Perverted Pile of Meat

JournalWord: Seeing some anatomy.

::

Two weeks ago, one of the henchmen had dragged a bloody carcass into her med bay and dropped it on a gurney. Immediately, she had pounced on him, but her questions ("Who is that?" "Is that all his blood?" "What the hell happened?") seemed to roll off his wide shoulders like water off a duck's back. He merely turned his chilling eyes on her and growled, "Newbie, so fix him," before stalking out without a second glance at her complaints from his muddy and bloody boots.

She had sighed and turned dubiously to the pulpy mess of organs and skin, vowing to bring up his behavior to the Boss. She was flattered by the obvious faith the mafia had put into her healing abilities by bringing her this victim from a B-rated slasher film, but she was a medic, not a miracle worker.

The horrific mass of bone fragments and fleshy lumps on her gurney roughly resembled what the human body would have looked like if someone had dumped a person into a giant blender and slapped puree. Yet, to her utter surprise, and morbid medical fascination, he was still alive and breathing, albeit shallow. 

Rolling up her sleeves and snapping on a pair of latex gloves, she flashed to work healing and rebuilding the battered gangster.

Several intensive hours later, she has transformed the mess of bones and blood on her gurney into a young man with impeccable good looks.

He is tall and long-limbed, with muscles streaming throughout his body like koi in a river. His snow white hair flows messily around his sharp jaw, and as she wipes her washed hands on a dry towel, she wonders if it's his natural hair color. 

Suddenly, his long white eyelashes flutter, casting delicate shadows against his pale cheekbones before slowly flickering open. Sparkling violet eyes reveal themselves and instantly hone in on her with a sharp intensity. His lips crack apart, his eyes still focused on her.

"That uniform is sexy as hell, seriously," he states, voice hoarse from dehydration.

She blinks, certain she had not heard what she thought she has heard. "Excuse me?"

"What, are you fucking deaf? I said, you look hot as fuck in that nurse getup, bitch."

Her jaw drops and a vein in her temple throbs with an rhythm similar to a ticking pipe bomb. "Yeah," she starts, gritting her teeth. "First things first, watch your language. And second, a thank you is in order for saving the pile of meat on my examination table from the pearly gates of Hell," she seethes, straining the towel between her tight fists until the threads beg to snap.

He has the audacity to raise an eyebrow and quirk the corner of his full lips into a cocky smirk. "Well, if I had known an angel was waiting here, I would've arrived back sooner." He licks his lips tantalizingly slow, locking eyes with her as he braces his arms to lift himself up. 

"Lay back down," she scolds, her hands abandoning the towel to force him back down onto the examination table. "I just sewed you up. You could at least let the stitches have time to heal."

His hands trap hers on his shoulders and he easily overpowers her to sit up. He flashes a cocky grin and pulls her arms behind his head. She swings into his chest and he traps her, his hands sliding down her arms, over her shoulders, to settle at her waist. The wires and IV's attached to him strain at his swift movement. "I definitely need your healing," he reassures, his voice husky and smooth, "And it needs to be dealt with right now, if you know what I mean, nurse."

His hand slides lower and her hand whips across his cheek. 

His momentary shock is enough for her to wrench out of his hold and shove him down onto the metal table. He stares up at her, silent, but a strange mixture of sparkle and flame dancing through his eyes. 

"You'll stay right there if you know what's good for you," she heaves, her chest huffing, and he marvels at her mussed brown hair slipping from her high ponytail and her breasts rising and falling as she catches her breath. 

She catches his appreciative gaze and glares menacingly at him. Clenching her fingers into biting fists, she curses "perverted pile of meat" before swiveling and stomping out the med bay doors.

As the doors swing after her furious departure, he locks his arms behind his head, unperturbed by her hostility, and relaxes, tipping his head up to marvel at the ceiling. "Quite the bitchy spitfire," he comments and whistles low. "And, my, what a tight ass."

::

Something a little bit different. And full of swear words and comments that would make a feminist seethe (like the main character!). Haven't really thought of any names for the characters yet, as this was just something I popped together pretty quick as a middle-of-the-night brain drainer. 

I find that dreams start to become quite interesting after I've written something down with a set of mentally-unstable characters. They're the best! I have a strange fascination with bad boys... (Am I alone on that notion?)

Also, for some reason, that I am not entirely sure why, I have joined another writing site called Protagonize. So check that out and if you are on there, let me know and we could be friends! (My username on there is Randomnese.)

Drop me a hello and review,
Mera!

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Mutt, Master, Boss, Brat.

JournalWord: "Want some gum?"

***

Lemonade, he huffs as he stirs two teaspoons of sugar into the tall frosting glass. Who would think that an underground genius would be addicted to lemonade? Yorick shakes his head and lifts the spoon from the glass, placing it into the dishwasher. He picks up the glass and carefully transfers it to a silver ornate tray, wiping the ring of condensation the glass left on the kitchen counter with a tea towel. He unties his apron and gently hangs it back up on its hook before relocating down the gray halls. 

Yorick winds through the maze of halls, bypassing the floor’s various voice readers and iris scans that block off certain parts of the Boss’s building. Suited subordinates occasionally pass by, nodding at the lemonade and Yorick knows that if it weren’t for their respect and loyalty to the Boss, they’d surely have a couple comments to say. And with the Boss’s personality, Yorick muses, the Boss would probably have a good laugh and not mind at all. Yorick stops his trek in front of a door, ordinary like every other door he had passed, except for the animated rabbit engraved into the steel over the door knob. 

Yorick gives a sharp knock on the door and waits for a yelp beckoning him in. Yorick opens the door and is welcomed by laughter and the smoke of cigars. He shuts the door quietly behind him and smoothly strides over to the Boss, servicing the glass of lemonade with a composed façade in front of the guest. 

Boss instantly reaches for the glass from the balanced tray without a pause in his current argument. He animatedly barters, a childish challenge in his laughter. The guest, comforted by the cigar and tumbler of vodka in his hands, has loosened up and sunken into the armchair, obviously charmed by the Boss’s childlike manner. 

He underestimates the Boss, Yorick notes as the guest chuckles, and Yorick smirks inwardly when the guest accidentally agrees to sell half his illegal corporate. Vodka is spat in Boss’s general direction when the guest realizes his mistake, but Yorick would never allow any endangerment to the Boss and shields the Boss with a hanging towel that was tucked under into his arm. Guards are snapped to attention from behind shadows and the outraged guest is blindfolded and escorted out the door, his affirmation recorded and taped. Boss crosses his legs and leans back in his leather chair, arms tucked behind his head when peace is restored. 

“He’ll be back in two days with backup. Prepare for an assault,” he says nonchalantly, and a guard instantly dispatches orders into his cuff. Boss raises the dripping glass and takes a long sip, mewing contently like a kitten. “You rationed off the sugar, Yorkie,” he comments, an eyebrow rising menacingly in Yorick’s direction. 

“Boss, your blood sugar level has been on the surge. We don’t want our Boss stricken with diabetes,” Yorick answers coolly. 

Boss lets out an uncharacterised whine and flops sideways on the armchair, kicking off his shoes and attacking his tie while he sips dejectedly at his lemonade. He complains about having to dress up in ties and suits for business warlords. “Why can’t I go back to being anonymous like before?” he gripes, tossing his black tie and coat jacket over his chair. A guard rushes to catch the flying articles, amused by the Boss’s familiar strange character.

Boss has always been like this: babyish and eccentric. He may act like a spoiled child, however, underneath all the quirks and spontaneity lies a brain, trained to perfection to read beyond the beneath. He’s a mastermind who spends hours on end wiring the continuous clockwork in his mind to slow down into comprisable plans. He controls so much but he could care less. He is at the top of markets and economy, but he’s bored with the usual chess game. That’s probably why he set up the meeting with the illegal aristocrat: to stir up some trouble that he has already undoubtedly figured out with his powers of insight and deduction.  

Yorick remembers the night he first met Boss, back in the days when he was a freelance assassin. Those were the days when he didn’t have anything to live for, and nothing to lose. There was a bad fall-out, an assignment gone wrong by a separate invasion and he had ended up on the brink of death with two bullets in each of his thighs, and everyone else piled up on the cold cobblestones of a dank alley. Yorick thought he was alone and that he was going to die under the moonlight. 

He is clutching his legs, trying to stop the blood flow when he catches the glint of silver metal. The man creeps out of the shadows with a relaxed bounce in his step as he surveys the dead. The man cocks his head to the side as he walks closer and pulls down the collar of his coat to reveal a frown. Yorick stares at the revolver pointing at his head but notices the catlike grin that sprouts on the owner's face. 

“Nice eyes. What’s your name?” the man asks, an otherwise friendly comment if it weren't for the gun still aimed at his face. 

Yorick pauses, dumbstruck by the life or death situation. Should he answer? What would it matter, he is going to die anyways. “Yorick Omsby.” 

He starts to sweat at the intense hiatus of his highly probable demise, and he sits in agony in the thick air, his blood pooling into a gutter as he waits for his end. 

“Yorkie.” 

Instantly the dark atmosphere lifts when the man bounces into a crouch in front of Yorick, gun still outstretched but wrist lax and pointing to the stones. “Calling you Yorkie with that scary face of yours is super cute. I am very pleased,” he says, voice merry and gun retreating into the folds of his trench coat.

Yorick can't think, but he is sure he is glaring at the man. 

“Want some gum?” the man adds, fishing through a pocket before thrusting a half full packet of gum at his company. 

At the time, he had twitched his eyebrow sarcastically and agreed, either because he was dizzy from the blood loss or he realized that life was more important than he had initially thought. It could only be those options because Yorick would rather live not knowing about the psychology behind his agreement to become the butler of a renowned underground genius. But it doesn't matter now, because, unlike Boss who delves in the depths of every action and by-product of said action, Yorick would rather not know.

A guard bumps elbows with Yorick to catch his attention, coughing lightly in the direction of the Boss. Yorick rolls his eyes and regains his composure. He presses a button on the wall, lifting the blinds that had covered the surrounding windows of the octagonal room. The sight of the city he owns below his 70 story skyscraper goes unnoticed from underneath a blanket. “Boss, you can’t have a nap right now. Europe is on hold at the moment awaiting your feedback on the  perfume advertisements.” 

Yorick tugs at the blanket and finally rips it off. He sighs at the sight of his employer, curled up in the fetal position and trying to hide his head in the shield of his arms from the sun. 

“You can’t make me, Yorkie” he whines. “They don’t need my opinion on perfume. I don’t even like perfume.” 

“True, but they still want to meet you. Now guards, if you will? Down to level seventeen, room 406.”

Again, Yorick would rather not know the details on how he became the caretaker of the world’s smartest brat.

***

This is my escape. My hideaway home. My mind's black hole.
I'm fairly inadequate with human interaction, so understanding me takes time that isn't capable by vocalization. 
I am a creature that talks through others, usually my characters. 
My characters, their background, their life, their values, are their own, and are easier for me to explain than myself, because they are their own people.
Writing about myself is very difficult, so I'll be sticking to short explanations of my behavior.
~mera.

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A Tiny Tune

JournalWord: When a misfit comes home.

***

He stumbles into the cafe, slamming shut the front door from the peeking rays of the morning. The jumbled chime of the bells over the door announces his arrival and he grunts, clutching his head at the sharp pain the sound induces. 

He shuffles one of the tables, knocking down a chair from it's upside door position on the tabletop. It's too early for anyone to be up. Dan isn't even up yet to turn down the chairs for the day.

Placing the chair on it's legs, he falls into the wooden seat, ducking his head under his arms as he places them on the table. He attempts to ignore the pounding at the back of his head with whispered curses. No one messes with him. No one should mess with him, he corrects. It's their own goddamn fault for bringing a bat to a fist fight, he scowls. 

So he fights the beginning of pain, knowing if he doesn't sleep now, the bruises will be keeping him up for days. Dan will know, then, and when he knows he's been in another fight, he'll have to be kicked out. 

He doesn't know why he fights. Dan should have kicked him out months ago. Coming home every week with a new set of bruises and gang members out for revenge, he's endangering Diana and the cafe for being here.

Damn, he curses again, a fist meeting the wooden surface of the table. A jagged pain runs through his knuckles for his efforts and he swears quietly, praying he doesn't have any broken bones or fractures. Then he wouldn't be able to help out. Then he wouldn't be able to teach Diana her lessons. 

He cradles his hand in his lap, hiding his eyes in his other forearm, wiping away ungrateful tears. He doesn't even deserve to cry, not for his actions, and not for his broken promises. He's still mentally cursing himself when tiny pattering of feet sneak down the stairs into the dining hall.  

He wipes his eyes again and plucks his head up from his arm to the stumbling tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. He watches as she struggles over the keys of the old upright piano. Her tiny fingers flutter and stretch to reach the ivory keys, tripping over others in the obstacle to complete the children's tune. 

She finally finishes the song and spins on the bench, her nightgown twirling along with her long hazel braid. She beams when she sees he's been watching. "Are you feeling a little better now?" she asks, hopeful.

"Not in the least," he gruffly replies at the child. Her smile falters and he adds, "yeah, so play it again for me."

He drops his head back down onto his arm, hiding his smile in the crook of his arm when she starts to play the tune again, this time with an exited gusto. He stays awake knowing she'll be lonely when he falls asleep. The pain will be worth it, he vows. It's the only equivalent to the sweet serenade of an angel.

***

Love, love, love misfits!!

I'm realizing I like writing from a limited third-person point of view. Seems to feel right.

Let me know what you think!

~mera

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