Post by codemana on Sept 29, 2015 17:35:22 GMT -5
Inside a place called The Magic Thimble as owner and proprietor Janice Ewing checks her work on multicolored shawl she’s just finished. Around her the walls are adorned with many past works from clothing to blankets to those little blankets that go on the backs of couches. There are precious few hours in her work day as the dim shine of the outside street lights glow through the front window. She checks her watch just as her long awaited final customer of the day strolls through the front door.
Garbed in a pair of blue jeans with the knees missing and a homemade stenciled t shirt that reads: went to Maryland and all i got was a lousy World Championship, Reno does his best to mimic a cocky strut but his crooked knees don’t quite allow that much prestige. What’s new with his wardrobe is a pair of reflective stunner shades protecting his eyes from the white heat he’s been giving off since the prior Friday night, and where his usual knotted extension chord would be holding up his beaten dungarees is fifteen pounds of UWR title gold. He is flanked by Mr. Bellagio who has also upgraded his duds with an off the rack number his benefactor purchased for him at the local Goodwill. A plaid woolen jacket, camouflage button up shirt, and black slacks that are about two sizes too small even for the narrow stumps he has for legs. Both men reach the counter and Janice takes a cautionary half step back.
Reno: Good woman i think you have something for me. A certain under garment and pantaloon combo i commissioned this last Sunday.
Janice: Uh yes, Mister Mustang. It’s all ready. Made exactly to your specifications. Generally though i do ask for payment up front, if that’s not to much to…
Ms. Ewing’s eyes slide to the side as she sees Bellagio rubbing an embroidered hand towel against his mangled beard. He coos in delight as it scrubs dirt and dried pieces of fried potato out of the bramble. Reno notices her concern and turns to approach Bellagio. Mr. B’s new play thing is suddenly ripped from his paws by Mustang as he begins lashing him several times with it. Bellagio screeches in terror as if he were being scourged with a cat o’ nine tails.
Reno: What did i say about rubbing things in good company?! Only when asked for and you better be getting paid for it!
Janice’s concern has become pure horror as Reno finishes up his punishment and he and Bellagio, sheepish as a church mouse now, walk back to the counter, Reno still carrying the towel. He straightens his collar and places it on the counter.
Reno: Many apologies for my associate’s crude behavior. I would like to add this item onto our bill.
Janice: Sure. No problem. (nervously giggling) And don’t worry about the apology i just figured your friend was showing his appreciation for fine craftsmanship.
Bellagio: Just felt real pretty was all. I’m sorry Miss Lady. Didn’t mean to get my grime all over your things.
Janice: Again no worries. Let me go get your order now. I think you’ll be very happy.
Ms. Ewing darts away to the backroom as if fleeing a pack of wild coyotes. Moments later she re-emerges with Mustang’s new championship gear. On one hanger is a pair of long wrestling tights much in the style of his former wears but now with grey background, more defined now black lightning bolts on the trim and an also black fully-fleshed horse head insignia on the rear. On the other hanger is a long robe with same color and trim scheme cut short to resemble a hooded sweatshirt. Along the arms are rows of obsidian jewels. The back features, in gorgeous cubic zirconia, the words: Biggest Little Psycho.
Reno beholds his new apparel with quiet appreciation, running his hands across the arms of the jacket. Bellagio looks to Reno then back at the gear with mild confusion.
Reno: Excellent work. Truly transcendent. I assume you’ll take cash.
Janice: Of course. Would you like a receipt?
Reno: No that’s quite all right, i prefer avoiding paper trails.
Minutes later Reno and Bellagio exit the shop with their accouterments in tow, Bellagio now wearing the towel as a scarf. As they walk down the street Bellagio turns to his employer with a hesitant query.
Bellagio: Nice stuff man. But if i might ask. Why all the grey? I thought championship mode was supposed to be all glitz and glam.
Reno: True many former kings of their respective mountains went the Brittany Fox route, but i intend to be a classier, more poised representative of my organization. Dare i say my career neigh the squared circle itself has been lacking a little quiet dignity.
Bellagio: Sounds like a big important step. I like your fancy new words.
Reno: Why thank you. And yes dear friend it’s time to grow up.
The pair reach their vehicle at the end of the street. A pilfered pink Mary Kay Cadillac complete with red dingle balls in the window and a rainbow of dashboard Jesus figurines just below the windshield. Reno strokes the hood as Bellagio loads the new gear in the trunk.
Reno: Bout damn time.
Cut to: the dance floor of the Knights of Columbus recreation hall where Reno fully dolled up in his robe and tights is cutting the rug with an outlandish crew of party guests. All here to pay tribute to the man of the hour's burgeoning title reign. His derelict friends are garbed up in the classiest things they could put together; leisure suits, sequin tube tops, zubaz pants, to name a few. One particular guest even thought it the right night to try out his homemade goat mask. On the stage Foxy Mound belts out a throaty version of Cheryl Lynn’s “It’s got to be real”. Above her, flaps a sharpie and tarp made banner reading: Four More Years, complete with a peace sign on each side.
The party rips and roars for another several hours until Reno loses all sense of consciousness, collapsing at the end of the stage from too many virgin daiquiris and finger sandwiches. His thoughtful guests cover him with the banner tarp so as to avoid anyone trampling him with their boogie.
Hours later.
Reno wakes from his stupor only to find he is the last one left in the now savagely wrecked dining hall. Pools of champagne, what looks like purple vomit, and a number of abandoned bubble wands are strewn all about the floor. Once about his wits again he heads for the bar to wet his whistle. Taking a quick look at the mirror behind said bar he sees his fancy new outfit has been torn to shreds and graffitied by what he can only guess was his own hand. He places a finger through one of the many holes and gives a short harrumph.
Reno: Well, suppose i’m going to have to revert back to the old look. And here i was so close to a full extreme make over. Better call that plastic surgeon back and let him know i’m sticking with the old smile for now.
He shoots himself a shambled grin in the mirror. It quickly fades into a look of weariness, his head still throbbing from the thumping bass of whatever Foxy was wailing on through the rest of the night.
Reno: Speaking of reverting, i’ve once again found myself alone at my own party. No reason to get too down though. What would Diamond Dave do at a time like this?
Reno takes a quick inventory of the scattered bar counter and finds a broken champagne bottle. He scoops it up and holds it to his mouth like a crooner clutching his microphone.
Reno: (with feeling) IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII aint got noboooooooody!
Garbed in a pair of blue jeans with the knees missing and a homemade stenciled t shirt that reads: went to Maryland and all i got was a lousy World Championship, Reno does his best to mimic a cocky strut but his crooked knees don’t quite allow that much prestige. What’s new with his wardrobe is a pair of reflective stunner shades protecting his eyes from the white heat he’s been giving off since the prior Friday night, and where his usual knotted extension chord would be holding up his beaten dungarees is fifteen pounds of UWR title gold. He is flanked by Mr. Bellagio who has also upgraded his duds with an off the rack number his benefactor purchased for him at the local Goodwill. A plaid woolen jacket, camouflage button up shirt, and black slacks that are about two sizes too small even for the narrow stumps he has for legs. Both men reach the counter and Janice takes a cautionary half step back.
Reno: Good woman i think you have something for me. A certain under garment and pantaloon combo i commissioned this last Sunday.
Janice: Uh yes, Mister Mustang. It’s all ready. Made exactly to your specifications. Generally though i do ask for payment up front, if that’s not to much to…
Ms. Ewing’s eyes slide to the side as she sees Bellagio rubbing an embroidered hand towel against his mangled beard. He coos in delight as it scrubs dirt and dried pieces of fried potato out of the bramble. Reno notices her concern and turns to approach Bellagio. Mr. B’s new play thing is suddenly ripped from his paws by Mustang as he begins lashing him several times with it. Bellagio screeches in terror as if he were being scourged with a cat o’ nine tails.
Reno: What did i say about rubbing things in good company?! Only when asked for and you better be getting paid for it!
Janice’s concern has become pure horror as Reno finishes up his punishment and he and Bellagio, sheepish as a church mouse now, walk back to the counter, Reno still carrying the towel. He straightens his collar and places it on the counter.
Reno: Many apologies for my associate’s crude behavior. I would like to add this item onto our bill.
Janice: Sure. No problem. (nervously giggling) And don’t worry about the apology i just figured your friend was showing his appreciation for fine craftsmanship.
Bellagio: Just felt real pretty was all. I’m sorry Miss Lady. Didn’t mean to get my grime all over your things.
Janice: Again no worries. Let me go get your order now. I think you’ll be very happy.
Ms. Ewing darts away to the backroom as if fleeing a pack of wild coyotes. Moments later she re-emerges with Mustang’s new championship gear. On one hanger is a pair of long wrestling tights much in the style of his former wears but now with grey background, more defined now black lightning bolts on the trim and an also black fully-fleshed horse head insignia on the rear. On the other hanger is a long robe with same color and trim scheme cut short to resemble a hooded sweatshirt. Along the arms are rows of obsidian jewels. The back features, in gorgeous cubic zirconia, the words: Biggest Little Psycho.
Reno beholds his new apparel with quiet appreciation, running his hands across the arms of the jacket. Bellagio looks to Reno then back at the gear with mild confusion.
Reno: Excellent work. Truly transcendent. I assume you’ll take cash.
Janice: Of course. Would you like a receipt?
Reno: No that’s quite all right, i prefer avoiding paper trails.
Minutes later Reno and Bellagio exit the shop with their accouterments in tow, Bellagio now wearing the towel as a scarf. As they walk down the street Bellagio turns to his employer with a hesitant query.
Bellagio: Nice stuff man. But if i might ask. Why all the grey? I thought championship mode was supposed to be all glitz and glam.
Reno: True many former kings of their respective mountains went the Brittany Fox route, but i intend to be a classier, more poised representative of my organization. Dare i say my career neigh the squared circle itself has been lacking a little quiet dignity.
Bellagio: Sounds like a big important step. I like your fancy new words.
Reno: Why thank you. And yes dear friend it’s time to grow up.
The pair reach their vehicle at the end of the street. A pilfered pink Mary Kay Cadillac complete with red dingle balls in the window and a rainbow of dashboard Jesus figurines just below the windshield. Reno strokes the hood as Bellagio loads the new gear in the trunk.
Reno: Bout damn time.
Cut to: the dance floor of the Knights of Columbus recreation hall where Reno fully dolled up in his robe and tights is cutting the rug with an outlandish crew of party guests. All here to pay tribute to the man of the hour's burgeoning title reign. His derelict friends are garbed up in the classiest things they could put together; leisure suits, sequin tube tops, zubaz pants, to name a few. One particular guest even thought it the right night to try out his homemade goat mask. On the stage Foxy Mound belts out a throaty version of Cheryl Lynn’s “It’s got to be real”. Above her, flaps a sharpie and tarp made banner reading: Four More Years, complete with a peace sign on each side.
The party rips and roars for another several hours until Reno loses all sense of consciousness, collapsing at the end of the stage from too many virgin daiquiris and finger sandwiches. His thoughtful guests cover him with the banner tarp so as to avoid anyone trampling him with their boogie.
Hours later.
Reno wakes from his stupor only to find he is the last one left in the now savagely wrecked dining hall. Pools of champagne, what looks like purple vomit, and a number of abandoned bubble wands are strewn all about the floor. Once about his wits again he heads for the bar to wet his whistle. Taking a quick look at the mirror behind said bar he sees his fancy new outfit has been torn to shreds and graffitied by what he can only guess was his own hand. He places a finger through one of the many holes and gives a short harrumph.
Reno: Well, suppose i’m going to have to revert back to the old look. And here i was so close to a full extreme make over. Better call that plastic surgeon back and let him know i’m sticking with the old smile for now.
He shoots himself a shambled grin in the mirror. It quickly fades into a look of weariness, his head still throbbing from the thumping bass of whatever Foxy was wailing on through the rest of the night.
Reno: Speaking of reverting, i’ve once again found myself alone at my own party. No reason to get too down though. What would Diamond Dave do at a time like this?
Reno takes a quick inventory of the scattered bar counter and finds a broken champagne bottle. He scoops it up and holds it to his mouth like a crooner clutching his microphone.
Reno: (with feeling) IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII aint got noboooooooody!