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 Posted: Thu Jul 09, 2015 5:36 pm
Storing a second outfit at work and changing into it at the end of the day proved obnoxious, but worth the inconvenience.
As a business owner, Isaiah Zähne learned that the world asked far less of your individuality and far more of what you could do for them. Accommodations to the customer appreciated to a greater value than wearing his industrial riveted jacket while he perused the floor. A smile, a reference by last name, and a bitten tongue (sometimes until it bled) established repeat customers whereas makeup of any sort drove them off. And during those times where he spoke with the customers himself, he dressed the part in the stiflingly demure business casual manner that he was supposed to. He dressed for his target audience and he drew in exactly the type that felt comfortable in such a drab wardrobe.
But he didn't have to like it.
So after Isaiah locked the front doors and sent away the cashiers he had, he retreated to the back office to hastily change into more comfortable attire. A somewhat loose fitted shirt, white, with a design of skulls over a grey's anatomy ribcage became his undershirt, and the red splotches on the sleeves added a pop of color to an otherwise neutral palette. Black jeans smoothed into belted boots and a zippered, studded sleeveless jacket with loose fabric belts cast over the chest area completed a more 'normal' feel. Strange as it felt at the time, he added the pseudo-unintentional smears of shadow and liner to eyes before he left the building, and accomplished it with a mirror he likened to a coke dealer's dream.
Summer always felt cold to him, and he assumed it due to his purposeful dearth of body fat, but summer in Destiny City felt unusually cold to him - especially at night. Isaiah walked quickly to keep himself from shivering; he wanted to catch a cold about as much as he wanted to catch his death. He hardly thought about the shifting shadows while he passed under each street light, eager to get back to his condo. But while he thought about the acquisitions he bargained for and the payroll allowances and how best to advertise further sales to his target audience, Isaiah caught wind of live music relatively near his location. He paused, wondered on the caloric expenditures of meandering up to a mile out of his way to investigate, and decided that a slightly larger dinner should accommodate for the difference. He went for it.
He didn't need to wander far. Possibly a block to his right, Isaiah discovered the man in question - someone sporting blonde dreads and a guitar in hand - who looked and sounded like he knew what he was doing. It was rare to find any kind of street life, he noticed, so to see anyone jamming away for a dwindling audience hardly happened.
"s**t," he started with a laugh, "I haven't seen anyone busking on a street corner since Chicago. Fancy that." But the crowd started to part; the night curfew wore close for teens, and adults found it prudent to return to the indoors given the dangers at these times.tatterpixie got kinda carried away. hope this works! i can change anything if need be!
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Posted: Sun Jul 12, 2015 12:28 pm
With an energetic flourish, Rob finished the song he was playing, a Violent Femmes cover. "Thank you!" he shouted to the rapidly diminishing crowd. He'd been aggressively playing acoustic covers of old punk songs all afternoon; it was helping get some of the anger over his recently-changed situation out of his system. The transformation pen and senshi cellphone, given to him by that talking black cat Faust, weighed heavily in his jeans pocket. What had he gotten himself into? He had to admit, though, that it felt kind of good to have blanket permission to get into fights, even if he had to transform into Sailor Puck and wear a funny-looking outfit to do it. The fight he'd had with that Dark Moon wanker had been quite knuckle-crackingly satisfying. If that was what being a senshi was all about, he was ******** cowardly wankers, he thought disparagingly about the crowd, although in truth he couldn't blame them for running and hiding, not with what was running around Destiny City at night. He supposed he should be less condescending about them. After all, wasn't he supposed to be protecting them? Distracting himself from his angry thoughts, he took advantage of the lull as people departed to peek into his guitar case. Looked like a pretty good take for the day, just that much more cash he could add to the record label fund. Glancing around, he noticed a few people who weren't fleeing the oncoming darkness; one in particular caught his attention, a punk-looking bloke with enough steel in his ears to set off metal detectors for miles. He nodded at the taller guy in acknowledgement that he was a kindred spirit, despite the blond hippie dreads and oversized skatepunk pants exposing the top of his truly ugly boxers. "What's your pleasure, mate?" he called out to him as he idly ripped out a solo on his guitar. "Anything in particular you'd like to hear?" Strickenized Sorry this is so late ;_; Your post totally works for me!
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Posted: Tue Jul 14, 2015 10:47 am
Isaiah's hands found his jacket pockets immediately and he fumbled around with the half-empty pack of cigarettes while he considered the question. Silence came up as the first jackass answer, followed by a song involving primarily synthesized machine drons or other instruments not present. He also considered asking after songs that the man could actually play, but that seemed too easy and generic.
"Play me something with a story. Actually..." Isaiah paused while he spared the man a quick once-over. He looked fairly nineties with the way his pants didn't fit, he automatically lost points with his boxers showing, and while his dreads looked well taken-care-of, his color coordination almost caused Isaiah to squint. Much of those choices could be intentional, he knew, as part of the defiance culture behind the punk scene. However, there was a certain pleasure waiting for him in assuming that this busker couldn't dress himself for s**t. He supposed it could be a point of endearment, but mostly it just stood as an odd fact. Even beyond his dress preferences, it was obvious that he knew how to play a guitar - and properly.
"Play me a story about yourself." He figured he may as well give the man a shot to be interesting on his own. Whether truth or fiction, Isaiah could appreciate a good story. And if he found out that the story given seemed cliche or uninteresting, then he would simply rewrite what was sung for the boy's benefit. Everyone deserved to be interesting, didn't they?
Most people are stupid and boring. Real life is stupid and boring except when it's strange and brilliant and captivating, and those times are so few and far between that we result to fiction to fashion some pretty lie to tide us over. Let's see what you've got so far as storytelling goes. Are you lucky enough to have a real gem under your belt? Isaiah waited patiently, his standard expression evoking perpetual boredom due to the way that his lids sat so low on his eyes.tatterpixie np, i am backlogged and therefore slow
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Posted: Sun Jul 19, 2015 11:16 am
Rob nodded in appreciation of the request. "Good one." He fiddled with the tuning on his guitar while he thought about what song to play, then decided to go with one of the more recent songs he'd written. It wasn't something he was thinking of adding to his Torgo repertoire, or even to his regular busking playlist. But it had been something he'd needed to get off his chest when he'd written it, and this man's request was as good a reason as any to let the song see the light of day. Even if he never played it again. He started off with an aggressive riff that he immediately thought would sound better on an electric guitar. But an acoustic was what he had, so he adjusted his playing style a little, adding some more notes to the major-fifth chords. There, that was better. The lyrics that came out of his mouth, sung with an almost melodious punk growl, belied the ferocity of the song -- they were a combination of angry and plaintive, yearning and homesick. They painted a picture of a stranger in a strange land, reluctant to be there and longing for his homeland. Nothing as specific as actually describing his native London or naming places there -- that would have been cliche and stupid. But the words he hoped evoked the feel of the city and the memories, joyful and melancholy at the same time, he carried of his home and his deep aching to be back there. Letting the final chords ring through the evening air, Rob spared a look at the tall man who'd requested the song, a wry smile on his face. "I hope that was suitable." Strickenized Sorry this is so late, I had to half-write a song in my head XD
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Posted: Tue Jul 21, 2015 8:12 am
Isaiah stood with arms crossed to ward off the breeze and listened to the song ventured on the guitar. While not polished like a studio album, it held some charms that he appreciated from indie bands - namely, their energy and enthusiasm. Isaiah found the subject matter somewhat overplayed but understood the need to cater to a larger audience and therefore streamline a song to touch on emotions that anyone could relate to. That very methodology explained the surfeit of love songs played on the radio daily (and subsequently why he never listened to it).
When the song concluded, Isaiah clapped as he would out of politeness. It sounded solitary in the dark - most of the crowd dispersed, leaving him alone - so he opted for something less enthusiastic. Afterward, hands dug into his pockets to retrieve a pack of Luckies and pursed one of the cigarettes between lips. He lit up after with his jet lighter and took a quick drag. Smoke shot from his nose in a quick snort. "It is a widely relatable song," he started as he replaced the pack in his jacket pocket. "I imagine that writing of longing will draw a wide audience. The unfortunate part is, I expect, that people don't often want to hear of someone else's life, but prefer to listen to songs that they can transpose their own life on top of. I am not one of those people.
"I prefer specificity, which is not often found in a song." He examined the lighter itself, checking for any damage before satisfying himself that it needed no service. "But I am no music guru. What I heard sounded palatable enough." I will just be forced to entertain myself with more specific imaginings of your life if I wanted to make you interesting. I'd say you could've lived among the pigmy tribes in Africa, but you don't quite look the type. Accent suggests England somewhere. Maybe you were a gangbanger in some well-established town. Maybe you were on drugs, too. Was meth big there? Or just cocaine? Can't remember. Maybe you nearly beat your girlfriend to death in a coke-fueled rage and escaped to Destiny City to avoid it. Alas, there's nothing like good England. That will do in a pinch.
"I'm sure you'll go far." Another drag, another puff of smoke. "Do you like it here, then? Or are you still stuck on wherever you were before?" We have at least that in common - a recent excursion to a different area.
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Posted: Thu Jul 23, 2015 12:11 pm
Arsehole, Rob thought as he slung his guitar behind his back and out of the way. "Yeah, well, I'm not bloody likely to play it anywhere else really. Doesn't go with the rest of my repertoire." He started collecting the day's take from the guitar case, avoiding the man's gaze so he wouldn't see the defiance on his face, a look of I ******** dare you to do better. "But you asked for a song about me, and that's all I got. I don't give a s**t who likes it." He counted the money he'd made and shoved the bills and coins into his pocket, then finally faced his audience of one with his typical scowl. "And no, I ******** hate it here. The city's crap, the beer is crap, there's monsters everywhere. I wish I was back in London." Why am I spilling my soul to this punk-arse? He doesn't know me for shite and I don't know him either. He shrugged and spread his arms. "But here I am, so I'm trying to make the best of it. What else can I do? Sure as ******** not giving up." And he wasn't -- not now, not with this senshi s**t hanging over his head. He couldn't. For a man whose entire philosophy was community and solidarity, giving up was unthinkable. Peeling the guitar off his back, Rob stowed it in its case, snapping the clasps shut. He then held out his hand to the tall guy. "Rob Anybody."
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Posted: Sun Jul 26, 2015 6:23 am
"Such irritation," Isaiah responded with a smile. "Such ire. Did you take it personally, I wonder? That's a pity. I hear you can learn a lot by listening to your audience."
There's monsters everywhere. There's a trick. That bit about creatures again, I expect. Creatures and renegade teenagers flaunting impossible feats. I wonder what he knows of it.
The offer of hand was taken in usual customer service mannerisms, and he offered a firm shake of it. "Anthony Bridges," Isaiah returned in kind. "And Rob, if you hate the city so, then I might have a few jobs for you. It's not necessarily at-will employment - you can take as many assignments as you like, or as few - but I think it might suit someone like you. I require someone who... Isn't terribly vested in this city, but is aware enough of their surroundings to react accordingly. As you already implied, it's dangerous here.
"It might help fund your holiday back to London." He drew on his cigarette and exhaled softly. "Besides, your resolve interests me. There are very few teenagers and young adults of current times interested in sticking with a task to any appreciable degree. Moving to another country, making the best of something markedly less to your taste... That is a tenacity I would like to employ. Are you interested, Rob? Courier work might suit someone like you."
With the guitar now stowed, Isaiah's only means of tipping the man would be to hand him the bills directly. More forward, perhaps, but he figured it might work in his favor ultimately.
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Posted: Wed Jul 29, 2015 12:49 pm
There were times, Rob mused, when one's first impression of a person needed to be revised. His initial assessment of this Anthony guy was elitist arsehole music snob who wouldn't know a decent song if it came up to him and kissed him. Elitist snob he may yet be, but arsehole… maybe not so much. It took a big man to admit when he was wrong, and Rob prided himself on being that bigger man. How many times had he given people a second chance back in London? Granted, the opportunity hadn't presented itself much here yet, but really, the only thing that was different was the setting. He returned Anthony's firm handshake. "Pleased to meet you. Yeah, I might've taken it a bit personally. It's just passing rare for anyone to give enough of a toss to actually listen to me. Sorry, mate." Apology rendered and his conscience salved, Rob listened to Anthony's job offer, mulling the idea over in his head as the other man spoke. He didn't really need a second job -- his parents saw to the mortgage payments on the house, with him essentially paying "rent" even though it was his name on the deed. And he made pretty good money busking, all things considered, enough to keep himself in bus fare at least. His bank account wasn't empty, in other words. But more money was always a good thing, especially if he wanted to realize his dream of starting a record label for other punk acts here in Destiny City. And Anthony had brought up something he hadn't considered before: a London holiday. Going back home. "Yeah, I might be interested. I like the idea of making my own hours with it, taking as many assignments as I wanted to. And yeah, I'm sure as hell not vested in this ******** city. Courier work, you say?" Rob rubbed his chin as he thought. "What manner of goods would I be delivering?"
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Posted: Sat Aug 01, 2015 3:19 am
"To be frank with you, I have shitty taste in music. EBM has destroyed my ears." He offered a shrug. "Sometimes I forget that more bass doesn't make a song better."
The call for a sales pitch meant that Isaiah pressed hands together, interlaced thin, nailed fingers into a bony show of formality. His posture shifted to something of greater stiffness, perhaps more often seen from butlers at expensive dinner parties than a man giving a proposal on the street. "I am happy to hear your interest, Rob Anybody. First I'll give a little background so the context of these jobs will make sense. I run a pawn shop, and have been partaking in the business of pawn since my late teens in Chicago. When I started the business, it flourished quickly, which was due in part to side businesses like this.
"You see, there are a great many items of value that I have sought over the years, and meticulousness in my searches eventually nails down a few of those locations. I then speak with a few interested parties, namely well-traveled people like yourself, and they choose to accept or decline the obtaining of these items. It's not my place to pry on how they acquire it, as that would be prying on their trade secrets, but whether bought from the owner or otherwise, the trade is made by my paying a large cut of the value of the item, with some withheld due to my providing the leads on where to go for said item. Sometimes a bit of haggling takes place, but once all parties are satisfied, the contract is concluded and the courier may return for a second job or simply decide to retire from the business.
"As you can probably guess, 'courier' is a bit of a misnomer, but it does cover the item's transition. How you choose to obtain the item is entirely your decision - whether bought from the current owner, stolen, inherited, or the house burns down and one of the known contents mysteriously grew legs and walked off... Is not my business to know. If you choose to break the law to complete the assignment, that is on you, but I simply don't have any information to hand to the cops over it." Isaiah drew on his cigarette once more in thoughtless pleasure.
"The goods themselves are usually small, hand-carried items. Small vases, pins, watches, old signed novels, sometimes ancient guns, weird trophies from famous dead people... Half the time it's something that strikes my fancy that I want to add to my personal collection, and other times they're unique items chosen specifically for resale.
"And naturally, being in the business of pawn, you can haggle your own terms."tatterpixie sales pitch to induct rob into Bad Person Land
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Posted: Mon Aug 03, 2015 11:36 am
Rob listened and nodded silently as Anthony meticulously explained what this "courier" job would entail, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed skeptically. Despite the body language, he actually thought it sounded reasonable enough, though he wasn't all too keen on the potential illegal aspects of it. He was no thief, after all. But the rest of it seemed… There was this show on tv about a couple of guys who travelled around the country going through other people's' collections of stuff -- mostly junk -- and buying select items for resale or for specific clients or their personal collections. This deal sounded a lot like a high-end version of that. But could he trust this guy? Rob didn't trust very many people -- he'd gotten burned too many times by people screwing him over on business deals and contracts and whatnot. He preferred to handle things himself; he was a control freak and he not only knew it but was proud of that fact. There was an out being offered, though -- he could quit and walk away from it whenever he wanted. He could make his own hours, negotiate his own cut of the value of the items he procured, acquire the items however he wanted (avoiding illegal means as much as possible)... It seemed to him like he didn't have to trust Anthony very much at all. Which was fine, because he didn't. He mulled it over a little bit more once the other man was finished. All in all, the offer seemed like a legitimate business arrangement and a logical, fairly easy way to raise more capital for his record label. Maybe even a little fun. And, as he'd noted, he could always back out if it turned out otherwise. "Yeah, alright." He nodded in agreement to the terms, though he didn't smile and his brown eyes remained narrowed. "I can do business with you. Is there a contract, or is this a handshake sort of arrangement?" Strickenized Lured to the dark side… XD
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Posted: Thu Aug 06, 2015 11:10 am
Isaiah watched Rob consider it, and his countenance suggested a thoughtfulness that Isaiah quite liked to see. It suggested intelligence where most lacked; critical thinking never went beyond effort versus outcome, and even at that, analysis fell woefully short. Rob's pontifications demanded liberal time, which Isaiah did not mind, and ultimately led to a favorable outcome.
Isaiah smiled, but he kept his shark's teeth at bay for another day. "Perfect." Hands clapped together in finality. "Excellent. Glad to have you aboard." He is a start, however he manages it. Even if he won't go far with my contracts, he will know people. He might suggest my needs as a means of making money to others. Independent contracting of this nature often brings folk who need money but need to keep their hours free - and there are plenty of those in this cesspit of a city, I am sure.
"And you bring up a very good question. There is no contract to sign at present, nor any handshakes or special arrangements. We could make one if that sets your mind at ease, but the brunt of this initial agreement results in my adding your name and contact information to a ledger I keep for contract assignments. You can choose whether you want me to notify you of new jobs, or if you just want to drop by when you need the money. Most preferred the latter in my experience, but a few young entrepreneurs preferred my calling them. For contact, a phone number is all I need. It won't get called unless you call me specifically with a question I have to research.
"Oh, and there will be one thing that I need from you in particular, Rob." Hands slid from a clasp and circled around to the small of his back where his thumbs tucked into his belt. A lone car passed the pair, stirring hair and illuminating the boy's blonde dreads to a shockingly white, haloed display. He looked a ghost for a moment, but the thought passed instantly. "As much as I would like to write 'Rob Anybody' and add a cell number at the end, anyone with half a mind will look at that and wonder if I'm after indiscriminate larceny. I'll need a less... tongue-in-cheek last name."
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Posted: Fri Aug 07, 2015 12:36 pm
Rob finally did smile, a wry quirk of one corner of his mouth, and snorted a soft chuckle. For all he didn't trust this guy as far as he could throw him, he found himself rather liking him, after a fashion. Anthony was a Fagan sort, that was for sure, and Rob had just signed up to be one of his urchins. No contract, no handshake, just a verbal agreement and an exchange of contact information. Well, what the hell. It wasn't like he was being asked explicitly to do anything wrong. "Attewood. A-t-t-e-wood. I bloody hate when people get the spelling wrong. And I think I'd prefer to pop round your shop when I need a gig rather than get a call. I bloody hate the phone. I'll give you my number, though, for your records, no problem." Rob looked around at the deepening dark of the evening. He'd be heading out in a bit to patrol, which meant he'd have to get home first and drop off his guitar. Of course, Anthony didn't know what he was, but the threat of bad things out at night should be enough to excuse him. "Speaking of your shop, where is it located? You got a business card or something with the address on it? Or is it close enough we can pop in? It's getting a bit dark out, and you know what happens in this ******** town when it gets dark."
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Posted: Sat Aug 08, 2015 3:20 am
"Attewood, right." Isaiah pulled his cell from pocket and tooled around with the apps until he found the e-ledger program that he often used on the fly. "Good. I'll leave your phone number blank for now - if you take up an assignment and need help, you'll be able to call me and I'll get the number from you then. In the mean time..." The cell went back into pocket, and a strange look crossed Isaiah's face while he fished for his wallet. If one had a discerning eye, it might be said that Isaiah looked almost regretful.
Of what, perhaps even he wasn't certain.
"And if we're going to do business, you'll likely need my real name." Some of that leveled out against Rob withholding his own surname, but Isaiah wagered that a whole pseudonym would somehow generate more offense than Rob's dry response. Out of the leather wallet came one of many business cards - pristine, die cast, and printed in black and brilliant royal blue. On the front read Isaiah Zähne in stylized but legible script, followed by work and cell phone numbers. Isaiah's title listed him as a consignment consultant - a term that meant little in formal jargon but he doubted anyone paid it much heed. The back listed the Pawnography above location and business hours. The card was then turned over to Rob while being held between two knuckles. "Say it like 'TSAY-nuh'. None of this 'Zawn' business. French people are the worst with it - they only pronounce half my last name."
Rob's ask after his office received lukewarm response. Isaiah responded begrudgingly while he pocketed his wallet. "I just closed the business for the night, and I was heading home when I heard you. Now, I doubt you'd want to follow a stranger home in a town like this. If you're interested in discussing contracts, drop by during business hours. Nine to eight, usually - and if I'm not there, just ask for Enrique and he'll take a message for me. Now try to be safe, Rob; it'd be a shame to lose you to terrorists so soon after we met." Isaiah chanced one last smile before he started off himself, whistling one of the songs that the busker played earlier.
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