Next!

[your_host]

The Emcee steps out onstage wearing a frayed old military jacket over his spangled bow tie and tuxedo trousers. With a nearly microscopic smirk, he casts his darkly shaded eyes over the audience. Nobody in uniform. Good.

The band starts up. And he begins to sing -- in French.

Tout nu dans ma serviette qui me servait de pagne

Comments

[glassjazz13]

*She remembers. Yes, that was it, the cold rebellion of the trickster that was Papa Legba, that was Loki, that was yet the Emcee. A chill runs through Chance for the duration of his performance and, though she can't pick out much of the French, she understands the magic, the feel in his tone, his movement. A chill and a memory, a recollection of some savage vulnerability that was evident in him solely on stage and the times he was inside her-- a feeling that, although feigning well not to care...much... the purposed cruelty of his honesty gave the feeling that he is always simultaneously impenetrable and unknowable as well as cut roughly open before you, bowels and heart glistening almost offensively.*

*She understood the risk, the defiance, the satire, and found a tear forming in her right eye that she blinked away, setting down the tray of food and drinks she'd been serving to clap softly as well before resuming her waitressing....*

[your_host]

After changing backstage, pulling on an old tuxedo coat with tails in lieu of the ragged military jacket, he makes his way out to the bar. If any of the patrons wanted to voice their issues with him, none were doing so now. But some give him furtive glances when he passes, and he feels their eyes on his skin like crawling bugs, and he turns to these people, staring their fear hard in the face and giving it a mock-friendly wave as he moves on, smiling his smile.

There's Chance. ...What a wonderful phrase that is.

He approaches her from the side, not wanting to surprise her or her tray of glasses, when he touches the small of her back and bends to nip her lightly on the side of her neck like an impish vampire. "Hello, liebchen," he purrs into her ear before slipping away to get himself a drink at the bar.

[hot_lil_fingers]

"Mein Herr, you will be the death of us." It's said lightly but not without conviction. She smiles; she'll dance to the guillotine when the time comes, no doubt. And then she walks away to where an older gentleman in all his shabby, old-fashioned finery is awaiting her companionship.

[your_host]

He returns the smile, though it's a bit more twisted than hers. "Not before I martyr myself, darling." His sing-song tone is airy and flippant to candy-coat his resolve behind it. Then seeing how that older man over there is eying her, he decides that he wouldn't want to distract her from their tryst. So after making the customary playful swipe at her backside when she turns away, he sheds the rough military jacket off his bare shoulders and tosses it dismissively on a pile of costumes backstage.