#cportspringfest

WHO: rachel berry (with mentions of others)

WHAT: new season, new game. 

WHEN: 4/6; early afternoon

WHERE: around castleport during spring fest

PLOT DROP: MIC DROP 

The talent show is a buzz. People are packing in, talking wildly about the Persephone Pageant finale that happened over an hour before, and the performances to come.

It’s barely beginning to quiet down as people get comfortable in their seats, muffled sounds screech through the speakers. A mic is on, and after a moment voices begin to come through. They’re not very clear at first - words fast and jumbled together, until finally, the mic picks up on them a bit clearer.

To anyone familiar with the two, it’s Mason and Bree.  The crowd goes silent, as the conversation comes in clearer. The conversation is heated. What can be made out is Mason mentioning Bree with a bucket of trash near the pageant tent that afternoon. Then Bree denying the claim, mentioning Sue having her on trash duty, but being innocent of anything having to do with what happened. The back and forth is a push and pull of claims, and denials. Finally, Mason sighs deeply, and doesn’t push it further. Then suddenly, a ‘shit’ is heard, and the mic is cut-off.

PLOT DROP: TRASH QUEENS

It’s 4:28 and the anticipation is high in the Persephone Pageant tent. Seats are full and the tent is lined with bystanders looking transfixed to the stage. The two contestants left standing are smiley, shiny, and waiting with baited breath to see who won.

Santana stands on the stage, nearly edging the contestants out of center stage for herself. She has her signature smug smile and tight dress on, with the crown in hand. Quinn sits at the judges table, in the center seat, with a Ms. America smile. The announcer opens his mouth and exhales, preparing after an American Idol pause - dramatic and drawn out - to say the winners name, instead, a SPLASH breaks the silence.

A bucket full of trash pours down onto Santana and Quinn. The smug, and Ms. America smiles are gone, dirty banana peels, milk cartoons, and other items are dripping from their heads.

There is a wave of shocked gasp, a couple screams, then finally a barrage of reactions - silence, murmurs, and even some laughter.

Santana and Quinn have been trashed, Carrie style, at 4:30 pm under the soft lights of dawn and packed tent, at the 61st Persephone Pageant.

4:35 two text are sent out to the girls.

Quinn’s reads: ‘is that considered monkey business?’

The note that was left in the manila envelope reads]: 

Not even a nudge would wake him. I would have checked his pulse but then I would have had to touch him - and he woke up long enough to ask for another drink. [tucked inside the folded note is a card to a rehab then another, to the county jail] 

The wave of feeling hit him head on, the flush of fury, quickly replacing the earlier confusion at the sudden appearance of the package. There’d been nothing, and then suddenly an envelope with his name, in a handwriting he didn’t recognize and with a crowd around his booth all day, he hadn’t stopped to consider the ‘who’ or ‘when’.

It was so petty. A needless and ruthless kind of petty and Sam gave into his initial instinct, slamming the cheap phone to the ground but there was no real satisfaction in seeing the splintered pieces spread out. He didn’t miss the gasps from the few people lingering at his booth or the curious gazes that even in anger he couldn’t tune out. He never could. The images of James passed out from a drunken stupor was as familiar as any other he’d remembered from growing up but now someone was gleefully throwing it in his face. Equal parts irritation and shame, the typical reaction when it came to his father’s struggles tugged at him and he found himself at a loss. 

James was an alcoholic…nothing new there. The town knew…fine, whatever. But someone had taken it upon themselves to be purposely shitty, sending him proof of his family’s failings in color and in HD for a reason Sam was struggling to understand and the only thing he could process was the anger that throbbed at his temples and twitched in his fingers, still itching with the urge to break something.