#i just like writing exposition ig lmaooo

[spidrboots]

the struggling starlet wasn't entirely sure when the shift happened ; when he went from "anthony" to "angel dust". he wished he could remember exactly when it occured -- wished it was important enough to recall, to hold in his head as this monumental occasion that, once he really got big, could be passed down to his adoring fans as the brilliant underdog story that so many craved to see themselves through. in actuality, it probably happened between alleys, in the dimly lit room of shady bars & clubs while he snorted & smoked & placed any tab or pill on his tongue that he could find. he could snort PCP better than all the suckers in those dives. maybe it didn't matter how or when it happened, exactly. the origin didn't mean much. it would still be a name that everyone recognized, preening over, wishing they were him. angel dust: the drag superstar. angel dust: hell's best dancer. angel dust: someone who was better than back alley blowjobs & cheap liquor.

it wasn't like he ever felt close to the name 'anthony', anyway. it was the americanized version of the name his mother gave him ( antonio, he can almost hear her whisper if he shuts his eyes & concentrates ). given to him when his family emigrated to the states. his mother didn't come with them. he doesn't remember much of it, being a young boy at the time. just flashes of activity, suits rustling with movement. suitcases filled with more guns than clothes. a long boat ride. it seems so far away now, the life he took advantage of. for all of its hardships, it had to have been better than the life angel dust now found himself in. he supposed that was the whole point, though. this bein' hell, and all.

the night had started out so well for him. he had managed to book a gig ; it was something small, but it was his. he got to sing & dance on stage. most of the patrons either whooped & hollered at him for all of the wrong reasons or were more interested in their drinks, but the attention on him was a thrill nonetheless. it was a high that didn't come with as much of a price. he performed & it felt damn good. another chance to really get his name out there. it was happening, he could feel it. just . . . slowly. very, very slowly. he had considered doing more mob work. he liked the violence & the deals, & it was something he excelled in. but hell was a hard place to navigate, especially when you die before the rest of your mafia family.

it was after he attempted to leave the bar that shit got nasty. it all happened so quick, too. one moment there's a man he vaguely recognizes from one of his hookups that barely paid enough to go towards his rent, visibly drunk & belligerent. the next, he finds himself surrounded. the man was angry for reasons angel couldn't even begin to comprehend through the slurred speech, & it turned out his friends were angry, too. or perhaps they just got their kicks from ganging up on someone who was outnumbered. angel is on the ground behind the bar before he could even understand what was happening. he tastes blood & his vision swims. he's fighting back with all of his limbs, but he's overpowered, and while he had the height, these men had the weight. he can't recall a time he had been beaten this bad. he distantly hopes he loses consciousness. no, upon consideration, perhaps that would be worse. he couldn't know what they would do to his body until after the fact.

the sound of another body entering the fray is lost on him. he coughs, spits a mixture of saliva & blood across his teeth. if he could just grip his fists & bare it, maybe it would all be over soon.

@e-m-p-error . / plotted first meeting starter .