Tagged by @luv-again - Thank you! <3
I won't lie, I totally had to look up what this was about. Here's a blurb I made for my weekly writing practice post. I was playing around with bigger posts, so I guess good timing?
He narrowed his eyes at the screen, as if judging every name that rolled through the credits. "Not the worst, I suppose. I can see why you wanted to skip the third fight scene in the protagonist's room. It made no sense," he confidently concluded.
There was an awkward pause. "That was not a fighting scene," she finally answered, somewhat stunned that she even had to say that.
He looked straight at her. "So what was it?" he demanded. He disliked not knowing something, almost as much as he disliked being contradicted.
"No, absolutely not! We are not doing this trope on Valentine's Day, of all days!" she yelled angrily as she rocketed off her own couch to glare down at her uninvited guest.
Said guest looked up, unamused and unstartled. "What's Valentine's Day?" he gruffly questioned.
She tugged her ears down painfully and growled loudly. "Valentine's Day is the reason I am holed up in my house watching questionable romance movies by myself in the dark with chocolate that I bought all for myself!!" she blurted out in one breath. A ragged, deep inhale followed as tears welled up in her eyes.
He rolled his shoulders while contemplating the sudden explosion of words. "So, it's a movie day," he concluded.
"NO!!" she screamed, stomping her foot down. "It's supposed to be a day about love and flowers and spending time together!! Not that I would personally know!!"
He looked around her dark living room. "You forgot the flowers," he mused, smugly.
Not sure who to tag. I'll throw my tags into the void for whoever wants them.
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Late writing practice for last week, but hey, I at least got something done. The quality of these is meh - didn't really have a lot of time.
Week 12 - Blurbo Practice
Day 1 - Her 27th birthday was next week, marked on her calendar in bold blue strokes. She stared at her phone and thought again about the promise she'd made years ago on a silly, desperate whim. For a while she regretted making it. As time passed, she started to dread it. But now, she wondered. Would it be such a bad idea? Did he even remember the text sent all those years ago, were they promised to marry each other if they weren't already married by now?
Day 2 - He is the oncoming storm. A gust of wind through the rolling fields. A shock of electricity across the desert. A loud boom echoing through the canyons. He is a force that cannot be stopped, cannot be tamed, and cannot be comprehended. Until chilidogs are brought to the table.
Day 3 - Her excitement at getting to see a real-life Mobian for the first time dampened when she noticed the state of their newest resident. She had been told earlier that the test subject was a 'he,' that he was about her age, and that he had been heavily sedated before takeoff. He was also very, very ill, due to some unknown chronic disease, similar to her illness. But even with this information, his still, sickly form on the stretcher unnerved her nonetheless. As the scientists quickly wheeled him off to the med-bay, she took note of his thin and patchy greying fur -- quills? -- his almost skeletal form, and his sunken, closed eyes. She took a breath, and hoped with all of her heart that her grandfather would be able to save this poor boy.
Day 4 - "Good morning, son, can you hear me?" a voice called out through the darkness. The boy wanted to reply, to open his eyes and put a face to the voice echoing in his foggy, pounding head, but he couldn't find the energy to do anything but listen. "You gave us all quite a fright. For a moment, we thought you might not have survived the trip up here," the voice continued, matter-of-factly. "But I assure you that you are in good hands. We will be doing everything we can to make sure you are comfortable and taken care of." The boy managed a small huff in reply, barely heard above his face mask and the beeping of nearby machines.
And I think it has to do with stress. So, instead of writing what I'm supposed to be, I wrote this. And it's crap, so it's going here for now. Though I did work on this all day and did come up with a whole plot for it because... I don't know why. Got fixated on it for a while I guess. Might hate it tomorrow.
Thought about leaving some details out. But I might not ever use it, so I'll keep them in. If this ever becomes a real story, I'll strip the details out and you'll all have to pretend you never read them. Agreed?
This also may or may not be in a similar/same universe as another piece of writing I put up on here called I Don't Belong Here. Except, if this becomes a real story, one character in that old one will have to change. And so will the tense because I am really bad at first person and probably can't keep it up for a whole story.
Enjoy what ever this is (and please ignore the mistakes, this is barely edited):
“Hello, hedgehog.”
The blue hedgehog spun around, quills raised. Before him was a hawk with emerald green feathers. From a quick scan, Sonic determined the hawk to be someone of noble descent. Chest puffed out, he held his head high. Those feathers were preened and tidy, crest well maintained. In his sky-blue eyes, Sonic saw confidence – or perhaps that was arrogance – superiority, and the hawk carried himself with a general air of pride about him. That and the jewellery was a dead giveaway. All gold plated, maybe even solid, jewel-encrusted and flashy. Very flashy.
Yeah, this guy definitely thought he was hot shit. Though Sonic couldn’t ignore the possibility that he was simply a thief who liked to flaunt his earnings. Not that he could really judge if that was the case.
“Who are you?” Sonic asked cautiously.
The blue hedgehog took a step back, defences up. He didn’t have much of value on him, only one piece he would and could not part with. If the hawk was a thief, he might be a little disappointed. If he was a noble, then what the hell was he doing all the way out here? It just didn’t add up.
“I am Prince Jet,” the hawk said. “And I’ve come for a chat.”
Prince. Of Babylon, by the looks of him. Bizarre. What the fuck would a Prince want with him? This guy approached like he knew who he was, at least in passing. Which was alarming. But shouldn’t Prince Jet be a little… worried? The stupid hawk seemed to be alone. An incredibly risky and outright dangerous play, especially outside of his own territory. The Prince was asking for trouble. And at this point, Sonic was wondering if he genuinely wanted it too.
“Not interested.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid, I am,” Prince Jet intoned.
His ear flicked, picking up movement behind him. The Prince was not on his own. Sonic whirled around on his heel, cloak billowing out as he reached for the dagger at his hip. Quickly, he drew it, seeing the purple swallow step back and to the side, out of reach. The hedgehog advanced, swiping at her. He gasped when someone grabbed his hood from behind, pulling it down and jerking him back in one motion. Balance lost, he tried to find his footing before attempting to wrench his cloak away from the second attacker, to no avail. Whoever they were, they were strong. And now his chest was burning and the fabric was digging into his throat. Disoriented, Sonic threw his dagger in the air and caught it, blade facing down. Then he thrust it back blindly. But a massive hand clamped around his wrist and squeezed tightly. The hedgehog yelped and dropped his weapon. And now his arm was immobilised. And at a very uncomfortable angle.
Quills rattling, he thrashed, trying to free himself. The swallow swooped in and snatched up his dagger. Sonic growled but he felt ill. Within seconds, his hands became clammy in his gloves, throat dry. In the skirmish, the mobian behind him managed to catch his other hand, so he was fully restrained and at their mercy.
The hedgehog’s heart hammered against his ribcage. He went suddenly hot all over, skin itchy. His cloak had been released but Sonic didn’t feel much better. In fact, he felt worse.
Prince Jet held out his hand and the swallow handed the dagger over. He made a motion over to Sonic as he examined it. The swallow approached and Sonic hissed at her. Ignoring him, she began patting him down, presumably for more weapons, but he only had the one. She pressed her fingers into the side of his chest and he inhaled sharply. Narrowing her sapphire eyes, the swallow yanked his cloak up to gawk at the bandage around Sonic’s chest. Without even being able to see, he knew the wound had reopened. There would be red spotting the bandage by now, no doubt. The Prince rose a brow at the wrapping and returned his attention to the dagger.
“A remarkable weapon,” Prince Jet said. “Is it silver?”
Releasing his cloak once more, the swallow drifted back over to the prince. Sonic wanted to bite her as she went. He wasn’t fully sure where the urge came from but it might have had something to do with the fact he was restrained.
“It looks to me to have been crafted in the Empire,” she mused. “It’s old though. Not the current reign, that’s for sure.”
“Now where might someone such as yourself acquire a dagger like this?” the Prince asked.
Sonic huffed. He didn’t want to talk to these Babylonians. Like magpies, the lot of them, they were all drawn to shiny things. Commoner or noble, even Royalty couldn’t help themselves over there. And he knew right away that his dagger was as good as gone if he didn’t do something. He couldn’t stay here. If they truly knew who he was, they could turn him in. Or worse.
Prince Jet hummed.
“Then let’s try this: who is your benefactor?”
“I don’t have a benefactor,” Sonic spat.
The Prince narrowed his eyes. He didn’t seem convinced. Sonic glared right back, teeth bared. He decided, if he was going to bite anyone, it would definitely be the prim hawk.
“How about your name?” the hawk tried.
“You have no right to know it.”
The hawk looked him up and down. Sonic didn’t like it, didn’t like being scrutinised. Prince Jet passed the dagger back to the swallow and finally approached. As the hedgehog had suspected, he walked with that swagger reserved for rich assholes who knew they were above you. For those who thought they had already won and gotten what ever they had wanted. But if he could help it, he wouldn’t let the slimy Prince have anything.
“Now that’s interesting,” Prince Jet hummed. “You claim to have no benefactor and yet… I can’t help but think you must work under someone.”
“And how’d you reckon that?” Sonic huffed dryly.
Trustfully, he didn’t care. The hawk could think as he pleased.
“You spoke with your full chest but your words sounded rehearsed. Like you were told to say them.”
Sonic grit his teeth. He quickly struck back with his leg, catching his assailant in the stomach. They let him go and he pushed the Prince aside, making for the swallow who was still twiddling his dagger in her hands. He grabbed her wrist but was immediately pulled away and thrown to the floor. He hit his injured side and wheezed. Just his luck.
When he looked up, there was a golden blade in his face. Sonic pulled his ears back and growled. He still didn’t have his dagger back. But he could now see the massive albatross towering beside the Prince, grey feathers with a sour look plastered over his grim face. The one who had held him. The hedgehog wished he’d kicked harder. The albatross unsheathed a sword of his own, a behemoth with a wide, curved blade. Both swords were gilt, rubies and amethysts pocking the crossguard. He supposed the two were Babylon’s breed of Knight or perhaps some type of bodyguards. The swallow glowered at him, a calculating glint behind her eyes. The albatross just stared a hole through his fur, looking rather miffed.
“Not exactly what I had expected of the one they called Wind’s Judgement,” the Prince said, unamused. “But you’re wounded, aren’t you, hedgehog? Suppose it wasn’t smart provoking us when you’re off your game and outnumbered.”
Where had that nickname come from?
Sonic dropped his gaze to the floor briefly to think. There was no getting out of this. He knew he might die here. So he rose his eyes once again, defiantly. They wanted to bag a criminal, was that it? Or maybe the freaks wanted to skin him and use his unusual fur as a rug in their precious Palace. Great, just another way to be walked all over. So what difference did it really matter? Sonic would much rather go out with his head held high than grovelling to the likes of Royalty.
“Then do it,” he growled, moving his face closer to the swallow’s blade. “Kill me and be done with it, Royal scum.”
The hawk appeared surprised for a beat. Then he had the audacity to laugh. Sonic bristled. He detested being made fun of; it gave him a bitter taste at the back of his tongue. An old, festering resentment that he couldn’t quite shake. Was this a joke to the Prince?
“You misunderstand,” Prince Jet said. “I don’t mean to kill you; I’ve come to give you an offer.”
“Offer?” Sonic said flatly.
Settling back on his heels, the hedgehog ran a hand over his chest under his cloak to check the wound. It stung when he touched the layered bandage it but he had expected that. He left his hand there to apply a little pressure. And if it meant possibly getting his dagger back, he’d humour the Prince. For now. But he was already looking to leave, gaze drifting over the trees distractedly.
“You see, I’ve been having some… troubles recently. And I’d like to enlist your help.”
“Why me?”
“I’m sure you’d be pleased to know that most of the Kingdoms don’t know who you are or what you’ve done,” Prince Jet intoned. “But I do. I have sources everywhere, means to collect information. I know you killed the late King of Moebius. You snuck your way to King Scourge’s side, cosied up to him, won his trust and affections. And then one day, the servants found him bleeding out in his chambers, his beloved jester mysteriously missing.”
Sonic tensed. That was the gist of the story and he did wonder how the Prince had come upon that information. Sonic had tried to be very careful. The majority of the Castle had suspected an assassin from Soleanna had broken in to off the King – there had been a lot of tension between the two kingdoms at the time, so it was a safe assumption. Their jester had been caught in the crossfire and either kidnapped, in the case that the King was only supposed to be injured not killed, or had died too. No one had cared to look for the body. But Sonic had left his own blood at the scene. A mistake, possibly costly one, but no one had seemed to care or check. They probably thought he’d crawled away somewhere to die. But the accidental death of King Scourge during a kidnapping-ransom ploy had seemed to be the preferred theory from what he’d heard.
After all, he had gotten exceptionally close to the green hedgehog.
But what exactly did any of that have to do with this situation? Sonic didn’t really understand where this was going yet. So the Prince knew what happened but instead of telling someone or putting a bounty on his head, he was apparently going to do nothing with what he had learnt? Sonic seriously hoped whoever else apparently knew about it would keep their mouths shut too. King Scourge was not a very well liked King; he’d had enemies everywhere. But that didn’t mean people were fine with letting his killer run loose. It would mean his head no matter what kingdom he fled to if they found out. And then there would only be one place left to go.
And he didn’t want to go back there. Not yet. He knew he’d have to at some point but he’d rather wait to be dragged back there than go willingly. But they’d find him eventually.
They always did.
“Dressed as you were with all that paint, I don’t suppose anyone would bat an eye at you now,” the swallow said. “A scraggly, dirty traveller. But there’s only so much you can do to hide that fur of yours and someone was bound to see it at least once. A rare colour. It’s not hard to connect the dots when you know the details.”
“So what do you want from me?” Sonic asked impatiently.
He was getting tired of these birds regaling him with his own actions. He wanted them to get to the damn point already. Did they want to hire him as an assassin? Because they might have to go through someone else for that. The man would not give him up easily. And Sonic had many debts to pay, debts that were not even his.
“I couldn’t care less about that crass bastard, I assure you,” Prince jet huffed. “But hearing about it intrigued me.”
Munk dropped his pants and let her rip right there on East Broadway.
"What the fuck!"
The shocked exclamation came from a nearby pickup truck. It was followed by more shouts of disgust and outrage.
"Hey, man, put your ass away!"
But Munk continued to hold his half-squat. He continued spreading his cheeks with both hands as he pushed out the fat log of shit.
"Motherfucker!"
There was a blast of horns from multiple cars. Expletives shot from the windows of the vehicles, directed a Munk's open ass. Behind each steering wheel, Munk saw scowling faces. He saw eyes full of rage. A few of the drivers flipped him the bird with shaking fists. They didn't want to be witnessing this utter disregard for propriety, but like the proverbial train wreck, none of the drivers could tear his eyes away. And with traffic being fender to fender, the bastards weren't going anywhere.
Munk felt the immense log slip out at last. It dropped with an audible slap upon the hot cement behind him and he turned around to better admire the fruits of his labor.
He found the turd a thing of beauty. Not a perfect swirl, by any means, but thick and oily and curved like a U. Munk was incredibly proud.
"Fucking nasty ass!" a gravelly voice growled.
Munk hoisted up his pants, chuckling, and took in the scope of the rush hour traffic. Old dusty pickup trucks filled East Broadway from the front gates of Samson's Iron Works to the long red light just before the freeway. The trucks carried men with sunbeaten faces, sweaty. A few of these men still wore their hard hats or skullcaps. They looked exhausted, too — too exhausted to be angry even, yet they continued to scowl and shout curses at Munk, who figured the men probably earned more in two hours than he did in an entire day. Normally, he would have been covetous of this fine coin which lined their pockets.
But not right now. Right now, he had the advantage. The sweaty men sat boiling in their vehicles, desperate to get home, with the long red light at the freeway frustrating this goal. The vehicles always sat there for several minutes at a time. The fender-to-fender traffic might last an hour, with the men looking miserable and impotent sitting there in the driver's seat. And now they were miserable and impotent and disgusted, too. They had all been forced to bear witness to Munk's despicable bowel movement, which he noticed was black as coal.
He grinned at the iron workers in their vehicles, regarding them with the sort of magnanimous appreciation with which an actor regards his audience after a show, as if to say, "This fine thing I've done, it would be impossible without you."
police cruiser's lights flashed. Munk darted into a nearby alleyway quickly, climbed a fence, and dropped down onto the other side before the cruiser even pulled into the parking lot where Munk Ass had released his blackened shit.
He ran through the field, bound for the warehouses, and thought of the men's scowls. If he hadn't been running so fast, he would have laughed riotously. It was true, the men had some decent coin. But a triumph like Munk's? Money couldn't buy that.
Ii.
The police shoved Munk into the holding cell so hard he hit the opposite wall and collapsed. He muttered and tried no to cry. He wouldn't give the pigs the damn satisfaction.
"What if he shits int he cell?" he heard one of the officers ask the other.
"Just let him try it and see what happens," growled the other over his shoulder.
The two cops walked off. It was three weeks since his initial stunt on Broadway. Since then, he had accomplished the same feat on Melrose, Center, and Jefferson. They'd caught him at last on Jefferson. The arrest was dirty. Munk had been tackled. His hands had been yanked so violently behind his back that Munk felt his shoulder pop. This was followed by a painful jolt up his arm. Munk had stiffened in shock, cried out, then twisted in pain. The pigs had used the opportunity to declare that he was resisting and there had been a hail of baton strikes unleased upon his ribs and back and legs. The sting of the batons removed all concern over his shoulder.
Munk pulled his pants down. His bruised thighs screamed at him not to squat, but squat he did, holding his ass open. A trickle of blood and spittle dripped from his mouth onto his thighs as he muttered, "Fucking bastards."
Despite it all, he chuckled, thinking of the look on the pigs's faces when they found his black crap waiting for them on the cell floor.
III.
Mr. Mathers wore a mustache and trucker hat. He was probably fifty years old, and the house manager of the work-based recovery program where Munk had been placed. Apparently, it was Mr. Mathers' duty to oversee the residents, to keep them out of trouble.
"Munk?" he began in a low voice.
"It's Munk Ass."
Mathers looked up sharply at Munk, who saw that there was no humor whatever in the old man's eyes. He also detected something in those eyes which he had forgotten, a memory which he had nearly erased with his life of drinking.
"Munk," Mathers repeated, his voice filled with venom.
He had seemed amiable enough during the orientation. But after he had dismissed the rest of the residents, now that he sat before him alone, Munk saw a different man before him, and he suddenly recalled his boyhood, and the frequent confrontations with his father.
"We all know why you're here," Mathers growled. "I've read your file."
He pulled a folder from the pile at his right and tossed it on the desk in front of him. With a fat index finger, he tapped the folder three times, hard. There was a subtle violence to the gesture.
"And let me tell you," Mathers continued, his voice steady, but brimming, it seemed, with fury. "I've got too much on my plate running this god damn house, and looking after these fucking deadbeats, without you giving me problems. You understand?"
Munk said nothing. He looked into Mathers hard face and thought that if this is what the old man looked like just talking, what would he look like mad? Munk's stomach rumbled, and he suppressed a smile.
"Is this funny to you?" Mathers frowned, a fierce gleam in his eye.
"No," Munk lied.
"Let me give it to you straight, Munk Ass," Mathers spat. "You pull one of your little stunts here, and I'll make you eat it."
Munk blinked.
"Eat what?"
"I'll make you eat your own shit," Mathers said, displaying a long row of crooked yellow teeth. beneath the bristle of his smoke-stained mustache.
The spectre of his father loomed before him, and Munk had an intense urge to drop his pants.
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