(no subject)
Michael Allen, Before, was a businessman. Was rich. Belonged to the appropriate gym. Wasn't that strong. Was kind of insecure about his biceps.
That's one good thing to come out of . . . everything: fighting for your life is great incentive to work out. He has now achieved solid, potentially jealousy-inducing biceps. And he's been working on his lats. He almost has it: the line. That line.
Would've looked great in a suit.
Michael Allen is not a man who admits failure. But it's beginning to occur to him that, simply because he is still human, he will inevitably hit a glass ceiling in the city's power structure.
Well.
Not so much a glass ceiling as something well-patrolled and covered in barbed wire.
He tells some of this to a young man he meets in the street today, in the process of giving him advice -- said young man seems not to understand that Chicago is a dangerous city, especially with those biceps -- and the young man is nodding, smiles, seems to understand.
For some reason it makes him feel much better.
The young man touches his shoulder -- briefly, gently -- and then his face, and Michael Allen is about to lay down the law about this (said young man is pretty, but not that pretty, okay) when the young man surprises him with a light kiss and then there are fangs at his throat.
. . ., says Michael Allen's brain.
"I'm Les, by the way," the young man says a minute later, licking blood (MICHAEL ALLEN'S BLOOD: A VERY PRECIOUS COMMODITY, in his humble op.) from his fangs (FANGS). "Thanks. Um, good luck with your, you know . . . lats."
He appears sincere.
(This is the strangest part.)
That's one good thing to come out of . . . everything: fighting for your life is great incentive to work out. He has now achieved solid, potentially jealousy-inducing biceps. And he's been working on his lats. He almost has it: the line. That line.
Would've looked great in a suit.
Michael Allen is not a man who admits failure. But it's beginning to occur to him that, simply because he is still human, he will inevitably hit a glass ceiling in the city's power structure.
Well.
Not so much a glass ceiling as something well-patrolled and covered in barbed wire.
He tells some of this to a young man he meets in the street today, in the process of giving him advice -- said young man seems not to understand that Chicago is a dangerous city, especially with those biceps -- and the young man is nodding, smiles, seems to understand.
For some reason it makes him feel much better.
The young man touches his shoulder -- briefly, gently -- and then his face, and Michael Allen is about to lay down the law about this (said young man is pretty, but not that pretty, okay) when the young man surprises him with a light kiss and then there are fangs at his throat.
. . ., says Michael Allen's brain.
"I'm Les, by the way," the young man says a minute later, licking blood (MICHAEL ALLEN'S BLOOD: A VERY PRECIOUS COMMODITY, in his humble op.) from his fangs (FANGS). "Thanks. Um, good luck with your, you know . . . lats."
He appears sincere.
(This is the strangest part.)