✩

WHEN MAN DISCOVERED FIRE   he must not have anticipated that it would ignite the colour of his eyes. He must not have anticipated anything at all, in fact, as Haru reckons. It had to have been the very same trope of incidental happening which inspires @manenuf's eyes to flare wide,   the light up above visible through them,   perhaps for Haru to sit there, solemn, and observe.   He borrows it from him,   delicately extending the entrails of his cognition to bid the mark of hope remain where it is. He cannot match, and neither can he enthuse, but if there is a thing in him which might   nudge a wooden stick into the flame,   it is as follows.

"Should be self-sustaining."   Raw, edgeless thought,   dismantled and reassembled at a snail's pace to relay its point.   A gala costs many a penny, if it should come from them. Potential donors sharpening their teeth to the bait, gnawing at two flesh worms   contorted into a P and an R before they altogether snap the hook and swim away.   It is not so. Slow and steady sails the ship. He centers himself along the chair to unfurl his feet, crouching into them   to land his elbows on his knees.

"Bi-annual talent show."   He puts it forth,   his head reared to keep the man in his line of sight.   "One-time budget for a stage and equipment   ...   I'll pay."   A long-winded tape penetrates through the slit in his cranium,   running past it all too rapidly the sum of his experience,   filling his husk with an air of unassuming confidence.

Drama, personality and entertainment intwined to wind the money-making machine. It exploits and in so doing deserves its own exploitation.   "Cheap tickets   ...   snacks   ...   charity in the title."   At its most dissolved his idea becomes a simpleton's guide to self-actualization.   Watch the show, throw a fiver, buy some popcorn and you have transformed yourself   for the next hour and thirty five minutes into a good, good samaritan.

The troubled youth, in turn,  can  be swayed;   if not to display their particularities then to simply compete. They would only need a few.

Easy does it, melt into your thinking.   It's only a matter of   " ... Logistics,"   his trade,  "sort them and it'll work."

“Los Angeles Gargoyle II”

Gouache on Arches hot press watercolor paper, 2025

❝ Appreciate it. ❞ The words that left his lips were more of a grumble, showing that appreciation wasn't his strong suit, but he knew that the humans liked it, or at least so he's heard. Besides, it only felt right to do it in the moment. Looking to see that there were three cigarettes left, Dagon looked at the carton and then back down at the man he had taken one from. 

Reaching into his pocket, he took a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the man. ❝ Here. ❞ Dagon said simply and point-blank. Once the money was handed over, Dagon reached into his pocket again and pulled out a silver lighter to light the stick once the end of it was in his mouth. Taking in an inhale and releasing the puff of smoke through his nose, he looked up towards the sky as he leaned on the metallic rim of the balcony. 

He came up here for a place think, with his twin brother missing and training Sloane Blackwood on her abilities; he believed he was spreading himself too thin. There was also business in his realm that he needed to take care of, and─

'𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐱 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐫, 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞

❝ What the fuck? ❞ Dagon cursed at the sound that was coming from his back jean pocket. There was a vibrant sensation that tickled his rear-end, and he flinched. Reaching behind him to take the mobile vice, he saw that the name read: 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐑.

❝ Damn woman must have changed my ringtone. ❞ Dagon mumbled, declining the phone call. Despite his frustrated features, there was a vibrant crimson that spread on his features, and it wasn't from the cold. It was one thing to have a vulgar ringtone play when he was alone, but with another person, that was a feeling he didn't know how to name, and frankly, he didn't like it. Glancing over at the man, he took another drag from the cigarette before finally speaking. 

THE TWENTY DOLLAR BILL   finds him all on its own. It belonged to the stranger and now it is in his hands, doing little with itself, whispering softly the woes of its purpose. Up they travel,   the murmurs of paper scraping itself to fold and slip into a denim breast pocket with the cigarette box,   asking him why they are with him and the tobacco now and getting nothing, nothing at all. His gaze had spared them its burrow long before they were accepted, pinned without purpose to the city. There is nothing for him to do with sight altogether when the act of listening, to him, is so dear.

Mark, perhaps,   the churn of some inside mechanic,   perked-up ear of the rabbit at a voice it knows too well. Rihanna, of course, with lyrics that do not pierce into him   the way the tempo beneath them does.   Quite alright. None a shade on him different, though his empty turns to its net trap to find mangled into its webbing a mark of delicate red. It takes no time to discern that he is alone in his passivity to the song.   A second. A second and a quarter, if he were to be slow. Supposed Damn Woman must have anticipated different company.   Most do.   Most will.

He snails his hand forward, presses the weight of his eyes upon this decidedly intense presence at hand, asking with his usher of them downward for the device.   He will change it for him,   is the impression melting into the molasses flow of the moment.

' even if it's learn - on - the - job , you're a horrible mentor . ' the strobe lights continue to indifferently flash and spin and the strange seat wetly squelches and bursts and the viscous bits fly into his hair yet his arms only cross with a separate dissatisfaction and childish disappointment as his thoughts linger on the vision of himself stacking materials for sparks before toying with wires for a proper blast and collapsing burst .

the only problem , if it could have been counted for as much , would have been the plausible possibility of haru flattening and drawing his last breath beneath any collapse . a pity and a waste , yan qing thinks , in both directions : a perfectly good act of spectacular destruction in one and never - bothered company in the other .

' usually when ya tell someone ta help you're s'posed ta tell 'em how , too . ' with more than a sarcastic decline of speculation and far more ironic perversions crammed into a simple statement like " i wish . " ' if we can't bust the whole building up with a little electrical pump , then all i've got are my fists . that good enough here ? or y'want me ta start fishin' around in the poppin' gunk , too ? ' his nose wrinkles . ' sounds gross . don't wanna . ' and then , a paused note as he quietly observes . not just the other and their mute readiness but the unnaturally budding cocoon . ' --- all this crap doesn't look any good for ya , either . can't'cha just go home ? '

AS YAN QING   speaks and speaks, jabbing at mentorship well unearned in this place, the couch is left to burst,   muck-ish MEMBRANE cracked open for the snaking reptilian mass of flesh and mangled bone.

Haru fishes and isolates only two aspects   of the many, many topics of conversation penetrating his enduring cranium. He gestures to Yan Qing,   "Pump's useless, fists are fine,"   then to himself,   "can't go home,"   and foots it with the world's most inexpressive thumbs up.

All while the tip of it   –   whatever it is that the couch gives birth to  –   emerges with auburn hair, curling in its ascension to the ceiling as more of itself follows suit. Into the mucus is writhes,   wriggling into the looping curl of itself until what surely must be some intestinal thing becomes layered roll that sounds, betwixt all the moist and squaggle,   almost pained.   Its breathing is realer than even itself, its intermittent huffing and puffing as each of its coils grows and shrinks against its outward flesh, a tired, miserable thing.

Haru stares up at it unmoving, finally given the context to describe, in such simple lack of detail, that ever-so-tiresome how.

His back easily angles itself away from the anomaly,   which has in its final state begun to resemble the very simple egg. Formless, without a shell, fleshy center   cradled with its dripping yolk   as though cracked into a pan and left without heat to suspend.

He unloads his eyes onto Yan Qing as his finger rises to point. No electricity or mayhem might ever be enough for this, but what is -- enough, in some ironic way -- may very well be those fists.   "Choke the solid."   A beat, as he props himself up against whatever remains of the couch.  "Don't ingest."   Please. 

Upward then he points measly hand, tilting his head in tandem with the tendrils leaving his fingers   to whip up and lasso   the center of the ... all things considered, very unfortunate man. He yanks it down with some strength, now finally splatting this egg to some surface -- still no pan. Still no form. Just the floor and a novice baker's most likely mess.   "... and don't answer him."