▎ᵃᵘᵗᵒᵖᶫᵃʸ

for a second, he’d forgotten all about that man and his rather obnoxious, larger than life naivete. oh no, not his personality, but his utter ignorance. every word that fell out of his mouth was boisterous, proud, yet strangely innocent in that childlike way. it was not enraging as much as it was rather annoying - a bit like having your cheek repeatedly poked and prodded, or an·unscratchable itch.

and then, reality decided to smack him right in the face. right. he agreed to go… golfing with this guy? fuck. what in the hell was he thinking? golfing was for rich people, the ones with bottomless pockets and a failure to recognize the world around them. hell, they needed their own private world to feel powerful in while the riff-raff suffered outside. and yet… he’d said yes. why? well…

because this guy was just a total fuckin’ weirdo, to put it simply. and jonathan was dressed to head out - not in his sunday best, perhaps, but in something that looked mildly presentable. black and brown striped sweater, his usual rings, and black jeans. oh, and we can’t forget the combat boots, of course. those were essential.

jonathan sighs, taking a drag from his cigarette. letting it out. taking a moment to contemplate just what he was about to get himself into ( A WHOLE LOTTA FUCKIN’ TROUBLE, SIR ), and gave him a slight smile. pained, a bit tired, but a smile nevertheless.

he inhales, the cigarette between his lips, and his hand behind his head. scratches his scalp, really digs his nails into the skin, maybe even draws blood. it’s going to take the patience of a saint to get through this.

“ i sure do live here, man, as random as that sounds. ” he responded after a moment. no hesitation in his voice, but there is a slight bite. ·" though i’ve heard cardboard boxes are en vogue this year. guess it’s not the same as living in a mansion, huh? must be nice. “ for a moment, another certain someone crosses his mind. red hair, overly made-up face. also a chain smoker, and quite the talker. in fact, the two were rather alike, though one was far more insufferable than the other. gotta scope out your options, lest you risk becoming irrelevant again, right? well, he certainly can’t argue with that logic.

he closes the door behind him, and takes a few steps down to the walkway. though, he stops, and looks back at the place he had called home for so long. sure, he lives in a shanty. it’s been beaten by the sea salt, the wind, and a lack of upkeep over the years. and sure, he was renting it from his older brother for a steal, but it wasn’t as if he thought about leaving it. no. it suited his needs nicely. how could someone like this rich baby understand? never in a thousand years. and yet, jonathan only strengthens his smile, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

” time to golf, huh. i’m surprised you’re even interested in that stuff. i thought you were more the live fast type, based off what you told me. “ he continues, taking a few steps towards the limo. fuck, what a huge limo it was. but jonathan maintained his posture - slightly slouched, eyes focused on him. onceler, was it? mr. onceler. what a weird-ass name. that had to be one of the weirdest names he’s ever heard in his entire life, as a matter of fact. sounded a bit like mister twister, that capitalist american pig who took steps onto russian soil and made an ass out of himself in the famous cartoon. if only a jazz score followed him around everywhere. ” we’ll probably pass more totally random places on the way there. i’m sure your driver won’t mind. ‘cause based off what you told me, this course is in the pacific palisades. hilly place. a nice place. you can look over those cute little hovels from the isolated hill they built up there. really makes you feel like macchiavelli, so i’m told. “

he steps inside the limo, carefully, of course. the seats looked incredibly well kept, and the car itself appeared to have been buffed at least five times over before it was driven out here. jonathan sinks in his seat, looks up at the ceiling. the lights inside dazzle him, make his eyes feel heavier with the weight of his exhaustion. if only he could fall asleep in there, with the smooth bumping and grazing of the limo’s tires on the asphalt soothing him. but alas, the noise in his brain would never cease, not even for a second. it would simply be impossible to do much of anything other than listen to this man go on and on and god knows what - a hyperactive overly wealthy puppy who, if he might be elected president ( a horrible, horrifying thing to think about )… no. we can’t even think it. it’s far too hideous to imagine.

and yet, jonathan maintains his smile as he looks over at onceler. it’s all the same to him. it’s a job. it’s a person who’s giving him something to do, a chance at relevancy again. it’s something, and he’ll be damned if he messes it up.

” dunno if you care, but the piece i wrote is interesting. i think you’ll make for a good character, “ he starts, hoping to shift the subject away from anything golf-related. making it about onceler, perhaps, would do just that. ” very charismatic, endearing, little offbeat. like a peewee herman, except you run your own company. the question is more where i’m gonna put your character. no idea yet. though maybe i should hear it from the man himself. “

” where do you see yourself in this story? 'cause you’ve been running your business for a while. what would be your hypothetical next step? and here’s the catch - you can’t say anything·business related. “

          ❝ JONATHAN ! ❞  HE EXCLAIMS  through chuckles, gesturing to his pants.  ❝ jeans ?  that’s gonna be so restricting !  haven’t you ever been golfing before ? ❞  to be fair, the once-ler has never been golfing either.  seeing as most of his business partners enjoy it, he figures now is as good a time as any to practice.  shrugging, he leads them out the doorway, lowering his head for fear of spiders, and toward his limousine.

❝ oh, y’know, i thought it’d be a nice change of pace from, well.  i’m sure you saw... ❞  as one of the youngest self-built millionaires of the decade, the once-ler pretty much lives for parties and at times, those parties would get a little out of control.  specifically, he’s referring to some trouble he’d encountered in the press lately for being caught with certain illegal substances.  he clears his throat uncomfortably, a little frown tugging at his lips.  ❝ those reporters can be so...mean !  like, hello, don’t they have anything better to do ?  aaanyhoo, i’m sure golfing will be nothing short of awesome ! ❞

he directs a nod of gratitude toward his driver, who opens the backseat door for them.  proudly, he observes jonathan’s reaction to the luxurious interior of his limo.  the sarcastic intent behind jonathan’s description of the golf course flies right over his head.  instead, the once-ler seems thrilled.  ❝ ah, that sounds amazing !  i cannot wait ! ❞  he blows air between his teeth enviously.  whoever this macchiavelli guy is, he must be living the high life.

the talk of jonathan’s characterization of him is all very flattering.  he looks down, focusing on pouring the two of them flights of sweet champagne in an attempt to hide his delight.  after a moment, he’s unable to suppress a big, childlike grin as he passes jonathan his glass.  ❝ peewee herman ??  that guy is SO funny !  am i gonna be funny too ?  i mean, not to brag or anything, but knock knock jokes are kiiinda what i’m known for !  besides the thneed, obviously.  but i’d love to read your story--you should totally send it over sometime ! ❞

as far as other ventures ?  the once-ler has been focused on thneed inc. for so long, the idea of expanding excites him.  a guilty laugh escapes him.  ❝ okay, i get it.  i probably talk business a-waaay too much !  i’ve actually considered releasing a rock album before !  did you know i wrote the original thneed jingle ?  the one that adam levine sings in the commercials ?  all my original work !  of course, that was when i was way younger...and i was into yodeling.  can you believe it ?? ❞

          ❝ AAAAND WE’RE STOPPED  again.  julian, why are we stopped again ? ❞  despite forcing a little laugh along with his demands toward his driver, he’s clearly exasperated.  ignoring the man’s response, the once-ler stares out the tinted window from the backseat of his town car to find short narrow roads and swimsuit clad people carelessly walking in front of traffic.  unable to stifle an eye roll, he leans back in his seat, propping a foot atop his opposite knee.  ❝ just honk at them.  jesus. ❞

a sigh escapes him as he gazes out the front window, focus eventually softening.  while his eagerness to reunite with jonathan vastielle, the complimentary writer who interviewed him months ago, overrules any minor inconvenience like traffic, he imagined a place with a name like venice beach to ooze glamour.  to say the least, the dingy little shops and homes they drive past are not what he expected.  he supposes it could just be the beach that looks this trashy.  the golf course they intend to visit should be a refreshing change for jonathan.

when the car finally pulls in front of a tiny shack, the once-ler gratefully pops his door open and steps out.  he’s dressed in a ridiculous set of high-waisted plaid pants in kelly green, styled with a matching cap and pepto bismol-pink polo tee.  by the way he lowers his bulky sunglasses down his nose bridge in a casual pose, he clearly has a high opinion of this outfit.  he looks the structure up and down before turning back to his driver.  ❝ this is the address he gave us ? ❞  the man rereads the address aloud and the once-ler’s eyes widen, staring at what he wouldn’t quite consider a house.  ❝ ha ha, no big deal !  i’ll, uh...i’ll be right back. ❞

a polite smile plastered on his face, he shuts his door and steps along the pavement toward the door, careful to avoid the cracks.  by the way jonathan carried himself in their interview, he hadn’t expected him to live like this.  regardless, the once-ler can’t remember the last time he just hung out with a friend--let alone, an older, cooler friend.  he hopes desperately that this game of golf will solidify a friendship between the two of them.

he raps on the door and rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits.  he notices a rather large spider in the doorway inches from his face and he jumps back, letting out a little squeal.  when the door opens, his grin returns.

   A GRIMACE ripples across his features, thinly veiled disgust bleeding out from his poor attempts at keeping an even face.  He folds his legs on the chair, taking advantage of the ample room, his ( gold heeled, black vinyl ) boots digging into the shiny leather.  

   ❝ NO, ❞ HE says.  The word means very little out of context and the finality of it hovers awkwardly in the air – realizing that the businessman can’t very well read his mind, he struggles to elaborate.  It’s hard to find the expendable mental energy to articulate thoughts when he’s tipsy, tired, and starting to really dislike the person he’s speaking with.  ❝ No, they’re not – ❞ he shivers in revulsion, ❝ – costumes.  They’re regalia, absolute works of art.  Expressing the absolutely un-expressible through color, silhouettes, fabric, patterns.  I like your strange little scarf thing, ❞ he says dismissively, waving his hand, ❝ but I must insist that the one I wear comes in a different color. ❞

   IT’S SURELY as obvious to him as it is to Ziggy.  When the other man simply balks at him, he sighs with chagrin, ❝ pink looks positively awful when you’ve got red hair.  Did you seeThe Little Mermaid ?  That film made by that tiny mouse with red pants and funny yellow shoes ?  She looked like a downright travesty with a pink dress and red hair.  They should have kept the green – it’s the compliment of red.  Don’t you know colors, man ? ❞

         A BEMUSED SMILE  crosses his lips and the once-ler leans back in his towering desk chair.   ❝ does it look like i’m spending my time watching cartoons ? ❞ he teases, but it’s all part of the facade.  of course he had seen the little mermaid ;;  he’d seen it about a million times when he was a child and occasionally on some nights spent alone in his vast mansion.  but he couldn’t let the rock icon sitting before him know that.

❝ i mean, i’d prefer it if we stuck to the classic THNEED pink…better for the brand, y’know ? ❞  he sighs heavily, punctuating his distaste for the request.  

    He scoffs, disgusted with how his manager had managed to book such an utter plebian; he can hardly imagine deigning himself to let this loser strum a single chord from his songs.  One hand on his bony, cocked hip, the rockstar makes empty gestures in the air as he tries to convey his point to the best of his ability, his words mangled through an intergalactic translator and a blood alcohol level of at least 0.15 %.  

     ❝ Because it isn’t about just ‘ music, ’ man.  It’s about sound AND vision – about a melding of that which you can see, hear and sense into something that could only be construed as an experience.  I’m not ‘ playing a concert. ’  I’m giving you a close encounter of the third kind, an opportunity to use more than just one of your senses to understand something bigger than just words and notes and chords.  So, uh, no, ❞ he snaps, terminating any possible room for argument,  ❝ you can’t go on without make-up.  I’d rather have no guitarist at all than a guitarist who looks like a total bore. ❞

    His words tumble from his pink glossed lips with the absolute finality; perhaps he’s being rather harsh, but he has an image he’d prefer to keep, and the other man seems to demonstrate an astonishingly amazing ability to make him angry beyond comprehension.  

     ❝ It is a fab look, ❞ he concedes, a poorly extended olive branch to keep him from quitting the gig all together.  When his temporary guitarist tries to clean up the spacey smear of purples and blues from his cheek, Ziggy snatches his wrist to keep him from further ruining his work.   ❝ Don’t touch that – I like it.  Very cool.  And as for the suit … ❞ he purses his lips, scrutinizing the colors, the silhouette, the way it flatters his hair and rebounds the light off of the sequins to better enunciate the ochre pigment smeared on his eyelids.  ❝ I give it my blessings. ❞

           EXHALING IN ANNOYANCE,  he lowers his hand and by his request.  gazing at his reflection in the oversized vanity mirror, the makeup looks so unnatural.  it’s shocking to see himself this way, so unlike himself.  when he holds the jumpsuit up by its hanger and considers the full look, though, he sees his point.  it does look pretty dang cool.

❝ okay, okay, ❞ he concedes, turning back to face the rockstar with a giddy smile.  ❝ i guess i can give the whole makeup thing a shot for one night... ❞  he pauses a moment in thought.  come to think of it, he’s never seen his mom without makeup on.  ❝ wait, this isn’t permanent, right ?  it’ll come off later ??  ‘cause i dunno if i could commit to something like this all the time ! ❞

    The leather of the very ugly and unforgivably tacky desk chair squeaks as Ziggy exuberantly leans forward, snatching a glass by the stem and taking a grateful sip.  He’s already reaching spindly fingers towards the second glass ( one for now, one for later, he assumes ) but the other man beats him to it.  Hand still hovering over the now empty tray, he wordlessly does his best to convey his absolute disappointment that the Once-ler’s generosity stops at only one free complimentary drink, and he slowly, pointedly, returns his empty hand to his single glass.

    His nails click against the beverage, rings producing a delicate, silvery ting as they curl around the stem. ❝ Uh-huh, ❞ he says, word vacant of all and any meaning.  He isn’t listening very closely.   ❝ Yes, ❞ he agrees, the point sailing far over his head of messy red hair. ❝ I know of women.  In fact, I’m acquainted with several. ❞

    Drink finished, he puts the glass, dripping with fresh condensation, on one of the many stacks of papers on the desk.  Humans don’t like putting wet cups directly on wood.  Very considerate.  Ziggy knows Earth manners.

    ❝ Please, if this is going to be boring, do take it up with my manager, ❞ he mumbles, folding his arms over his chest.   ❝ I’m not one for, uh…budgets.  I thought you were here to ask me what kind of outfits to prepare.  What kind of image we’re going for for your little campaign. ❞

    He pauses.

    ❝ And if it’s no trouble … can I have another drink ? ❞

            ALMOST AS SOON  as the glass touches the stack of documents, the Once-ler’s gloved arm is reaching between the two of them to quickly grab it.  offering an apologetic smile, he relocates the glass back to the tray from which it came.  the butler shortly takes the tray and exits the room with a nod to his boss.

❝ coming up ! ❞  the once-ler chirps through barred teeth, suppressing his annoyance.  in reality, he feels ridiculous catering to such a complete jerk.  he reminds himself why this collaboration is so necessary for meeting their sales goal this holiday season.  and, what can he say ?  he admires ziggy’s style.  speaking of which...

Jareth had to actively make himself take a deep breath. Hard to believe that his work was different to one from a completely different style. “If you would like to commission a piece, I would be-” He paused for a moment, jaw clenching. “Happy to listen to your critique.” The man’s opinions were worthless otherwise.

    This is truly a travesty.  Some tragedies are unparalleled, and this man     is a disaster beyond compare, unmatched in all the wretchedness to     be found on this planet and the many beyond its horizons.  He is loud,     and he is boring.  It’s a conundrum; Ziggy had no idea that one could     possibly be both of those things at the same time.  He pinches the     narrow bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly as he struggles to     calm the pulsing throb of a headache settling deeper into the     brainfluids in his skull.  He needs another cigarette – another tragedy,     however, when he rattles his carton only to find it’s empty.       This planet seriously fucking sucks.

    ❝ Who is ‘ My Mom ? ’ ❞ he asks irritably, unaware of the nascent     ridiculousness of his inquiry.   ❝ It doesn’t matter what he’ll say.       Just worry about what I think, ❞ he assures him, grabbing the back     of the chair and briskly spinning him around to better survey the work     cut out before him.  

    The silly pink thing resembles the bastard offspring between a     feather boa and an earthworm.  His initial impression is that the     color is far too saturated and it is gaudy beyond reason, so     hideously bright that it straddles the line between finery from an     acquired taste and outright, unabashed ugliness: but it’s really not     that bad, considering the state of the man who produced it.  He     daintily plucks the hideous thing from his lap and wraps it around     his neck, giving himself a precursory glance in the mirror.  He turns     his head left and right as he admires it – he soon loses interest and     begins only admiring himself.  

    ❝ Wear it if you must, ❞ he acquiesces with a dramatic sigh, ❝ but     we are not matching pink with more pink.  Surely you understand     colors.  I need something to break up the monotony … something     to contrast it. ❞  He unloops the scarf from his shoulders and drops     it back into his lap with little care – the pink clashes with his red     hair in a truly awful way.  He’s more interested in examining his     wardrobe for something more fitting.  When he thinks of it, they are     about the same size.  

    ❝ Green, ❞ he suddenly decides, plucking a brush from the dirty cup     on his dresser and giving it a gentle tap, glitter and powder floating     into the air like a miasma.   ❝ I’ll put you in green.  With something to     bring out your eyes.  And something to maybe give this area, ❞ he     says, vaguely gesturing to the Once-ler’s entire face,  ❝ a bit     of … improvement. ❞

    He decides against the brush and rubs a healthy smear of ochre     eyeshadow onto his thumbs, and presses them gently against his     eyelids, smudging them outwards and towards his browbone.  So     engrossed is he in his art that he fails to hear much of what he’s     said and correlates the sudden “ singing ” with “ shrieks of pain     because he’s accidentally applied make up directly into his corneas. ”

    ❝ I’m sorry ! ❞ he yelps, grabbing his head and prying his eyelid     back in an attempt to check for further damage.  His make up     stained fingers leave smears of blue and purple against his     cheekbones.   ❝ Did I hurt you ?  But it really is your fault.  Keep     your eyes – and mouth – shut, please. ❞

             HE WATCHES IN stunned silence as the superstar wraps his thneed around his neck and models it.  what a dream come true it would be for a famous person to buy one and wear it all around !  the kind of recognition that could get him is unparalleled.  when mr. stardust hands it back, the once-ler cradles the thneed proudly before wrapping it once again around his own neck.  whatever greatness had touched this thneed, he hoped with all his heart would rub off onto him. 

the makeup feels weird and heavy.  every time he tries to blink, mr. stardust’s thumb is back against his lid packing on more powder.  then, suddenly his eye is being peeled back !

❝ OW !  wh-what is that for ?  Jeez ! ❞  he yanks away from his touch, rubbing his own eye gently in response.  when he pulls away he finds color residue all over his fingers.  looking up at him, one half of his face smeared with color, he shakes his head.  ❝ okay, this is seriously suuuper weird.  why can’t i just go out there normal and play with you guys ?  ❞

he rises from his seat with a childish pout and starts to head in the other direction before something in the closet catches his eye.  a sparkly jumpsuit that looks tall and lean enough to fit him just right; and it certainly is green.  eagerly, he pulls it out on its hanger and holds it up to his body.

☆  ESTABLISHED TRANSMISSION (AGAIN) WITH : @raxcity​

    ❝ You’re late. ❞

    He frowns, recklessly tossing the stapler back into     the drawer he’d been rifling through with a     resounding clatter.  The desk had been     unoccupied; ergo, it was his for the taking.  He     leans back in the luxurious, hideous plush chair     practically engulfing his small frame and steeples     his fingers menacingly, glaring over his sunglasses     at his evidently careless new employer.

    ❝ Do you have any idea how busy I am ?  And … ❞ he     glances at the clock – fifteen minutes ‘til ten in the     morning, bright and somewhat early,  ❝ … do you have     anything to drink ? ❞

          WITH A SNAP of his fingers, a butler wordlessly appears at the edge of the desk with two pre-made pomegranate mimosas.  the rockstar’s reputation always precedes him.  suppressing any annoyance with seeing ziggy in his very classy chair, the once-ler recovers with a slimy smile.  ❝ already taken care of !  i just want to let you know just how  s o r r y  i am. ❞  his voice practically drips with charm as he pulls up another chair to sit across from ziggy.  it’s strange being on this side of his own desk, but he plays it off casually. 

    He grimaces, almost anticipating the sound of shattering before     the object absolutely obliterates itself against the floor.  He eyes     the strange young man from his vanity, the frown deepening     across his face and reaching his mismatched eyes.  Never mind     the fact that he’s destroyed his only deep space radio and Ziggy     has no idea where he can find another machine with a signal     strong enough to pick up the frequencies from Andoria Sector 4.       He’s more offended at just how … drab he looks.  The charming,     inoffensive blend of baby blues and warm brown leather he has     the gall to consider his concert ready outfit is an insult to all     Ziggy stands for and practically spits on the 5 light year voyage     he sat through to get here.

    ❝ Please, do slow down, ❞ he drawls, reaching for his comb and     giving his fiery mullet a precautionary fluffing,  ❝ I’ve got quite the     headache … and you breaking my things isn’t quite helping. ❞

    He sets down his comb and snuffs out his cigarette in the already     full ashtray on his dresser, narrowly missing plunging the     cigarette into his small tin of red eyeshadow. ( He needs to keep     his space tidier.  But tidying up is no fun at all. )

    ❝ You said your name was … ❞ he begins, and when he realizes     he can’t quite recall it ( and doesn’t care to ask ), he switches the     subject.  He’s heard a great deal of human names on his scant     few years on Earth, but he’d never heard one like that before.       ❝ You said you were filling in for the guitarist, ❞ he clarifies.  He     doesn’t wait for a response – standing briskly and giving a last     preening glance at his visage in the dirty mirror, he gestures with     spindly, well manicured fingers to the now vacant seat.

    ❝ Sit.  Oh: and tell me your favorite color. ❞

            ❝ WAIT, IS THAT makeup ?  Listen, I don’t know if that’s really my thing. I mean, that stuff looks good on YOU, of course, but, I don’t really know if I can pull off that sort of thing ... like, what would my mom say, y’know ?  Ha ha ...  ❞ 

Anxiously chuckling, the Once-ler sneaks a glance at Mr. Stardust’s unfazed expression and decides it might be best to go along with whatever this is. He clears his throat.  ❝ Soooooo, uhm ... do you have anything pink ?  I’ve got something amazing I can wear to match !  ❞

Sprinkling the pieces of the broken thing-a-ma-jig into a nearby wastebasket, he now has a free hand to pull out the prototype for his THNEED ™  from seemingly nowhere and wrap it around his neck. He shows it off proudly to the unimpressed rockstar.

❝ Eh ?  Ehhhh ?  What do you think ?  Pretty rock n roll, amiright ??  ❞

The subtle wiggling of his eyebrows really helps punctuate the coolness of it all--or, so he hopes. He lifts the long tube of pink fabric and folds it across his lap as he sits down at Mr. Stardust’s vanity. Attempting once to rest an elbow amongst the mess on its surface, he very nearly drops something else--but catches it quickly enough to save it from breaking. Gently, he sets it down and scoots the chair an inch away from ANY of the beloved rock god’s belongings.

UPDATE !!! -- ( reasons why the fuck i’ve been gone for three weeks under da cut )

ugghhh ikr this is such an issue to me. why are people still icon hoarding in 2015. like oh my god you can’t claim an icon as your own work just because you fucked around with it a lil in photoshop ??  wooow you changed the exposure settings on a screenshot from an animated movie you had nothing to do with !  you are SUCH an artist good job gold star !!!  i really dont see the point. but anyway, ya i’m so glad to find someone else who agrees too its surprisingly pretty rare on this site !  also glad you dig the tunez !  ; )