#pluuton

                            "I eat boys like you for breakfast. Where's my salt and pepper now? Oregano, basil and thyme and my Tapatio --" actually pasta sounds ridiculously nice right now. Perhaps if she whines, people would get her some. After all she ----------- always get what she wants wouldn't she?

"Can I help you?" Maybe a little more intonation was needed. Perhaps an introduction? A café-wide question could have been more appropriate. Though, there was no benefit in thinking about these things now...

                       To live and be weak, to feel lost and helpless. He glanced down at the small creature in his hands, a small brown bird with a broken wing as he sat by the park bench one night. Oh how powerless and vulnerable. He wondered if he should help nurture the small and the lost bird. Or would he kill the bird and help it with ending it's suffering. Pondering, he let his lips curling up menacingly. "Help I'm a live, my heart keeps beating like a hammer" 

                                  he was doing the usual gig. Making pigeons appearing from the sleeve of his black trenchcoat, making illusions as if to have people believe in his card tricks and doing a little bit of juggling with ten knives and not to get hurt by it. Gravitational control and illusions; and he ended his small street performance for the day with fireworks, snapping his fingers and making small fireworks magically emerging form thin air around him. "Thank you! Thank you!" He voiced, his voice deep and confident; pride was bursting in him from the applause he was getting. 

"Kid, tha fuck 're ya doin' here? Go home befere ya ge' los' er somethin'...i's late ou'."