#thesilverandjetsystem

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Michel Renella was known for throwing the gaudy neo-20th century parties of babylonic ambition everyone hated but went to in droves. 

This time, Renella and his triad were playing a filmed sensual surrealist enactment of Flahooley over a Sherwin Williams High Reflective White monolith flanked by gold-flecked rose marble pillars, part of Michel Renella's awful penchant for anything art deco revival (like the brown and pink carpeted stairs and split-levels) completing the absurdity and tastelessness of the whole pad and affair. 

Luckily, the silent and runny off-color production of Flahooley was accompanied by one of those big brass bands. They hired a singer who could simulate Yma Sumac's vocalisations and startling range—her right to the golden headdress. 

Ben had quietly planted his frame on something he was not supposed to sit on, watching the salmon-saturated projection of a wannabe actress twirling her wrists and sashaying from resin plaster to marble, resin marble to plaster, the singer's golden voice glissading through his right ear; Birds was the song, and she tittered and cried like one. Castanets thudded against his left ear in competition with the flourishing party chatter. The film no one was interested in watching skipped between the wannabe actress dancing and flashes of burning baby dolls, then the it-girl genie shaking her tits. And who should step through that hokey image but Steven Grant? 

"Look, it's the sheik." 

A few ferns away stood a man costumed, again, in poor taste, as a heavily, you know, made-up Rudolph Valentino, but they both knew Ben was referring to Grant. 

Grant who was like a different guy every time Ben saw him. He could swear, on God, who he wouldn't, so he'd swear on his Ma, the love and bane of his life, that Grant was about three different guys in a tan button-down, a three-piece suit, or the t-shirt with the little scarf. 

Ben rose to approach him not two moments before Michel Renella shrieked, "Get off my Noguchi, you giant shitting fuck—!" 

The giant shitting fuck to Renella, swaggering Grant's way without turning to look at the sculpture he’d defiled: “I'd sit on the furniture, Nella, but you don't own any." 

"So," Ben said when he met his mark. Flashing one of his coyer angles, though, his insuppressible sour grin gave the guise a double edge. "Grant. I heard you're producing a movie or something. How?" 

One of Nella's catering can-can dancers swung by on legs as long as Ben was tall, and he plucked a glass off her tray.  

"Have a drink," he implored, pushing the flute into one of the magnificent Steven Grant's magnificent hands. "That's nice. Go on. Give it a good knock-back. Now tell me about your amazing lives. My mistake; I mean life." 

Ben grinned and pressed Grant's shoulder. 

@thesilverandjetsystem sent: 🍿 - Popcorn! Do they have butter on their popcorn? Extra salty? Do they get any of the coloured popcorn at movie theatres or just the usual stuff? // ( accepting )

EXTRA butter — this is the woman who ate sixteen sticks of butter in one sitting while she was pregnant, so she wants that popcorn so buttery she can see her reflection in the sheen on her fingers.

The salt is deffo covered by the butter at the rate she uses it, I'd say.

“I didn’t realize that saying I wouldn’t fight a megladon for you was the pinnacle of our friendship.  To start with, why would there even be one in a position that we’d have to fight it.  Secondly, I’m not exactly buoyant - which puts me at a severe disadvantage in open water.”

There’s one flaw and only one flaw concerning the location he had chosen to run ANVIL from. It’s beside the water. Oh, sure, that doesn’t sound like a problem. Beautiful view. Easy to access from the water. A rather large warehouse space with an attached space he’s converted into his home. And you wouldn’t be wrong. All of that, plus the privacy it offers, is exactly why he had chosen it.

The real problem is.. When holidays that demand fireworks roll around.. The river is central staging for most of the shows the city throws. And then there’s all the smaller displays that aren’t exactly legal.

It’s a nightmare for a man with PTSD. And why he either spends such holidays upstate in the middle of no where or he spends it drunk.

❝  would  you  please  nod  your  head  if  you  can  understand  me?  ❞ - @thesilverandjetsystem