baba o'riley

The situation was dismal, Mark could feel each second passing before he had to go back inside. Not that they couldn’t smoke in there but there wasn’t time. Not to mention adding smoke to that atmosphere was almost a death sentence. He’d have to survive on secondhand smoke wafting in from the bar. 

Being ignored was expected, usually, Mark welcomed that! It meant he was able to walk off with wallets, entire packs of cigarettes, and drinks just for fun. But there was an urgency to this, he needed the nicotine. Man should not have to endure torture without vices. It was inhumane. 

“Love, I was one step away from seeing what I could find on the ground. Never really been choosey, though. It’s all the same in the end, innit? Plus menthols are easier when you’re ill. Ta.”

It took every ounce of restraint to not snatch the pack from her. He only had a few minutes left but for some sort of saving grace like this, Mark was able to find some manners. Even if only the bare minimum as he held his hand out.  

She smiled as she offered up her open menthols pack, as well as a lighter she’d fished out of her back. The reason for her smile of course, was his accent. It was not unlike the accent of a group of boys she knew very well, and it made her feel...at home? It was odd. Mari had never been overseas, but if she were to go anywhere, England would be her first stop. Having trained her ear on all the musicians stopping by way of California, she felt that, if she were to be surrounded by those voices and accents, she’d feel right at home. Hell, she wouldn’t mind moving to London. Everything she’d heard about it made it sound ultra groovy. 

“You’re welcome,” she said watching him take her offering, the childish smile still lingering on glossy lips. 

She pointed her finger at him like she was about to come out with some accusatory statement. “Let me guess...Birmingham.” She’d spent some time poring over a map of south England, in particular, and had quite a few places down in her mind. Pinning a place to a voice was hard, but Mari was almost confident she’d nailed it.

OPEN STARTER Location: Outside the bar Mark works at (South LA)

     Not that Mark had done any research before making rash, life-changing decisions but there was nothing in his short time on this Earth that could have prepared him for the heat in California. Even when it was winter it felt like a summer day back home. Mark didn’t even own shorts before moving here but trousers were sacrificed quickly after arriving at what he could only assume was the surface of the sun.  

Worse, though, than the heat outside, even at midday, was the kitchens. Every kitchen in this city was a suffocating box of manual labour. And Mark was an expert, he’d worked in plenty of them. Yet no one understood his complaints and locals wore layers of clothing when Mark thought naked in a bath of ice was the only option. 

Today’s shift brought an added layer to all of it. In case the barely moving air that always tasted of fried foods and dish soap wasn’t bad enough, two of the four vents went down. Less air pulled out meant that much more attempting to kill Mark in the least rockstar sort of way. Break time could not come fast enough. 

Peeling his shirt off before the back door had closed all the way, Mark made his way out to the curb, praying for even the smallest breeze and for time to slow down enough to lower his core temperature under “feverish”. 

Shit. New prayer. Mark had left his cigarettes inside. The only thing that took him from creepy shirtless man hovering on the pavement to dude just minding his business. Looking around, Mark asked everyone and no one in particular. 

“Spare a smoke, save a man’s life. Do your good for the night.”  

It had been an unnaturally hot day and the sun beat down on her as Mari made her way to the bus stop, to find her way back home to Laurel Canyon. Her car had given up life it seemed, and refused to start when Mari hopped in that morning, so the bus it had to be. 

She spots a shirtless dude asking passerby whether they had any cigarettes on them, with a blonde woman who just walked past all but flat out ignoring him. Well, weren’t people just rude. Approaching, she dips a hand into her moccasin bag, already ready to help. 

“Hey, man. Hope you’re cool with menthols. It’s all I got left on me.” 

April was trouble enough left alone to her own devices, but then add Marimar to the mix and it was one quick path to trouble. A delicious, lick-the-plate-clean kind of trouble, but trouble nonetheless. Each outing was a slew of storylines and heists, really.  “As long as we aren’t caught, that’s usually the procedure…Mari, I would trade life and limb for a glimpse of Elton, we have to try,” She looks at her companion with those big doe eyes, wordlessly begging.  “One of us can go bat her eyes at this chump and distract him,” she briefly and casually makes a gesture towards the snack of a concierge, “While the other makes a break for the alarm?” Mari typically made the grand schemes, but this time April felt a dizzy high rush to her head as she planned their operation.

"I mean, m’not sure if he’s here, just what I heard her saying...” maybe, possibly. But even a chance of that being the truth would be glorious. If he was staying here, he’d be somewhere high up, where all the rockstar suites were. 

She considered for all of several seconds, whether to do it or not. Usually she’d rush into it without a second’s hesitation, but as of this moment, she was stone cold sober and thinking a little more rationally. “Maybe I should go up to him an’ ask about Elton. Y’know, just to see we’re not doing this in vain...”

He’d seen her as soon as he walked in the door, draped over a pool table like she was home in her own bed. It was something that would have once burrowed under his skin, irritating and bothersome. Something that, in another life, he would have added to a long list of reasons to hate her. In considerate of other people’s spaces, the slag. Like Silas had any goddamn room to talk.

Now though, there was something charming in her apathy. Silas didn’t say anything as he hoisted himself up on the table, crossing his legs under him with a beer bottle between them. “I can’t play pool for shit,” he laughed, drumming his fingers against his half empty bottle. “You look lonely’s all.” Silas knew lonely better than most.

His was a voice she recognized immediately, and one which, if she wasn’t lying, bristled the hairs on the back of her neck a little. She wasn’t sure what it was about her presence that had put him off so much in the past, but sometimes she could swear Silas could give her a hostile, if not downright violent glare. 

Not that she was afraid of him, or anything like that. She simply always drifted towards good vibes and away from the bad, and as far as he was concerned, they were just magnets that repelled.

"Lonely? Who, me?” Mari answered, in her best Marilyn Monroe, batting her lashes open. “I think ‘yer confusing lonely and alone. Two very diff’rent states of being, sugar.” Despite any hostility of the past, she was going to be her unapologetically flirtatious, guileless self. Her eyes wandered to his liquor bottle, wondering if he was drunk, high, or a dangerous combination of both this time around. As far as she could tell, he was having one of his better days. “Where’re the rest of the guys? I could’ve sworn I heard PV shouting at the bartender a few minutes ago.”

Another beautiful fucking day. Summer, in this city, never got old. Ant would take a sticky day in Santa Monica or Long Beach over the muggy greyness of Bristol in July in a heartbeat. He’d acclimatized. To the weather, and broken glass as a regular feature of the living room landscape, and waking up to find strangers sprawled around all the ridiculous room they had in this house. Totally normal. No cause for alarm. Exasperation, yes, depending on how much mess had wound up spewed about for someone else to deal with. But not alarm. Partying hard went with the territory. 

However. Long-lost groupies popping out of the bloody woodwork to help themselves to breakfast? Ant felt that could qualify as alarming, on a hungover Saturday morning. He’d half-jumped out of his skin as he came around the corner into the kitchen. At least he hadn’t at-all-jumped out of his skivvies, which was everything he had on at this hour. This hour being eleven, ish, maybe. Not a respectable time to crawl out of bed, but. A punk rocker wasn’t supposed to be respectable, and he hadn’t been expecting anyone, had he, which is why he’d told the staff to stay mum about anybody being around. Even if he’d been waiting on a visit, it wouldn’t have been from Mari. She’d been like this, though. Spontaneous. So far as he remembered. Marimar seemed to spend her days drifting on the breeze, coming and going as she liked. Even coming and staying, sometimes. Like in New York. That, that had been…

Then. And this was now, and things were different. Very. 

Wishing he’d worn some damn pants, Ant ignored the bread box in favor of the kettle. “Should bloody well hope so. If there’s one, they’ll fight for it. If there’s none, they’ll just bitch n’ moan ‘til I go to the shops…” He trailed off, half mumbling as the faucet gurgled. And the silence gaped. And the gas range clicked, flared, and went to work. Ant used the time, fiddled with the dials to stretch it. He was not remotely sober enough for… for surprises. This was a surprise. It’d been ages. Ant sighed, sitting himself up on his end of the countertop. Far away. With a smile, but. Not an easy one. “Mari, Mari, quite contrary. And how’ve you been, then?“ Wasn’t unfriendly. He didn’t want to be unfriendly. Just, to the point. Which was that, barring the quite real possibility that she’d come by to see somebody else - wouldn’t that be splendid, actually, meant he wouldn’t have to feel half so bad - she shouldn’t be here. Not for him.

Her eyes skim over the sight of him in his underwear, but they certainly don’t linger. Whatever feelings she may have had back on the East Coast all but evaporated now. Only amicable feelings lingered; always friendly with past flames unless they gave reason not to be.

 It was with this happy smile she watched Anthony move around the kitchen, the smile turning into a goofy grin when he mentioned the others. Silas being Silas and the others even more so, he was by far the most grounded of the foursome. 

If there was anything she’d still not gotten over, it was his accent. That soft Bristolian just rolled off his tongue, not unlike someone whose company she’d been spending time with. It was wonderful. So different; unlike the boring Californian droning she was used to hearing all day. 

“I’ve been good,” she nodded, keeping the smile on her face. At the same time, she was sizing him up. Was he happy to see her? Was it unexpected? She took a bird-sized bite of her bagel and set it down, picking it apart. “How’ve you been?” He seemed the same as ever, but that was only the surface. For all she knew, all kinds of things were brewing in the mind of Anthony Doyle. He’d always been the cerebral sort.

“Oh—” she cut in, as if she suddenly remembered the reason she was here. “I bring important news. You might wanna pass it along to the rest of the guys...d’ya know The Stooges?” A band who, as far as the big charts were concerned, were still somewhere on the fringes. But they were very important in Mari’s mind, and the rest of the world was going to catch up any day now. “Where’s everyone, anyway? Your maid told me no one was home.”

@marimarxagui

Location: Smoky Hollow Bar

Time: Late evening

Rosalind couldn’t quite help herself from bobbing along to the music, as a slightly bedraggled-looking group of aspiring rockers strummed and belted away. Nothing too noticeable, of course. She had a professional relationship to maintain, after all.

Compared to the usual sea of wannabe celebrities, this particular bunch was …sort of alright. She doubted that she would chase them down for a chat at the end of the night, but at least they could hit some of the right notes at the right moments.

Just as the crowd rumbled with applause as the current song came to a close, Roz became aware of a presence hovering close by. While this in itself wasn’t that unusual during a set, she had the distinct feeling of being watched. She turned to see a female figure in her midst and said, slightly coolly:

“You know, generally it’s good to introduce yourself, rather than staring like a dead fish. Can I help you with something?”

Mari couldn’t stop herself from letting out a soft laugh. She wasn’t aware she’d been staring like a dead fish. Stealing glances her way, yes, but Mari thought she was being subtle. Apparently not. “I was just...” Wondering if you were Rosalind Bennett, Harry Bennett’s daughter...the Harry Bennett...

She simply couldn’t bring herself to ask. It felt far too much like those fans who’d lose their heads around their favorite acts. Mari wasn’t like that; she prided herself on staying cool always. “I was wondering where you got your bag? It’s just totally bitchin’.”

It was one of the few Friday nights that Carmen wasn’t being dragged in three directions, either by setting up a stage, working a show for Violent Vale, or staying late at the record store. This was her night. Carmen time. No disturbances, no responsibilities, just a drink in hand and a solo game of pool. She’d gotten quite good lately thanks to her late-night practice, even when the drinks kicked in.

But there, sprawled across her favorite pool table in the corner like a Thanksgiving turkey, laid a blonde and a beer. “Move your ass, unless you want a cue ball in the skull. I’m not in the mood tonight.” Carmen reached for a stick and some chalk, waiting. “Great, I’ll play anyway. I know you’re used to laying around, but you do that on a bed with your legs open, honey, not on my pool table.” Chalk dust blew through the air as Carmen sighed, then set up the balls.

With elbows she propped herself up and opened her eyes as to whoever decided to disturb her sweet meditation time. Quite hostilely too, she might add. 

Oh. It was that redhead she’d seen at Violent Vale’s shows. She watched as the girl started to set up pool balls, making no motion to get off the table just yet. 

Maybe she could use some aforementioned leg-opening, Mari wondered, observing her. That would definitely cool her attitude down a bit. She never took comments like that to heart, or people who assumed all she did was suck off band guys backstage. It was all very simplistic of them to reduce her to just that. “Didn’ realize this table belonged to anyone. Must’ve not spotted the name tag on it.” 

“What’s up, red? Somethin’ on your mind?” Despite the other girl’s outward hostilities, Mari didn’t play like that. If anything, she was more inclined to be sweet. She sat up, careful not to hit her head on the overhead lights, and picked up her beer, sipping on it. She wasn’t in a hurry to jump off the table, not yet.

“Total baloney! The owner is kind of a name dropper so I can totally see that. It took me foreeeeverrrr to actually get an appointment, but it’s worth the wait, I swear. If you have a friend with any sorta influence, try mentioning that when you call. Pro tip.” 

By that point, Nova had almost entirely forgotten about the group she’d somehow found herself with, all of who had headed back into the club. It was no matter to her, she could–and would– always find them later. 

Matters of life-changing fashion information always took precedence, anyhow. 

“Not to be weird or anything, but, like, you have the prettiest eyes I have ever seen around here.”  

"I do, actually...” Mari let the answer drift off into a contemplation of all the people she knew in this town. Quite a few names on her list could pull strings with a shop like that, but she’d never been one of the people to do things like that. She liked to charm her way in of her own accords “Good tip. I’ve been on a tight fashion budget lately, but that’s good to know for the future.”

"Really?”  It was a simple compliment, but Mari’s eyes lit up, their olive green hue even more vibrant, her face illuminate by the different blinking neon lights around them.  “Thanks,” she laughed. 

The Cherry Bomb — What is your characters favorite outfit to wear out on the town?

Mari loves skirts, and her favorite pair of paisley bell bottoms get a ton of wear, but nothing beats a dress. Easy to slip on, easy to take off, it’s her go-to outfit choice. Find her in an Edie style dress with statement earrings any day of the week [x].

The Night Flyer — How does your character react to authority figures or being told what to do?

His name was Jimmy Smith, and he was sixteen. To the thirteen year old girl who had just shot up in height, no one was more handsome or more enthralling. Of course, the truth of it was that Jimmy Smith was nothing more than a juvenile delinquent, whose troubles got him shipped off to a correctional facility, and then boot camp. But if you ask Mari, she still remembers all the times they would talk (or rather, she would talk, and he’d feign interest before slipping some excuse to go cause more trouble).

Her first real boyfriend and relationship, however, came when Mari was fifteen. He was a sweet, proper kind of boy, Lester was. Unfortunately, a little too sweet and proper, and Mari got bored of him. Despite how much her mother loved him, she could only tolerate so much. She broke up with him on the eve of her seventeenth birthday, returning a plastic ring he’d given her from an arcade, his ‘promise’ ring.

Mari was in lower spirits than usual. Nothing seemed to excite her lately, the days rolled by slower than molasses, and with the next gig she due to see a whole week away, it seemed like her life was just emptiness. A tad melodramatic, but what was a girl to do? She lay sprawled across an empty pool table, one in the very far corner, that nobody was using. For some reason, lying here perfectly still, under the glare of halogen light, seemed to do the trick. Like some odd version of a therapist’s couch, it let her mind drift to nice places. Her drink sat beside her on the green velvet, a beer that was still two-thirds full.

She didn’t expect anyone to approach her here, all the way in the back, but in between clinks of balls hitting one another, the usual din of a pool hall, she heard footsteps that stopped in her vicinity. “If y’want the table, you can just play around me,” she said, without so much as opening her eyes.

If the public must know, there is a certain someone Mari crossed paths with, a known ‘disturbed genius’ who she managed to catch on one of his more disturbed days.

Things started out fairly benign, an acid trip she followed down a rabbit hole, reading the poetry of Shelley and Blake with the man — she wasn’t big on that kind of thing, those dead poets, but she indulged him, let him do his readings. It wasn’t a physical attraction she felt; far from it. His rock-god days were in the past and it was a pot-bellied, bearded, grizzly bear persona she was getting to know, rather than the handsome posters she’d been accustomed to when younger. 

At any rate she was having a good time, amusing and being amused, letting alcohol and lysergic acid bring her visions carried on technicolour winds. Until, somehow, those very tides turned nightmarish. The man was on top of her, shouting obscenities, fingers digging white prints into her neck. Mari couldn’t breathe, just about the most terrifying sensation she’d ever felt.