05-25-2008, 05:07 AM
Against her best judgment, the brooding woman left the ‘champ’ and his lovely model to their privacy. She wondered if it hurt when his bloodflow changed course from the bigger head to feed the smaller? The way that…that…girl clung to him, there was no mistaking what this bitch wanted. Fangirl, groupie, did they all just fall neatly into the same category?
His moods were unique, as changing as flawlessly as a chameleon. How could he could go from being casual to completely serious unprovoked? She felt much smaller than her modest five three as he tilted his head downward to gaze at her. The blood red headband stretched across his forehead stood out like a neon sign, its vividness contrasting sharply with the deep honey cast of his skin. His eyes were two black coals in his face, striking, yet fearsome.
“Problem? What problem?” The cool response didn’t curtail his suspicious glare one little bit. Turning away from his unnerving attention, she started walking towards the flashing lights of Dante’s Bar & Drinks. At this particular moment, she could go for a shot. Or five.
“I want to know what the hell your problem is, Vi.” he pushed, quickening his footsteps to keep up. He saw the bar just ahead of her, and could read where her train of thought was leading her. Grabbing her shoulder, he jerked her around to face him.
Casting him unfriendly eyes, Violet swiveled her shoulder out of his hand and eased away. “If you really want to know, you’re my problem.” His eyes widened just a little at her assertion. “I’ve dealt with some very complex people before, but you, you’re like, some bi-polar version of Rambo. One minute, you seem so fucking shut off from everything around you, and the next, you’re almost…normal.” She scoffed despite herself. “I wish you’d make up my damned mind already.”
“…” He was confused, not for the first time in his life. What the hell kind of nonsense was she spewing now? “Who’s Rambo?”
“He’s this guy from-nevermind. Just take my word for it, okay?” Some of the tension left her shoulders, but her steely reserve never faltered. “I'm trying, I really am, to get to know you, really get to know you, not as some famous guy from a gameshow, but as...as a man.”
“What do you mean?” He asked, anxious about where this conversation was heading. Something didn’t smell right, the sour scent of apprehension perfumed the air around them, stifling in its thickness.
Wiping her hair back from her face, she lifted her gaze to his rather sheepishly, cheeks warming as she tried to explain. “I like you, Bar.” She chuckled nervously, her hands splaying across the front of her leather armor. "I just don't know how to take seeing you look at that...thing like that."
Bar’s mind worked furiously behind his masked expression, trying to form some sort of sense of what she was talking about. His mouth opened, but she cut him off before he could question further, “You’ve just changed, that’s all.” She sighed. This wasn’t the time, or the place to really explain herself. All she knew was that she felt possessive of him; for what reason was beyond her. Some things you just couldn’t explain, it was but another quirk life threw at you. Fate was just tossing in all kinds of ironies her way lately. “Just now, seeing that beanpole bitch squeezing her plastic tits all over you, and then reading her thoughts, I wanted to beam holes through her skull.”
Suddenly aware of the growing crowd around them, Violet grabbed his wrist and pulled him along as she sliced through the pack of awestruck fans. They wanted to know everything there was about their hero, but this was something that they were definitely not allowed to nose into. This was her personal time with him, damn it.
Their disdain of her quickly began to suffocate her already populated thoughts. She heard their insults slowly chant amongst them, rising in pitch as she broke into a full out run. Breaking through the thick oak doors of Dante’s, she pulled him inside, the crowd finally bleeding away, and the electronic music of the many arcades berated them with its disorganized harmonies like a puff of superheated smoke. Televisions turned to different sports channels, all highlighting some aspect of previous events, were spread along the expansive bar opposite the doorway. The lighting was severely muted: aside from the glow from the TV screens, small lamps dotted the small area that the bar occupied like tiny stars in a dark cherry wood sky.
A short bug-like humanoid skittered into view, an expressive pink and purple suit wrapped across his upper body, leaving his lower half, which, to Violet, looked like some giant version of a tarantula’s legs, naked. In his upper two hands, he held two pitchers of a dark ale, brimming to the top, its white foam puffy around the rim, and sloshing over the edge.
“Welcome, welcome!” the bugman greeted, shoving the pitchers towards the pair. “Welcome to Dante’s. We are honored to have the champ in our establishment.” His sincerity was almost genuine, if it wasn’t for the major cheese factor of his delivery.
At first, they hesitated, wondering which Hell would be worse: one made up of raving, adoring fans, or one where you are guaranteed to be exploited in order to gain some other guy credit? To Vi, the beer was making one hell of a compelling argument.
His moods were unique, as changing as flawlessly as a chameleon. How could he could go from being casual to completely serious unprovoked? She felt much smaller than her modest five three as he tilted his head downward to gaze at her. The blood red headband stretched across his forehead stood out like a neon sign, its vividness contrasting sharply with the deep honey cast of his skin. His eyes were two black coals in his face, striking, yet fearsome.
“Problem? What problem?” The cool response didn’t curtail his suspicious glare one little bit. Turning away from his unnerving attention, she started walking towards the flashing lights of Dante’s Bar & Drinks. At this particular moment, she could go for a shot. Or five.
“I want to know what the hell your problem is, Vi.” he pushed, quickening his footsteps to keep up. He saw the bar just ahead of her, and could read where her train of thought was leading her. Grabbing her shoulder, he jerked her around to face him.
Casting him unfriendly eyes, Violet swiveled her shoulder out of his hand and eased away. “If you really want to know, you’re my problem.” His eyes widened just a little at her assertion. “I’ve dealt with some very complex people before, but you, you’re like, some bi-polar version of Rambo. One minute, you seem so fucking shut off from everything around you, and the next, you’re almost…normal.” She scoffed despite herself. “I wish you’d make up my damned mind already.”
“…” He was confused, not for the first time in his life. What the hell kind of nonsense was she spewing now? “Who’s Rambo?”
“He’s this guy from-nevermind. Just take my word for it, okay?” Some of the tension left her shoulders, but her steely reserve never faltered. “I'm trying, I really am, to get to know you, really get to know you, not as some famous guy from a gameshow, but as...as a man.”
“What do you mean?” He asked, anxious about where this conversation was heading. Something didn’t smell right, the sour scent of apprehension perfumed the air around them, stifling in its thickness.
Wiping her hair back from her face, she lifted her gaze to his rather sheepishly, cheeks warming as she tried to explain. “I like you, Bar.” She chuckled nervously, her hands splaying across the front of her leather armor. "I just don't know how to take seeing you look at that...thing like that."
Bar’s mind worked furiously behind his masked expression, trying to form some sort of sense of what she was talking about. His mouth opened, but she cut him off before he could question further, “You’ve just changed, that’s all.” She sighed. This wasn’t the time, or the place to really explain herself. All she knew was that she felt possessive of him; for what reason was beyond her. Some things you just couldn’t explain, it was but another quirk life threw at you. Fate was just tossing in all kinds of ironies her way lately. “Just now, seeing that beanpole bitch squeezing her plastic tits all over you, and then reading her thoughts, I wanted to beam holes through her skull.”
Suddenly aware of the growing crowd around them, Violet grabbed his wrist and pulled him along as she sliced through the pack of awestruck fans. They wanted to know everything there was about their hero, but this was something that they were definitely not allowed to nose into. This was her personal time with him, damn it.
Their disdain of her quickly began to suffocate her already populated thoughts. She heard their insults slowly chant amongst them, rising in pitch as she broke into a full out run. Breaking through the thick oak doors of Dante’s, she pulled him inside, the crowd finally bleeding away, and the electronic music of the many arcades berated them with its disorganized harmonies like a puff of superheated smoke. Televisions turned to different sports channels, all highlighting some aspect of previous events, were spread along the expansive bar opposite the doorway. The lighting was severely muted: aside from the glow from the TV screens, small lamps dotted the small area that the bar occupied like tiny stars in a dark cherry wood sky.
A short bug-like humanoid skittered into view, an expressive pink and purple suit wrapped across his upper body, leaving his lower half, which, to Violet, looked like some giant version of a tarantula’s legs, naked. In his upper two hands, he held two pitchers of a dark ale, brimming to the top, its white foam puffy around the rim, and sloshing over the edge.
“Welcome, welcome!” the bugman greeted, shoving the pitchers towards the pair. “Welcome to Dante’s. We are honored to have the champ in our establishment.” His sincerity was almost genuine, if it wasn’t for the major cheese factor of his delivery.
At first, they hesitated, wondering which Hell would be worse: one made up of raving, adoring fans, or one where you are guaranteed to be exploited in order to gain some other guy credit? To Vi, the beer was making one hell of a compelling argument.
![[Image: visigjune08_v2.jpg]](http://storm.novahost.org/mysigs/visigjune08_v2.jpg)
Fuck you, Photobucket.