       ---strangers  who  i  know  ain’t  gonna  turn  me  in,    she  says,  and  he,  is  no  run-of-the-mill  law-abider,  the  government  knows  not  of  the    underground  intelligence    that  takes  place  to  fix  what  the  state  has  more  often  than  not,     wronged,     global  tragedies  are  not  merely  swept  under  the  rug  for  the  kingsman,    they  are  fought    with     white-hot  knuckles     and  the     perseverance  of  a  rabid  dog,     to  them,  a  person  like  harry  does  not  exist    /    invisible  to  their  eyes  looking  down,  from  their  shared  ivory  tower.   but,  but,  this  phrasing  of  her  words,    catches  him  short.    now  he’s  interested.    what  exactly  has  this  ‘bold’  girl  done?    --    and  he  does  not  immediately  assume  the  worst,  perhaps  even  the  most  heinous  of  crimes  have  some  moral  behind  them.   he  stations  himself,    and  observes  her  manner     intently. 

“   and  why  would  that  be?    is  the  law  not  fond  of     you?     (  a  half-guffaw    -    they  wouldn’t  be  too  fond  of  me,  either.  )     let  me  guess,    shoplifting?    or,  is  it  more     drastic     than  that?   ”

he  daren’t  presume,  even  though  he  already  has    -    he’s  not  some  expensive  psychic  with    tarots  up  his  sleeve    -    but  a  droning  nagging  inside  his  head  told  him  she  was  much  more  a  threat  than  just  some  BACK  ALLEY  CROOK.     there  wasn’t  much  difference    --    he  was  an  agent  that  believed  in  the  greater  good,  and  sometimes  to  aim  towards  that,  to  save     the  majority,     the  objectively  bad  had  to  go    --    sacrifice  for  safety    /    the  only  difference  between  him  and  a  murderer  would  be    his  morality  and  his  suit.    but  even  then  some  murderers  believe  they’re  doing  good.     perhaps,  he  is  one  of  them. 

your  parents  were  old,  grainy  pictures  who’s  faces  were  torn  out    -    their  names  like  slurs    -    hardly  spoken  but,  when  time  came  to  say  them  you  voiced  them  with  disdain.   neighbors  lurked  in  shadows,  skulking  among  the  shade  of  wilting  trees  and  accompanying  dead  grass,  with  rabid  pets  that  would  aim  for  the  ankles,  you  never  knew  them,  not  really.   they  were  all  so  vague  that  they  would  blend  into  the  backdrop  of  smog,  dissipating  into  the  velvet  thick  grey. 

your  childhood  home  is  a  smudge  in  your  timeline,  the  pandora’s  box  of  memories,  you  can’t  recall  it  and  you  don’t  want  to. 

but,

the  town  calls    -    you  can’t  remember  its  name,  the  sign  is  forever  foreign  to  you    -    but  you  can  locate  it  without  directions,  without  the  need  to  ask. 

you  walk  through  it,  some  days,  and  forget  it  exists  merely  moments  later. 

the  streets  lead  nowhere,  and  the  windows  are  all  void  of  life,  pitch  black,  there  are  utterances  of  inhabitants,  but  anytime  you  draw  close  so  does  silence.   the  concrete  bites  at  the  soles  of  your  shoes  and  time  passes  quicker  there. 

SILENCE.  where there once was a mouth full of BACK - TALK and SARCASM,  there is now a lack of words (   and a hint of copper - flavored embarrassment  ).   pink lips shift to the side,   a childish visage flexing his features.   each word he speaks is presented as a wrist held to the elder,   and each word spoken back is a respective SLAP on his knuckles.   “   —   yeah,   yeah,   no need t’ get all hostile.   ‘m just try’na understand you better,   bruv.   —   ‘n besides,   j.b. was a cute pup.   everyone loved him.   MR.   PICKLES still smells like ASS.   “

SOMEONE  HAD  TO  TEACH  THE  LAD  TO  RESPECT  HIS  ELDERS  SOMETIME     ---        it  was  called  discipline,  a  tactic  not  unfamiliar  to  eggsy    in  training,    but  entirely  alien  to  him  when  it  came  to     his  attitude     ---    and  it  was  all,  sunshine  and  rainbows  until  he  dared  to  bring  up    harry’s  dearest  pickles    and  his  jaw  clenched,  and  almost   CRACKED   with     the  pressure  of  his  scowl    ;     a  certain  line  has  been  crossed  now,  one  that  advisedly  shouldn’t  be  crossed  with  galahad  sr.    INSULTING  ONES  PET.    although,  he  did  commit  to  the  idea  first.          

                “ i think the world should see us for what we are. “

     a slight frown decorates her soft features momentarily; it wasn’t often someone could speak so well in sign language, so for a second she’s taken aback. but, her hands lower and she shunts her cart along a little, shaking her head ‘ i just wanted to know where all the copies of war and peace were disappearing to. ’ a shrug, lifting a few books onto the appropriate shelf. her shoulders were still tense, rubbed the wrong way from the woman’sslow speech. the books are set back on the cart and she huffs, ‘ she knows i can lip - read. i have told her that speaking so slow makes it hard for me to understand, but she continues to speak so slow. ‘ an eye roll, a huff, before palms re held up apologetically, getting away from herself. people could rarely understand her sign, so now she was getting carried away,‘ sorry. ‘

SOMEONE  APPRECIATES  THE  CLASSICS.       harry  could’ve  sworn  he’d  seen  a  copy  or  two  down  a  few  sections,  historical  novels  intertwined  with  drama  and  period  romance    wasn’t    what  he  would’ve  assumed     she  would  be  searching  for     -    but  then  he  recalls  eggsy’s  odd  liking  of    my  fair  lady    despite  being     A  HARD  LONDON  LAD     and  his  mind  is  reassured  that  normalcy  is  a     vacant  concept     and  that  it  is,  frankly,  a  term  that  equates  to...    well,     nothing  but  stereotypes.     either  way  he was impressed,  it  was  quite  the  hefty  read.   

‘ i’m  guessing  you’re  aware  that  it’s  a  very  long  and  difficult  read,  right?   is  this  for  studies  or  just  out  of  interest? ’         he  begins  to  search  nearby,  scanning  the  shelves------everything  was  out  of  order     and  to  say  that  didn’t  irritate  his  delicate  orderly  sensibilities  would  be  an    outright  lie.        ‘ and  it’s  okay.   it  was  just...   rude.   i  wanted  to  help  because  obviously    -    ’         he  pauses,  to  emphasize,  and  splays  out  his  hands,         ‘    -    i  can  talk  to  you  without  any  real  misunderstandings.  my  name  is  harry,  by  the  way. ’          he  begins  to  search  the  other  side  but,  due  to  the  holes  through  the  sections,  he  can  still  sign  through,          ‘ there  has  to  be  a  copy  around  here  somewhere.   what  kind  of  library  doesn’t  stock  war  &  peace...? ’