#terrifier.

𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃, though he is not quite ready to 'put it down'. he finds comfort in holding it in his hands - it's something that he can use to his advantage - making people do what he wants. the other is not afraid of him, not even with the machete in his hands. making demands of him, they are pleased with their ability to make him do as they wanted. he was like a beast to be tamed. someone that was feral on the outside - but on the inside, something was still there. he had emotions; he displayed them so readily. disappointment was prominent on his features, he had anticipated a bloodbath - wanting to make a mess. the other, they didn't seem so eager for his plans. they wanted to lull him down from his agitation & dull his senses - all so they could stop him from going on a murder spree. he didn't have a victim in mind - it wasn't the person that stood before him. no, they were much too intriguing to him. they had the gift of music, something that brought him so much curious feeling - wanting to know the secret behind their talents. that didn't mean that he was entirely docile either. the machete had already a layer of blood on it - previously used for something less than innocent. though, not in the presence of his company. it was dried to the blade by now, looking as if it belonged there. holding it beneath the waist, he anticipates that they will try to wrestle it from his grasp - trying to break the habit of slaughtering those that had come to listen to his show. the last thing that they would have needed was a massacre a cause de the clown they allowed to linger about.

Francis watches Art with a quiet intensity, their gaze lingering on the clown's (???) movements. There’s something fascinating about him—unpredictable, yet precise, like a broken melody that still resonates. Art’s presence unsettles them, a strange feeling gnawing at their chest.

When Art lowers the machete at their request, Francis doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or unnerved. The clown’s grip on the weapon is tight, as if it’s the only thing holding him together. His emotions are raw, constantly shifting—hunger, frustration, regret—all exposed for anyone to see. And yet, Art’s sadness seems more than performance; it’s a piece of him that Francis can’t ignore.

The blood on the machete makes them uneasy, but they can’t look away. Art is dangerous, but there’s something compelling about him, a pull that Francis can’t quite explain. It’s not just violence, but a rawness, a feeling of being alive in a way that unsettles them and draws them in at once.

They stand in silence, their unspoken connection lingering between them, a tension both discomforting and enticing. There might have been a time, long ago, that Francis felt distant from everything around them but not now. They blow a bubble from the gum they'd been chewing, letting it size up before popping it.