#more pompadour or duck tail style I think

[the-lord-of-the-things]

Arcade practice/warmup tryna nail his hair mostly, along with a lil consistency and staying on model

[girldragongizzard]

Chapter 3: Adversary

“Hey, Chapman! The yooj?” Jill projects her question around me like a professional thespian, grabbing the attention of the startled customer.

Chapman jerks, looks up at her, and opens their mouth to talk, but takes a quick breath first. Then they look a little relieved but still rattled, and say, “Yyyyyeah. That’d be great!”

Their voice sounds like dark maple syrup, and I’m noticing the complexity of their hairdo this time.

It is a side cut, with the right side of their head shaved clean and showing off a tattoo of three fuchsias hanging down from the top of their scalp where their new hairline is. And the rest of their hair is short in the back and thick and long in the front and styled in a wavy pompadour, with a pointy and groomed sideburn that comes down half an inch below their left earlobe. And the hair is an immaculate dark hot pink.

Everything about them, their name, their voice, their haircut, all keep telling me to keep sticking to they/them for them, for now, until I actually learn their pronoun. Which I’m told is what I should do for everyone, and I try. But there’s something about their whole thing, what they’ve got going on, that transfixes me just a little bit more each time I look at them, and the sense that they’re probably an enby feels like part of it.

But now they look perplexed and still hesitant, like they’re trying to figure out whether they should try to solve a puzzle that’s been presented to them.

“Hey, Meghan, your drink’s ready,” Jill mutters at me.

Oh!

I’m in the way.

I make what I think of as a startled but cheerful sound and reach for my tablet to put it in my purse. But we all notice that the noise that comes from deep in my throat sounds almost exactly like the door chime. And everyone looks delighted and surprised by that, including me I assume.

Then I duck and fluidly bound toward my table, low, quiet, and way more graceful than I even want to be, my tail wiggling in behind me in the process. It’s embarrassing how it feels like my body is suddenly showing off for some reason.

Then I try to hide behind my table and bury my face in my drink.

But I can still clearly see Chapman in my peripheral vision and this display of mine does not seem to have unflustered them.

I may be new to physically being a dragon, and I may have a lot of trouble recognizing things like, say, flirting. But I’m not new to this. 

Whatever Chapman actually thinks of me, I feel like I’m in high school again. And I don’t even know what I think of Chapman, but my limbic system seems to have its ideas. I almost did a mating dance on the way to my table, and I really don’t know what to do about it, so now I’m remaining as still as possible now.

I have no clue what Chapman’s age is, as I watch them finally step forward to engage in their transaction. I’ve always been bad at judging ages. Humans all age at wildly different rates anyway. But also, we’re not even the same species.

Why am I reacting to them like this?

I find myself wondering if maybe they’re another dragon, just still disguised as a human, like I’d been just a week ago.

What if I’m only the first, and there’s more to come? Would I be able to sense the others, kind of in the way that Jill and Cerce already sensed these things about me?

Then I have a super wild thought, and lose myself in it as a way of distracting myself. What if there are no actual humans. What if we’re all mythical creatures waiting to shed our disguises, and that’s why we can sometimes recognize each other?

It seems as likely an explanation for what’s going on with me as anything else I can imagine. And I think I’d really like it to be true.

I decide I’m not going to pursue my feelings. They don’t make any sense. Not sexually, anyway. I wouldn’t mind being Chapman’s friend if they decide they can be friends with me. But I won’t try. They’re clearly unsettled by me, and I don’t want to impose myself on them in any way.

So the real challenge is just being normal when we’re sharing the same space, so I don’t make them more uncomfortable.

I figure that the best way to do this right now is to look around at the other customers.

There’s quite a mix of people today, and all of them are ignoring what’s going on in the front of the shop. They’re ignoring me. As usual.

And it strikes me, as I’m glancing around, now aware of my actual gender and how people seem to see me, that of all the variety of people who look like they might be women here, I share nothing in common with them.

So many of them wear some degree of makeup, and must have some sort of skin care routine. They wear jewelry of various sorts, and know how to put their hair up or get it styled the way they like. Their gestures and ways of speaking aren’t all the same, but seem like a myriad of ways of expressing femininity that I do wish I could mimic.

But, I don’t have hair. Or bare skin to apply anything to. I haven’t bothered with anything like clothes for four days now. And I don’t think I have vocal chords. I have something else that feels like it’s between my lungs. There’s no way I’m going to be using my tongue to craft soft vowels and breathy fricatives. No one alive right now is going to know how to give me vocal lessons.

And it doesn’t matter, because I’m a dragon and I really don’t have to adhere to common human beauty standards to be seen as what I am. But I do feel left out all the same.

And even if I still had a human body and was transitioning like normal, I don’t think I could stand putting stuff on my face to smooth out my complexion and adorn it. But I feel like I should.

I guess I’ve been raised by humans, and spent the first 50 years of my life soaking in human socialization. I shouldn’t be surprised I have this trouble.

Let’s say I decided to wear jewelry as a dragon. That’s something I could probably do. I could wrap necklaces or bracelets around my horns or something like that. I can’t decide if I’d be doing that for myself or to signal to everyone else that I’m female.

And at 50 years old, you’d think I’d be above this sort of quandary, because I’m well past the typical dating age. I’m settled. I’m disabled, too. I have my routines. I know who and what I am, and that’s all that matters. And what I present to the world is what the world gets. Like, other 50 year old women brag about how free they feel, no longer trying to be attractive to mates or meet societal standards.

Obviously, I’m not like other girls my age.

I turn back to my mocha to discover that Chapman is sitting at my table opposite me, composing themself with drink in both hands.

I recall seeing the movement in my peripheral vision earlier, but hadn’t made sense of it because I had successfully lost myself in thought.

I tilt my head to the side, eyes wide.

“Hi,” they say.

—

So I didn’t get a chance to compose my questions, and now Rhoda wants to hear all about Chapman while she tidies up my apartment.

As I knuckle out my explanation for Chapman’s interest in me, Rhoda is holding up things that are scattered around my livingroom and giving me a questioning look. I glance up and either smile or turn my head away, and she decides based on that whether to save it or throw it away.

So many things are just destroyed, and I have to let them go. But with anything that’s still intact, whether it’s useful to me or not, I just can’t get rid of it. I’ve got to have my things.

At certain point, she says, “Meg. Darling. We can’t store all of this in here. There isn’t room for your wings and tail, otherwise. Can you even afford a storage garage?”

In answer, I knuckle out the last few characters and then hit the talk button. “Autistic special interest,” I say.

She quirks her head and asks, “Chapman?”

I smile.

“Oh, that’s sweet. Maybe sie can help you figure out dragon things you might not otherwise know yet,” she says. We’d covered Chapman’s pronouns just a little bit earlier. Rhoda looks around at everything and sighs. Then she suggests, “What if we make your bedroom your hoard room, and turn the livingroom into your new sleeping den? I think the layout works better for that. I mean. Yes, your torso and legs aren’t all that much bigger than a human’s, but with those huge wings and that tail of yours, you know, well…” She gestures and nods at everything, “You do know.”

I acknowledge the truth of that with a gentle, tentative bob of my head.

“We’re going to need some help removing some of this wrecked furniture, too. But I’ve got a line on that. Don’t worry about it.” She tosses some obviously trashed things into the garbage and says, “OK. So. Chapman. Have you got another date with hir lined up?”

“Not date,” I respond. “Yes.”

“Sure,” she says, obviously not agreeing with my assessment. “What’cha gonna do?”

“Talk.”

“Where?”

“Park.”

“Oh, that sounds nice! Lots of room to move around. You can go for a little walk while you chat. I love it,” she says.

“Not date,” I repeat.

“I know,” she says. “My boy always liked going for walks with his friends. They'd all talk and talk and talk, and pace around the whole time even if they were just in the living room. But going places to connect and blab about anything and everything gave them all a sense of purpose, I'm sure. And stimuli and new things to talk about.” She organizes a few things, then continues, “He was autistic, too, you know. And pacing and walking was one of his stims. I wouldn't be surprised if Chapman's the same way.”

“OK, yes,” I reply. Then determined to delve into subjects of my own curiosity, I change the subject by asking the one question I do have cued up, “Why aren’t you freaking out about me being a dragon?”

Rhoda assesses me with tight lips, then replies, “It’s like you shed your old skin that night, you know. Maybe ate it in your sleep. Everyone could see this coming. It's just your new phase of growth.”

“Not you? You not do this?” I ask.

She blinks and wrinkles up her face and says, “Heavens, no! How even would I?” Then she holds up a finger. “Mind you, if I could, I would have. Ages ago! I saw how you were suffering. You were miserable under that old hide of yours. I imagine everyone saw it.”

So, I'm not getting answers from her. At least, not the ones I wanted to hear.

“Tell me,” she says. “What else are you experiencing along with this? Can you see things you couldn't see before? Are your senses sharper?”

“Yes. Thermals,” I reply.

Her eyebrows go up, “Can you fly?”

“Yes!”

“Fantastic!” she exclaims. “That must be amazing! I bet Chapman will love it!”

I’d roll my eyes, but I can’t. I do the big exaggerated head circle again.

“Oh come now,” Rhoda says. “I’m not teasing you about dating. I just genuinely think Chapman would appreciate a demonstration and you should give it to hir.”

She’s right, of course. And I agree to do so.

“In fact, I’d like to see you fly, myself,” she adds.

I look out one of my windows. I’ve got a third story apartment, two stories from the top. And there’s a small parking lot directly across the street. If I were to climb out the window and glide across that lot, I could catch the big thermal there and get some lift before wheeling out over into one of the streets. Some wing work, and I could probably get above the low buildings of that block. Without more experience, it feels really iffy, but I might be able to do it.

But I figure that a creature as big as I am is in real danger of seriously hurting itself in a crash. Too much inertia for bone density. Hell, starlings kill themselves on windows every day.

Intellectually, I know it’s a bad idea to test myself that way, but I find I’m not actually afraid.

I turn my head to look at Rhoda and open my mouth to talk, momentarily forgetting that I can’t really do that anymore, when I catch something big moving swiftly just outside my window.

My memory of it now is just a snapshot flash of an image, another dragon, wings, head, and tail pulled back, and all four feet extended outward to brace for impact with the wall between windows.

The very next moment of memory is bricks, plaster, insulation, wood, wires, and dragon billowing into my partially tidied living room and destroying it.

And I’m somehow turned 180 degrees, facing the monster who is picking themself up from the middle of the rubble of my apartment as Rhoda, who was safe in a corner near the outer wall, away from the impact and out of line of flying debris, shouts.

My tail is curled up awkwardly in the corner of the room near the door to the kitchen, and I’m already crouched and ready to leap upon the intruder, wondering how I got here, wings held tightly to my back.

And I’m also thinking that this maybe answers my questions about the durability of my body.

We are not exactly the same kind of beast, though.

Anyone looking at either of us would call us both dragons. And we have the same number of limbs. But that’s where our similarities end.

I’ve got iridescent blue and indigo scales with a pattern of diamonds down my back. I’ve got fiery orange and gold markings as well, and tan belly scales. I have a pair of horns that sweep back from my skull, and ear canals that are almost hidden behind protective scales. And I’m lithe and pointy, and look something like a cross between a gecko and a caiman, but with wings.

Then there’s this fuzzy brown asshole that looks like if you crossed a bat with a hippo and gave the result a feathered dinosaur tail. And I know that I cannot let that gaping maw anywhere near anything I care about.

I hear a rumbling that is as deep and soul shaking as you’d expect from an earthquake, and realize that it’s me. I’m making that noise with something in my ribcage.

Rhoda is pushing herself further and further back into her corner of the room, even though she’s already pressed up against the walls.

The moment my sudden adversary is free of rubble, they jump forward and let out a croak of a yawp.

In response, I jerk my head up and let out the strangest squawk that starts from the infrasonic rumble that’s been building in the depths of my body and rises to a cracking cry that sounds like an angry parrot. And then as I close my mouth afterward, a clacking noise like a raven’s comes out and I find myself jerking my head with each knock.

It’s not exactly involuntary, I just find myself doing what feels right. And I’m pretty sure the other dragon knows exactly what it means.

I’m not quite as big as my challenger, but my vocal prowess causes them to pause.

I don’t know why this is happening and I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, but two things are extremely obvious.

I’ve got to do whatever I can to keep Rhoda safe, because she is squishy and cannot survive being squished by either of us dragons.

And I’m definitely not getting my damage deposit back.

Also, I decide that hesitating is bad and I want this fucker out of my apartment.

I do a little zigzag. I leap slightly toward the outside wall, to my right, in the direction of my opponent. Then, still accelerating forward, I bound left, pushing off the floor to launch at a spot on the inner wall, twisting my body to plant my feet there so that I can leap off that wall.

I never in my life imagined doing anything like this with my old body. It was just entirely inconceivable, especially as my chronic illness set in. But, I’ve spent countless hours visualizing this exact maneuver with a body nearly identical to the one I have now, in situations I’ve really only seen in action movies.

My tail acts as a springing counterweight that also pushes off the wall just after my hind legs have launched me in the direction of the flying hippo beast. My wings have also made a measured stroke to grab some air and swim through it without slamming into floor or ceiling, but I do feel them brushing surfaces and things in the process.

Head bowed and turned sideways, I slam the peak of my shoulders into the side of the other dragon, and then straighten my neck out and sink my horns into their haunch.

I manage to make them slide about two feet, and squeeze an agonized “grawp” from their throat.

It’s not enough, though. I need them out.

I get smacked repeatedly with their right wing as they try to twist to bite me. But I’m more agile and serpentine than they are, and I’m climbing over the base of their tail and wrapping my own around their legs, hooking my tail barb in one of their ankles and pulling.

Scrabbling and clawing my way to the huge hole in the wall, I manage to get them to spin in place just to reduce the pain caused by my tail barb.

A good nine tenths of the apartment is now flapping wings, dust, and enraged screaming and roaring the likes of which Hollywood has never managed to imitate.

And then I do the thing. If this asshole wants to challenge and fight me, let them do it outside, away from people.

I unhook my tail and leap from my apartment, rumbling and clacking the whole way, and dive across the street to the parking lot.

The sun is going down, so the air is cooling. But it’s been a long summer day and the pavement of the parking lot is still rising with heat, and I spread my wings as wide as I can to catch it.

The lift keeps me from slamming into a car. And, with a beat of my wings and a curve of my spine, I manage to clear a tree near the street and avoid becoming part of the mural painted on the nearest building.

I let out a cackling challenge as I work to gain altitude flying down the street and toward the bay, away from what used to be my home.

I don’t have to turn my head far to see behind me, and a flurry of movement in my peripheral vision tells me I’m being pursued.

Perfect.

How in the God damned hell can that thing fly?

---

copyright 2024 the Inmara Fenumera

if you see a typo, report a typo

[stuckasmain]

Absolutely losing my mind because the hairstyle Billy has, I initially thought it was just a pompadour but it’s straight up a D.A.

“Duck butt/duck tail/duck ass.” It still has a fluffier part in the front but involves slicking the sides back and a lot more general styling. It’s also what’s more associated when people think of the 1950s —- actually I think it’s a bit of both a D.A and Jellyroll with his little floof up front.

When his hairs down/messy it’s noticeably more voluminous on the sides etc noting the way he usually styles it slicks back/to the side

[georgeouswashington]

The Analysis

The subject of the close-reading is the aforementioned music video by Stray Cats titled “(She’s) Sexy & 17.″ The single was released in 1983 with a slight difference in title -- “She’s Sexy + 17” -- and was a part of Rant n' Rave with the Stray Cats. Although the album received mixed reviews, most of which criticised Brian Setzer’s songwriting pointing out its repetitiveness, the single itself ws Stray Cats’ second highest charting song reaching number 5 in Billboard Hot 100. Contemporarily, however, most of the songs from Rant n' Rave with the Stray Cats are performed live with great success and seem to be highly desirable. I can back this though with my own experience.

The Style and References

To start with, I would like to describe the general style utilised in the video. It is obvious that “(She’s) Sexy & 17″ features a mixture of two styles: the 50s rock and roll and 80s punk rock style. Stray Cats have been known for basing both their sound (which I comment upon later) and look on the 50s rockabilly and make it more exaggerated by adding little punk flavours. The picture below shows Brian Setzer wearing a leather biker jacket and a white t-shirt -- a classic 50s biker look.

And below I include a picture of Marlon Brando in The Wild One, a benchmark of the 50s biker style:

Quite an obvious reference, right? Also, take a look at the boys’ hair:

For the sake of higher resolution and clarity of the photo, I include a photo from a different source, but the mere style is the same. Stray Cats adapted the 1950s undercut greaser pompadours, duck tails, and jelly rolls to a new standard -- they simply made them bigger -- more punkish. The mohawk haircut was at the peak of its popularity back then, so to make themselves look more flashy and showy, the Cats simply added grew their hair bigger. In case anyone was wondering, all of the Cats use Murray’s pomade (Lee Rocker mentioned Nu Nile specifically).

Eddie Cochran (above) was a major rockabilly artist of the 1950s. Sadly, he only managed to record two albums before a fatal car crash, yet all of his songs are hits. We all know “Summertime Blues” and “Somethin’ Else,” often without even being aware of it. Cochran is an icon of rock and roll: the embodiment of youth energy, rebellion,and biker lifestyle. He is a massive inspiration for the Cats and Brian Setzer specifically. The frontman of Stray Cats’ attention was drawn to rockabilly because of an Eddie Cochran album cover:

There are numerous interviews featuring Setzer elaborating upon his fascination with Eddie Cochran. Setzer’s guitar of choice is a modified version of Gretsch G6120 from 1959. The guitar is based on what Eddie Cochran played.

Although hollowbody guitar are, disputably, less user-friendly on stage due to the frequent feedback problem and are prone to tuning issues because of the Bigsby B6 and the top reacting to humidity changes, Setzer has been consequently playing the G6120-derivatives for years. It constantly brings the 50s to mind, does it not?

Brian Setzer, known for being a Cochran die-hard fan, was asked to play the role of Eddie in “La Bamba,” a Ritchie Valens biographical film (and one of my absolute favourites). This is how close he looks to the original man:

In other music videos and live concert, Stray Cats also wear rock and roll-styled smart clothes, of course bigger and wilder-looking than the original 50s ones:

The colourful fancy-trimmed tuxedos were popular firstly among jazz, and later in the 50s among rock and roll artists. One of the most recognisable artist to sport one of such is the person considered to be the Godfather of Rock and Roll himself, Chuck Berry:

In the music video, however, they sport more punkish features, such as t-shirts with sleeves cut off completely, polka-dotted bandanas, even bigger hair, dark sunglasses, and pirate-like makeup:

But what is the reason for listing all the detailed references, including Brian Setzer’s choice of guitars, hair products, and toothbrushes? The answer is simple: the extensive references to the 1950s culture and an intriguing mixture of the former and punk flavours serve one purpose: to demonstrate rebellion, present in the 80s just as much as in the 50s, if not to a greater degree.

One is supposed to look at the video and immediately notice how rock and roll they are, thus rebellious, different, and nonconformist. Why was the rock and roll revolution synonymous with rebellion? Rock and roll was born in very specific socioeconomic conditions: on one hand, there was the widespread idea of the communist threat and the risk of the deterioration of Cold War; this, in addition with McCarthy’s witch-hunt led against supposedly-present communists agents in American public sphere, created a great tension. On the other, the well-being of American families has unprecedentedly improved. The availability of television, thus mass media, and sufficient funds to buy newly-invented 45-rpm records rendered the revolution possible. Never before the tension in American society could have been released in such a broad and popular manner. When we think about teenagers from the 1950s, we instantly see a boy with greasy hair, driving parents’ car, smoking cigarettes, and listening to 45-rpm vinyl records.

The image is so strongly embedded in popular culture, because it was the first time such a broad revolution was possible. Teenagers could allow themselves to relieve the social tension through music, fashion, and lifestyle. As a result, rock and roll and the 50s are instantly recognised as an unprecedented rebellion. Therefore, Stray Cats, connecting punk rock and 50s rock and roll influences, referred to those two genres stylistically as faithfully as possible: it was about rebellion.

[aurinofthewild]

Aurin Glam Tour

(( Asper Synthstar is the property of @awkwardtimezone! Myym Trugale is my baby! ))

Myym sat down at the table with his client, tail neatly wrapped around the chair's leg as he casually leaned on an elbow, hand curled under his chin. Coy smile already trained to his face, he was listening intently with delicate ears swiveled forward. His gown screamed high class and rich, as did his bracelets and rings that shimmered against his unblemished blue skin. Light blue hair that always had the perfect wind swept look was done up in a cute pompadour that framed bright sapphire eyes. He was blue from ear tip to tail tip, and that was the allure.

The bar scene was bustling behind him, as his focus was meant to be on the man chatting him up as he waited out his time. However, an itch at the back of his mind kept him in a slightly less pleasant mood, as this was some sort of mission rather than a pleasure boat cruise. Sadly, when the Blackhoods come to you with a request, it is very unwise to tell them no, and when your friend asks you for a solid you do him the solid. So here he was, schmoozing at a concert hall--or the remnants of one--while he awaited the arrival of the rock legend. The small device he wore, the lapel for working the stage, kept recording as he all but ignored the man trying desperately to get his chron number.

Movement from the side and a very scruffy mess of hair bouncing into view gave Myym pause as he held up a hand to his table mate. He gave a slight awkward laugh and slid down from his chair gliding over to Asper with the full grace of a dancer. Stopping the other, he held his hands out with the indignation of a person trying to avoid the blame for a head-on collision. Myym huffed. Torn shirt, missing sleeves and the entire sides of the top, ripped pants, and an assortment of rather sharp accents made Asper look like a complete hooligan.

Asper took a moment to look over Myym with a charming smirk that morphed into a deep frown when he realized it was just Myym. He snorted. "What...are you wearing?"

Myym let out a soft gasp and then grit his teeth to calm himself. "How about a full outfit, for starters. You look like you fought a pair of scissors and lost-- Are those...spikes?"

"Dude, it's called fashion."

"It's called--I don't think you understand what you've been asked to do! Look, Blackhoods or not, we are singers, not agents!" Myym was trying not to yell, but his whispers occasionally squeaked.

"Just set me up on stage. I've got this..." Asper gave Myym a winning smile and finger guns.

"You've got this..." Flat toned and defeated, Myym placed a hand to his face.

"Yeah... I've got this."

Myym stared hard at Asper as he debated on the likelihood of escaping this job, but put a hand to his temple and sighed heavily. Brushing past him, his tail tip thrashed behind him as he moved to the stage. Breathe, things were going to be okay. Asper was at least briefed on the Blackhoods plan, he was sure of it. Why else would he be so cool, calm, and collected. Stepping up to the mic, he did the best introduction he could for the other Aurin as he gave way for their glamorous entrance.

Smoke rose and the silhouette strutting into view before Asper claimed center stage, giving the crowd a winning smile. Lights flashed, and the stage was set for an amazing show as the hall lights dimmed and spectators raced to the stage. Myym huffed and found himself a nice spot off to the side of the stage in a corner, but realized too quickly that he was just below a speaker as the music started to play. Flattening his ears against his hair, he watched as young female and male humans, aurin, draken, and all other manner of space riff raff flocked to the Glam Rock Aurin's performance.

The soft entrance was something that Myym was not expecting at all, as Asper sang sweetly into the mic. His emotion played the crowd as the pre-recorded background vocals seemed to rise and fall eerily perfect. The lyrics were familiar, but Myym couldn't quite place it as Asper continued through the intro. It was clear this boy had some serious vocal control and training. There was a reason that he had the fans in an uproar, and Myym was starting to realize that he made a mistake with his previous worry.

"Open your eyes.. Look up to the skies and see..." Myym let his ears swivel and he relaxed as he listened to the lyrics. They were something else, and definitely not what he expected out of either the Blackhoods or Asper. Then again, he knew the other's ability to really lead a crowd and it always impressed Myym. "Anyway the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me... Too me."

"Mama.. Just killed a man... Put a gun against his head." Myym perked his ears up at that, and furrowed his brow. This was a bit more forward than what he was expecting. He thought the silent code was much more silent than this. Puzzling over the situation, he moved to lean against the back wall to watch. The good news was at least Asper was a good stage act. Settling back and watching as the performing aurin shimmered in the mist with glitter and stage makeup covering his face and arms, the blue aurin admired Asper's voice.

Myym took stock of his surroundings as he listened to the song. The walls were all lined with plants, something he really had to appreciate from this broken venue. The acoustics were amazing as well, not something he was expecting when he'd taken the invitation to this little underground rock concert. It seemed that they were expecting to have various musically-inclined guests and had thought to arrange things to really bring out the stage. The over abundance of red clashed with his aesthetic, but then it was only a minor complaint.

"...Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth." The sudden vocals hit him in the heart as Asper let his singing rise to the emotional occasion. The crowd was singing along, so this wasn't a new song. Myym was right in his vague recognition. Some Exile propaganda, though he was really moved at how Asper sold the lyrics, "Mama! Ooooh oooooh. I don't wanna die... Sometimes wish I'd never been born at all..."

Asper took hold of the mic stand as the guitar riffs played out and he followed them in a perfect air guitar. Myym was in awe at his performance, that was until movement caught his attention. People were moving and it wasn't clear what their intention was, nor their allegiance. Zoning in, they slowly made advances towards a specific table and it dawned on him just what Asper's singing was directing. He looked back to the stage as the guitar solo was over and Asper was back to singing. Blissfully unaware.

"I see a little silhouetto of a man..." Myym gasped softly as the lyrics were too clear and he knew it was time to find a place to hide. The song itself was reaching a peak that seemed to draw in his breath to soft short gasps as his heart was racing for what seemed like no reason. Eyes wide, he moved as quickly as he could manage without raising attention to his location as he sank to a table next to the stage, opposite of the now-obvious target of the moving silent figures. Myym kept it together, barely.

Was this a hit? Were Asper and Myym now hitmen for the Blackhoods? He couldn’t let this stain his reputation, he was just starting to get his singing career in place! What sort of jobs were they starting to take, and why was he trying to drag Myym into the fray? There were so many questions as Myym tried to make his hiding spot smaller and less accessible for when shit hit the fan. They were singers, not hitmen. Maybe he was just overreacting. Maybe the guy was just not paying his tab, and the bouncers were coming to collect.

The music hit a strange section that had Myym looking over to Asper as he started a chorus with several voice recordings. They were clearly arguing with each other on stage as Asper simply dictated each entrance with a open hand, a pointed finger, or a clenched fist. He was really getting into this role and Myym had to give him props for the emotion! Though it quickly escalated as the figures were finally in position and the music hit the peak Myym had been expecting…

There was a dramatic guitar riff and Asper rang out over the mic after some expert air guitar. "So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye?! So you think you can love me and leave me to die?!"

The gun fire rang over the music and the screaming quickly drew the attention of the guards that had been quite entertained by the blond Aurin on stage! It was quick as all hell broke loose within the small venue. There was running, screaming, over-turned tables, more gunshots, and suddenly Myym was hoisted from his hiding spot under the table. It wasn't until he was being carried away that he even realized he'd been one of the loudest screaming from the gun fire. Taking another deep breath, he belted out yet another loud and dramatic scream still being carted off to Weave knew where.

Crying, that was something Myym hadn't done in a while. He was a sobbing mess in Asper's arms as the male did his best to carry off the damsel in distress. Bridal style, Myym was leaning back as he dramatically tossed his hair at the predicament and did nothing to help Asper from almost dropping him twice. He was being kidnapped. Goodbye, world. I guess that trip to Lopp Springs was never going to happen!

There was yelling, but it took a bit for the sobbing queen to get a handle on himself and listen to Asper’s pleading. "Can you run? You're really heavy!"

Myym was horrified. He was on a strict diet, and these heels were custom-made. There was no way he was running in these shoes! Quickly grabbing his heels and slipping them off, he was expertly dropped to his feet which were already willing to run alongside Asper. Ears flat back, he hoisted up the hem of his dress and ran along screaming as they rounded the hallway. The blond aurin sent shots down the corridor they had just come from with a quick duck and yelp as shots were quickly returned. Myym hadn't signed up for any of this. He was already rehearsing the very angry letter he'd be writing to the manager.

A gunshot whizzed past bringing Myym back to the present which kick started another round of sobbing and screaming from the both of them. The two aurin collided around a corner and almost ran up the side with their speed. Asper pointed ahead trying to scream louder than Myym's screeching, "If we can just make the docking bay...! Can't you run any faster?!"

Up ahead was freedom. So close, but slowly fading. The door to the docking bay was closing, and Myym saw his life flashing before his eyes. It was a good life, filled with a lot of good parties and good food. He had missed out on that loaded hotdog, and he wished that he had eaten more hamburgers. There was that one time he missed the chance to get that fabulous looking ring. He didn’t want to die. There was too much good food, expensive drink, and Ryska crossed his mind as his heart dropped. This was it, he could see the golden light as it sped him faster towards his end. He could feel death wrapping their arms around his waist and carrying him away.

The sudden snap back to reality had Myym tumbling head over heels as he smashed into the elevator wall. Asper was panting, but otherwise seemed just fine. He was already working on punching in code to his datachron, getting the ship set so they could escape. "Dude, I don't think I've ever pulled someone along before! That was rad!"

Asper did a little victory dance near Myym’s head as the two were transported to the ship via elevator pulley. “Man Maza’am owes me bigtime for this… I thought it would be an easy job, right? Go in, sing, leave with fans. No one told me about the shootings! I was pretty amazing though…”

Myym was crumpled on the floor, his blue Angora tail fluffed up three times its normal size. Turned out Asper really had no idea. At least they were both still alive.

Spellslingers...