"Need a light?" The winged creature eats a limestone above Patches and flickers his flint nails. Barreling forth flame from the fossil fuel of the rock he'd just chewed. Within the hollowed-out bones of his first two fingers. The punk below was irritated by the silhouette lapsing his vision to a blur. "No, and stop hovering. You are making me nauseous," He says in a belligerent manner in likeness to how smashed he was the night before. Batting at his feet covered in soot and sod. In the air he chuckles, thinking about how he spent yesterday foraging throughout the village. Dead legged by the punk, "Fuck, I'm down. I'm down." The spiked-haired punk named Patches, feeling sloshed beyond slush ignores the inexplicable bipedal as he would anyone else. To him, he's just another blurred face that matches the rest.
"Just an offer. Thought you were a smoker." Swooping down beside him, he walks alongside casually. Putting his hands in his pockets, he asks. "What are you doing here? Why here? Looks like a landfill." Patches unnerved says to get a positive vibration from him that seemed to be there anyway but still, "Calm." Replying in curt to the blur. "There's a pub near here. Far enough away from Haven and people's comfortable nooks so the bands don't fail, and it won't hail cops. Also, not a lot tweaks foot traffic for police." So he says as the Dev notices the lack of any brand on his clothing. Patches this neck because of a scratch he doesn't know he has yet.
"Oh, we're going to a venue!"
*
I burnt through an intersection and crashed into my denizen. Stupid drift, I should've paid more attention to the road and red glyph that said arret. I notice the smell of my still lit cigarette sticking to the laminate floor beneath my seat, fuck. "Wrong house."
*
Calu's enthusiasm about the overall state of the vintage video recorder, with a tripod, set out as a kickstand. Realizing the quality of the film is about what he paid for at The Scrap Heap, a pawn shop in his local district of the metropolis that had fallen into disrepair. Scrapyard residential area. Eyelids lift his unsettled sense of shit as he notices the graffiti left for them on the basketball court. Brushing his fingers against the blue embossed paint. Dragging a blot off the paint. Bewildered by the effect because of the syrup-like sense of touch. "Better. That's a much better product. Serves as an advertisement as well." Then his wrist whips away in recoil, and he rapidly dabs his tongue to numb his fraying nerves, mixing it with beer. Hoping for the best. Fane hands him her special made clove, "Smoke." The exciting aroma and crackling of sparks are more than enough to convince him to try it in the sublimation of a burning tongue. "Alright, now breathe, inhale again, hold and exhale slowly." She looks at the numbers, "You'll want to get that in the shot."
"I feel very, very good."
"Your vision foggy?"
"Yes."
"Take another."
"There's a crackling in my lung." He's crunched over still but starting to relax. "Give back." She snatches it out of his inebriated state with no reaction on his part.
Lost in confusion at the sentiment, she usually doesn't give out her cloves, and her voice is a lot less snappish than the nuance before. He contemplates the discourse and the missed recursive wreckage he'd incurred. "It's not entirely set in stone." He's unsure of his friend's insistence on this. "Guided assurance, please." As he picks up the computer, she asks, "Is it enough to say I'll get it right next time?"
Viewing the computer software displaying the slight static off the graffiti gleam behind them. Murmuring, "Still skittish." The static erupts, "Lost the screen." He scoffs, overwhelmed to the point of coming a bit out of character, "Do you think he'll ever animate us?" Switching plugins set into his misfired strayed ends to fit an A/V interface probably won't work. Hit the screen, hoping the crackle would rid itself out of sheer stupidity and the lack of it running amiss. Emphatically looking up at the camera as the red dot appears, "Maybe, Partially. Our creator is a bag."
"Whatever, your friends suck anyways." Calu turns and says frankly, "Medusa." Throwing a lighter. Hitting her in the face she yells, "You little shit!" Charging at Calu, he sprints and inadvertently knocks over his camera. The feed goes black. The only viewer hearing hears a shit-taking hilarity, groans, grumbles, gusts out a breath with a final loud crunch. "I think you broke my nose." In the hope of seeing how badly she messed him up, the audience joins the feed. Her voice no longer in disdain, "You deserved. You just going to leave it like that?"
"No." On the verge of tears, he bends to his knees, the gravel shifting with his shoes moving against the grain. He bites down on a pencil and snaps the wood, "Fuck."
"Alright, you have it out of your system?"
"Not entirely, but enough, so yeah." He says, unassured if she does. Picking up the camera, the crowd can see the blood running from his nose. Considering it's more people than he expected to have, he continues, "All the people watching this, fuck, I'm the worst promoter ever." Spitting some blood on the ground with a viewer count of 20. "I'm waiting for the alley lights to warm up and guide us to the next block. Then, passing the populated areas and checkpoints to the highlight of the night, a snapped chain entrance to a shopping centre."
"You can follow the lack of light to get to the venue from the courtyard in district 7667888. Notice the graffiti. It should shine bright enough to see. Nowhere else has sticky tac like this...
Fuck, wasters.
"Hey, motherfuckers." Three of these guttersnipes had already skipped listening and found. "Let's go right fucking now." Calu was annoyed by his less than meek display for the first attempt at a live stream promotion. He wondered how well the others were doing. Aggravated by a stranger who just jumped into him. "What the fuck? Was I supposed to catch you?"
"Relax." Staring at the disgruntled pseudo-celebrity, he'd managed to agitate. Calu shuts off his gear and puts it back in Fane's car. He starts, and Fane follows the rest shrugging off the awkward reaction to their unabridged greeting. A few more, and they're letting down the rest of the group. Snith had told them only to take the path that didn't have any working streetlights.
"Hey, lights just went up."
The amber filament within the glass enclosure glows from red to gold. Calu situates the antique VHS camera to take stock of the dimly lit path by a few spiked hair punks, handing out information valuable to what will align with an outright wreck. Planned insanity, the guarded nature of tonight. Curiosity about who was actually promoting, producing, and inking the concrete was well hidden from authorities at the stolen late-night tri-level. The waster that burrowed into Calu and Fane. "We're going." As she pushes off the disasters, she recognizes one, "Phairo, how about some words of enlightenment for tonight's celebration?"
The dark, brooding goth kicks the gravel and steps forward. "Wreckage for the wretched in high esteem, sustained disquiet for pleasure with peaceful disdain and dead eyes for the pleasing noise with distortion. Explicit volatile vomit, fumes for what's left. The colossal irrevocable slander to pile in the landfall. Start a new mosh pit to excite the rest of us that fall." Calu moves into frame. "Hear that! Find the low emittance by Frostbite's graffiti to find a safe way into the format, fuck. Blood."
Spits, "Getting late, offline."