Forgive my pretentiousness, punish his.
And thus we start the first entry.
Actually, before we do, go read the bio in the profile: http://the-metzler.livejournal.com/profile. It explains what this is all about. Go on, it doesn't hurt.
This is a piece set in the third book of The Neitherworld, currently called Attic, Et Cetera (but it's probably likely to change, not sure). It centres around the thoughts of the protagonist about another character who could easily be either a protagonist or an antagonist, it's very hard to tell sometimes. Her name is April Trenor/Scosthrop (she changes her name partway through the book) and his is Mahogany Parlour (or, as he so often insists, 'Mahogany Sedimentary Emmanuel Parlour VII'. No one listens, though). Let's just begin, already.
* * *
Their first meeting made some awful impressions. It all went downhill from there.
At first, April found him tiresome, and soon after found him annoying instead. Then frustrating, very frustrating. She disliked him and found him distasteful. After being subjected to his many poorly-supported and shoddily-constructed opinions, she decided to skip right past hating him, and went straight to loathing. Unfortunately, even that was insufficient, and April was forced to resort to abhorrence. She even stopped feeling guilty about wishing excruciating pain upon him. This was after about twenty minutes of knowing him.
She hated his clothes. His starched scholar robe, his coarse tweed waistcoat and those awful, awful plaid trousers with the matching bow tie. She hated the noise his scratchy waistcoat made against the stiff robe when he moved. She hated his brick-like shoes, and the terracotta powder they tended to scuff around. She hated his two foggy monocles (honestly, two?), the chains leading to his obnoxious and highly inappropriate turban, which concealed his long, stringy hair and that enormous bald patch on top, with those few sickening strands sticking out from the front, bobbing around above his face. Oh, how she hated them.
She hated his mouths, with their hundreds of clacking teeth. And she hated how she couldn't dicide on which mouth she hated more. She hated his enormous, angular nose and the whistling noise it made when he breathed through it, and the way he insisted on breathing through it when he had two huge, cavernous mouths he could be breathing with, instead of talking with. She hated his ever-changing facial topiary; his tacky, tasteless summer houses, cottages, and bungalows; his delusions of culture; the fact he was the most uncultured Philistine she had ever met; his delusions of grandeur; his complete lack of grandeu; and his voice. Oh his voice... Droning yet piercing at the same time (actually rather impressive, in the same way a flesh-eating parasite is impressive), and never ending. Never ever ending. He could have at least paused for breath, but he just refused. His voice: The Harbinger of Ennui. She hated it. She hated everything about him. And he himself, she abhorred him.
And they were only the things she could think of at any one time without being violently and copiously sick with hatred.
But although she hated everything he was, loathed everything he stood for, and abhorred him as a whole, she loved him.
The kind of love that makes you want to rip out their entrails, eviscerate what remains of their organs and totally exsanguinate them, and, admittedly, doesn't actually resemble love in any way, shape, or form.
Oh, how she loved him.
* * *
Well, there you go. Questions? Insults?
Actually, before we do, go read the bio in the profile: http://the-metzler.livejournal.com/profile. It explains what this is all about. Go on, it doesn't hurt.
This is a piece set in the third book of The Neitherworld, currently called Attic, Et Cetera (but it's probably likely to change, not sure). It centres around the thoughts of the protagonist about another character who could easily be either a protagonist or an antagonist, it's very hard to tell sometimes. Her name is April Trenor/Scosthrop (she changes her name partway through the book) and his is Mahogany Parlour (or, as he so often insists, 'Mahogany Sedimentary Emmanuel Parlour VII'. No one listens, though). Let's just begin, already.
* * *
Their first meeting made some awful impressions. It all went downhill from there.
At first, April found him tiresome, and soon after found him annoying instead. Then frustrating, very frustrating. She disliked him and found him distasteful. After being subjected to his many poorly-supported and shoddily-constructed opinions, she decided to skip right past hating him, and went straight to loathing. Unfortunately, even that was insufficient, and April was forced to resort to abhorrence. She even stopped feeling guilty about wishing excruciating pain upon him. This was after about twenty minutes of knowing him.
She hated his clothes. His starched scholar robe, his coarse tweed waistcoat and those awful, awful plaid trousers with the matching bow tie. She hated the noise his scratchy waistcoat made against the stiff robe when he moved. She hated his brick-like shoes, and the terracotta powder they tended to scuff around. She hated his two foggy monocles (honestly, two?), the chains leading to his obnoxious and highly inappropriate turban, which concealed his long, stringy hair and that enormous bald patch on top, with those few sickening strands sticking out from the front, bobbing around above his face. Oh, how she hated them.
She hated his mouths, with their hundreds of clacking teeth. And she hated how she couldn't dicide on which mouth she hated more. She hated his enormous, angular nose and the whistling noise it made when he breathed through it, and the way he insisted on breathing through it when he had two huge, cavernous mouths he could be breathing with, instead of talking with. She hated his ever-changing facial topiary; his tacky, tasteless summer houses, cottages, and bungalows; his delusions of culture; the fact he was the most uncultured Philistine she had ever met; his delusions of grandeur; his complete lack of grandeu; and his voice. Oh his voice... Droning yet piercing at the same time (actually rather impressive, in the same way a flesh-eating parasite is impressive), and never ending. Never ever ending. He could have at least paused for breath, but he just refused. His voice: The Harbinger of Ennui. She hated it. She hated everything about him. And he himself, she abhorred him.
And they were only the things she could think of at any one time without being violently and copiously sick with hatred.
But although she hated everything he was, loathed everything he stood for, and abhorred him as a whole, she loved him.
The kind of love that makes you want to rip out their entrails, eviscerate what remains of their organs and totally exsanguinate them, and, admittedly, doesn't actually resemble love in any way, shape, or form.
Oh, how she loved him.
* * *
Well, there you go. Questions? Insults?