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 Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:11 pm
 I'd like to begin this with a delicious meal of corn.
. . . . . Not really.
Welcome to a concept thread, also commonly referred to as the house of Quest. However, the house of Quest reminds me a little too much of Johnny Quest. Plus, it's a mouthful to throw on IUJ to it. Thus, this thread shall forever more be Concept Thread #A-t2k345-900234, or IUJ-CT. Whichever you may prefer!
It's great if you've popped in to take a look. Constructive comments or comments in general are much appreciated, and I thank you now for your time spent reading through this thread if that is your intention.
Throughout the thread you will find links to historical information in regards to the character's past life, as well as misc. information about things that may be referenced. It is not vital for you to look at these articles, but, for record, they are denoted with the comment "HISTORY NOW: [insert topic]!" at the top of each section featuring things that may need be explained further into detail.
Once again, thank you for your time.
- Introduction and Directory.
- The Character Concept.
- Ghost of History.
- The Caretaker.
- Squiggles and Lines: Artwork.
- Task One / Roleplay Depth.
- Reserved Posts.
1.7. Alright. >> Considering my internet conked out I didn't get to update until today. I love you too computer! Ahem. Anyway, Conceptual Art has been added to the art section of Marcello's thread. 8D Enjoy - because my computer almost ate it. Man oh man was that scary...
10.1. The thread has been set up with layman terms and basic informations!
Proof reading has been initiated. 
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:12 pm
 Name: Marcello Revere [Weinsel].
Alias: Marc [Mark].
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
Note: "Some things you see with your eyes, others you see with your heart."
Guardian: Aiden Weinsel [Paul Revere].
Personality:
Marcello, throughout his characteristics, is two-faced. It isn't a matter of multiple persona, nor is it a matter of being a con artist. If he is swindling anyone it would be he himself after all.
His mind seems to veer onto a path of self satisfaction and worship. This is not to say that he parades about declaring his greatness in such an outright manner. In truth, his way of depicting his "higher being" is subtle. It can be exhibited through his actions, through his words, and through his general refusing, carriage. Marcello is the sort of individual who will not take no, or deal with the idea of being wrong. He wants, with all of his heart, to be right, and he wants to lead. That alpha complex he suffers from is perhaps the largest clue to how condescending he can be. Marc will not follow. He wants to be in charge, and not being in charge can put him on edge or create a conflict between he and whoever is opposing him. In that, he is sometimes hostile, although far from a physical hazard. Often times, when he's erupted, he'll yell, or he'll walk away in a huff to calm himself down [by reassuring himself that everyone will come back to him in the end -snort-].
The easiest way to paint a portrait is with the word, as stated, two-faced. He acts tough and solid, but, under the shrewd, sarcastic surface is that weakness, that fear, that all cocky individuals seem to share. Marcello's confidence and self worth comes from his socialization. He likes to be surrounded by people. He likes to be admired, to have friends, and to be recognized by the general public. Although he often pretends or states that he doesn't need anyone, without that sort of surrounding he withers into a state of self-consciousness, a state of mind that unmasks him and shows him that he is not what he pretends to be. Without people, Marcello recognizes his own flaws, and analyzes his own crude behavior, mistakes. That sort of tendency is what puts him on a brink and develops his general complex.
In summery, Marc needs people. He lives for people. Even in his sarcastic nature, he is not what one would consider ... Difficult, or outright easy to decode as a fallacy. His self-presentation is a lot more urbane than one would imagine. He's suave and fluid in speech, charming in a sense, but with that underlying satirist tone.
A few words to close: Urbane, sociable, needy, demanding, sarcastic. He simply doesn't want to be below anyone, and he doesn't want to be trampled on.
Physical Appearance:
The recipe for Marcello is archaic! His decor is old and rusty, dusted, white, or black, with hints of dark greens. Of course, this is speaking of the colors of which he would generally affiliate with. He's highly old in appearance, like something out of the early twentieth century. Before we get to attires though... We should settle with physicality.
Marcello is husky. He's broad shouldered, broad in nature, with a narrow face. This is not to connect him with the word 'fat'. He's simply robust and powerful, rough in appearance. The same seems to go with his facial expressions. He's cocky and "tuff", but with a hint of James Bond feel. He doesn't slump, nor look like a thug, but rather a smug politician. The most common position for his lips is a knowing smirk.
As I was saying! His face is narrow, but not long. What I mean by this is that Marcello doesn't have rounded, pudgy cheeks. His face is bony and medium length, fitting of his body, but far, far from pudgy or cheeky.
His tawny eyes are set confidently on his head about the bridge of the slender nose. They always seem to be looking forward, sometimes up or down, etc., but more commonly forward, although it appears at an angle due to the way he cocks his head to the left.
The skin complexion seems to augment the tone of his hair. It is a yellowish color. Well, not yellow, more of a yellow-peach, somewhat sandy, but not tanned. Its distinct coloration, thick and rich, collaborates to bring out the milk chocolate bit of hair atop his head. Marcello has fairly neat hair. It's fine in texture, soft and fur-like, thick for certain, but positioned finely [think that it never seems to change position, no matter what]. It does not seep over the mass of his forehead! He does not have a huge forehead to begin with, but the hair does not cover more than an inch of it. It's waved and as old in appearance as his general attires. It's like a comb over, one side appearing slightly further up than the other. Everything is neat, set in place, and fine in tune, the back connected directly to his neck and not seeping over his ears, the top remaining on his scalp. That would be his hairstyle at, quite literally, all natural stages, as it doesn't seem to grow any more than it has. If he were to trim it, obviously, it would change. However, default, he has combed, interesting hair like that of a boy's out of an ancient black and white photograph.
Finally, we have reached the coup de grace: the attire!
Marcello's general attire is a dusted brown jacket with two pockets on the opposite chest areas. Silver buttons are adorned on the jacket, glittering and fresh. Underneath this jacket is a pale gray shirt, no pictures, no markings, just a plain gray shirt, although it is constructed with the texture a wool sweater. Wrapped about the boy's neck is a dark green scarf, also with a wool like texture. As for the pants, so forth and so on, they're all as basic as the general attire is itself! Haha. The pants are highly plain, dark brown slacks, and the shoes a pair of shining black boots. With those final words, the basic, ground outfit has been listed.
However, there are accessories of which are optional to add, but should be noted entirely. The first of which is a hanky. It is pale yellow and like lace, embroided with the initials N.S., typed out in an almost English Viviance type, or Parchment. It's dirty, tattered, but still maintains a hauntingly beautiful glow. If desired, it may be positioned within visible range. If not, it should be noted as contained in a jacket pocket. It would be lovely to see it in a hand, perhaps clutched tightly. After all, this 'Hanky' would be equivalent to a security blanket for Marcello.
The remaining accessory is just a fine idea of a thing that would be fitting to the character. An old, tatter duffel bag slung over the shoulder, packed to the brim with clothing and a flopped stuffed rabbit, pale blue in color with dark green button eyes and a large navy bow.
And there you have Marc. 
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:12 pm
 |x|It Was A Cold Dark Evening Since A Long Time Ago |x|History Now: HolocaustHistory Now: Kristallnacht
On the nights of November 9th and 10th, 1938, they watched in horror from the shadows. Sledgehammers and axes were hoisted into the air, crashing down through windows or into walls. The screams and destruction were difficult to withstand. Every fresh noise would send a tremor up their spines and make them long to cry out and express. They felt that agony, that astonishing pain, without a solitary wound being inflicted to their bodies. Whatever had gone wrong in the country, they were utterly unaware. They had not suspected such an outbreak. Never before would they have dreamed of a violent rampage tumbling through their sacred neighborhood! It was a place where they had lived; a place where they had grown, had loved. In the flash of the evening, all of that peace shattered into a thousand pieces, just like the many windows and lives.
Unfortunately, there was more to come...
---
When Marcello was still young, Germany had started turning down an awkward path. The general public view was declining rapidly; the government becoming the favorite of everything - and the Jews the least, alongside the other groups that had been called a 'threat', or 'weird'.
At the start of his recognizing it all, Marcello had been about twelve years old [1935]. A fine, young, strapping man, if not a little quirky. He was quick witted and intelligent, but seemingly lacking enthusiasm to be astounding. He did not like to work, nor did he like the idea of separation. As his life continued, friends drifted away and separation became an amazing detail, eventually formulating a desperate need to be around people and to be told he was not 'undesirable' or 'dirty'. Marcello, to the greatest extent, wanted his self worth solidified, and it was a direct result from his youth at the start and pike of the Third Reich.
For the most part, he seemed to live a contented life, even with the ephemeral friendships and changing mechanics of his country. He played like any other boy: shooting marbles, kicking a ball, or running from one street corner to another. There was nothing peculiar about his childhood: not his young mother or his slightly older father, nor his extended family. Marcello simply lived naturally for his late childhood, with the kicks and quirks of the Regime and its rise.
However, a night came when everything disappeared - any hope for the degrading life, the hateful comments, dispersed. It was gone November 9th-10th of 1938, when Jewish businesses and homes were assaulted, dismantled. People were killed in the streets. Marcello's own home was destroyed, his family watching warily from a shadowed alley before fleeing the scene out of fear. Marcello's father was separated from them.
They did not leave Germany, simply their town after that.
Three years later, in 1941, things had started to get rougher. It became more apparent that Marcello and his mother were not going to survive in the open, thus they went into hiding. After four months, Marcello's mother, widowed in 1938 after her husband was lost during The Night of Broken Glass, decided to do something desperate. She pleaded with those hiding her to do something for her son, and eventually a conclusion was made to get him out of Germany. His clothing was taken and replaced by something casual, something that would allow him to assimilate into German society until he got out of the country, and eventually out of Europe all together [or at least to England]. That was the plan.
He was given a tattered duffel bag, packed full of personal belongings and spare clothing, accessories, things to help hide his identity in all ways. After being handed the bag, and some money, he was turned away from the house of those who had been hiding him.
Marcello hiked to the train station, hesitating and acting like a scared rabbit, which did not help him mingle. However, he managed to get to the station undetected. Unfortunately, his confusing behavior led to suspicion. He was confronted, and, like a fool, Marcello fled. He saw a pair of unguarded train doors resting wide open, slowly beginning to close, and, desperately, he lunged inside. "Down with you dogs!" was the last thing he had said to the two before the doors closed on him and everything faded to a large blur with the train taking off frighteningly quick. Whatever he uttered during those final moments is anyone's 'guess', but likely he had no idea where he was going, or what was occurring.
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:13 pm
Alias: Paul Revere.
Species: Human.
Gender: Male.
D.o.B.: April 13th.
Hair Color: Blond.
Eye Color: Brown.
Height: 6'3".
Weight: Unknown.
Occupation: Stand-Up Comedian.
General Place of Living: A Bus; Hotel Rooms.
Personality:
Aiden is a quirky, historical nutcase. As a youth, he could not focus on school, as it seemed to bore him to tears. Instead of pursuing a college degree, he quit and began hunting down a way to become a radio personality for talk shows in the morning, his only true dream. However, it proved increasingly difficult to gather support to become a radio show host. Like high school, Aiden became frustrated and decided to travel as a stand-up comedian, which has become his second greatest passion.
In more formal terms: Aiden is easily frustrated. He can't stand things being hard, thus, when they get too hard, he quits. He has an ever burning love for comedy, particularly regarding historical events, politics, or world issues. He's somewhat of a loud mouth, never knows when he should stop talking, and he absolutely can not stand solitude. He needs the noise to keep him positively sane.
Though, for the most part, open and vocal about himself, there are ... Qualities ... He prefers to keep private, generally regarding his hobbies, relationships, or general doings late nights on Saturdays after work. He's rather low down and shrewd, the sort of man a woman might be hesitant to approch in the fact that he is vulgar in his hilarity, yet, stunning in some awkward way. Like Marcello, Aiden has a particular charm to his voice that sometimes gets him out of the 'dog house' when he's placed himself inside.
He seems to have a great discomfort regarding his heritage in the fact that he was adopted. Wanting to distance himself from his adoptive parents after moving out, for he had not had a loving relationship with either of them, he changed his name to Paul Revere, creating an old world historical reference intended to be comedic.
Though he gave up on becoming a radio host, the dream remains, ringing strong. As a stand-up comedian, he has proven himself amusing to many a crowd, but, as he puts it, it "leaves him unsatisfied [like poor sex]". While he enjoys stand-up comedy, his goal in life was, and silently remains, radio hosting.
So, in summery, Aiden is very comedic and easily frustrated, a little angry at times, but always searching for jokes. He's a little shady in personality, vague during casual speech, and flowery in terms of his descriptions. 
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:14 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:15 pm
|x|T a s k o n e|x| "There's always something more you wish (s)he'd say..." The lights had clicked on to illuminate the stage. It was a wondrous thing, and he could not deny the fact that it enthralled him. As the brightness spread and consumed the shadows, his heart had seemed to lift carelessly. All that mattered was the evening. All that mattered was what nonsensical gibberish he allowed to spew from his mouth. There was, of course, the factor of being the funny man, but in being the funny man there was only the concern of being the funny man. Taxes were not an issue. Food was not an issue. Transportation, residence, none of it mattered. The only thing of true importance was his voice and his jokes, his audience. Their narrowed, critical eyes chronicled his journey as the performer long before the first joke exited his mouth, long before he had even set foot on the stage for his act. Standing on the side lines, he could see the stretch of the wooden stage, etched and marked by careless foot shuffles of former visitors who had either not worn the proper shoes, or had intentionally made the marks so to be remembered. It was the largest club in Durem, after all! What performer would not dare to leave a mark on the floor?
Even with its magical appearance, he found himself torn. There was a particular light missing that darkened his side of the stage, his side of the curtain waiting area. The shadows stretched perhaps a tenth of the stage, hardly a large amount, but enough to catch his eyes and make him cringe. Whether it was fate's symbology, or a broken light bulb, was anyone's guess. He was not particularly apt to care, but every passing moment had seemed to rile him. Each second he stared at his darkened corner of the stage, he felt chains wrap around his rising heart. They locked and gave a sharp pull, so to drag him down into some unknown abyss he had never before encountered. It was not the present reality that concerned him, and that was perhaps the reason the chains had no difficulty. It was not money, nor was it nervousness before the performance. At least, he did not believe it was either of the two. He did not think about the show, nor the money that would be in his pocket afterwards. He did not think about preforming on one of the most popular stages in Gaia. Any other man might have claimed disturbance, discomfort, but he felt no such thing. The only thoughts to make themselves provident were those of the events prior to arrival, and of his shame. What was he doing standing there on the edge of the stage? "You're giving a show." He told himself under his breath as he began to fix his shirt collar. His throat was cleared and lips puckered so to create a pop. Something seemed horribly wrong with his statement, though. He was there to give a show. Was that truly where he needed to be that evening? His eyes seemed to flutter, and his eyebrows seemed to wriggle. Of course it was where he was supposed to be! He was a comedian, and comedians always took the stage by storm! wryly, he grinned. He continued to fix his shirt collar and think to himself. Rather than allotting moments for somberness or self criticism, he allotted himself a pep talk, and confidence that nothing was truly wrong. He had no worries. He was positive.
"You're on in ten, Revere. Seconds. Keep sharp for the announcement!" A voice rang. He ignored it entirely. The information had been quickly absorbed, but every tone pattern, accent, had been discarded so to destroy the familiarity. Not even a response was given to the owner of the vocals, for he was far too absorbed in watching the stage and pepping himself. Unfortunately, one thing had proven itself consistent and unavoidable: the truth. Even his denial of the charge on him did not prove his innocence to his guilty mind. Something was horribly wrong with his being there that night, and he knew exactly what...
"Please welcome to Slap-Stick in Durem... Mr. Paul Revere, the messenger of comedy!"
Paul closed his eyes and held them shut for as long as he possibly could. That was his name. Show time. Without any hesitations, he took a step forward, not resting upon the shadowed corner of the stage. He pressed forward and hurried through the area, his hands held high as if he were being held up by a robber. Almost habitually, he clasped the two together and began to shake them as the whistles and applause surrounded the room and merged with the air. It was a beautiful sound, but, in truth, he found it bitter sweet. A moment was taken to cringe. Quickly, he caught himself and continued his tirade of prancing about and showing his appreciation for the welcome. Such general actions, similar to that of a struting rooster, eventually faded, though. There was nothing to distract him except for the need to say something to keep the eyes from wandering. He needed their attention. It was the only thing he could imagine taking away his other thoughts.
"Good evening everybody, and welcome to another night at Slap-Stick in Durem. Honestly, I'd like to know who thought of such a provocative name. When I first got a phone call, I thought a hooker had put me on speed dial after a late night party that I simply couldn't recall. I mean, come on? Slap-Stick? Sounds like a nice joint for a single man, I'll tell you that... Whoops, did I say that out loud?" Paul laughed weakly. A hand motion was given, circular, as if he were the director of an orchestra who had forgotten the precise motion and had decided that a circle was the next best thing. Around and around his hand went, and soon it was serving as a propeller, moving him all about the stage while he drummed up his thoughts and waited for his moment. Punch-line. He needed a punch line before the small meal of laughter he'd achieved died!
----
The bus was as empty as the soda can within his hand, silence reigning over what had previously been noise. Marcello wasn't sure if he were proud of such a thing or distraught. He had wanted the noise gone - secretly - but had longed even more for the continuousness of it. Such a paradox his thoughts proved to be. It was tedious.
Just that afternoon they had all been having a fine time. Marcello had been more cooperative and less angry than usual, Paul had been less corny, and the manager and crew of which made up his 'immediate family' had been far more jubilant than ever. It had been a day of celebration, and the festivities had been evident. Even though the bus was empty, there remained the left overs of what had been a small celebration, a party - his party - his birthday party.
The cold days had cycled about and landed upon that spectacular day in which Marcello had joined the Revere crew. He had, in a sense, become their gimmick - and their entertainments. The lot of the crew was adults or elders - men and women, and an individual Marc wasn't sure what he was to call - thus Marc had become the treasure and brunt of attentions amongst them. When the motherless women were feeling parental, they smothered him, and when the fatherless men were feeling a need to deliver wisdom, wisdom was delivered. Over the course of his life with Paul, Marcello had learned many a secret about the 'joys of manhood', and the mannerisms of a gentleman. It was something the Revere crew men valued, and the women adored, and they all were apt to insure his gentlemanly nature exceeded his vulgar father. As they often put, and as Marcello knew, Paul was no man for proper child rearing.
Despite the attentions of the crew, Marcello had always harbored a silent longing for something different. He was a boy of egotistical proportions, and one in need of society more than he would ever admit. In such facts rested the longing for something more, albeit further true than his precise nature suggested: Marcello wanted a father. Mr. Paul Revere had proven inadequate, to his dismay. Their affections were sheltered from one another, their sociality. Paul was absorbed in his work, and Marcello was absorbed in his life - yet, unlike Paul, Marc had proven himself willing to set aside time. He wanted to set aside time for the two of them. During the amount of time they had spent together, they had learned so very little, and as a teenager Marcello found the fact lamentable. Whenever he had happened to encounter a friend, they would mention something about their parents - about how wonderful, or horrible, they were. Marcello had nothing to share. His memories constructed with Paul were awkward or that of an employee. Paul confided in Marc to learn his personal opinions, or ambitions, and have it documented on a mental notepad. Paul's woes and joys were there, etched within his mind, but their intimacy was nonexistent. They were like strangers living in a room together. Where was the sense of father and son?
Shifting upon his seat at the back of the bus, Marcello held his coke can up to observe it. It's lustrous red and silver was highly appealing, some of his favorite colors! Weakly, he had smiled at the coke can while his mind had contemplated crushing it. Something stopped him from doing it, and rather than crushing the item with his hand he thrust it towards the front of the bus and gave a loud curse. His body was leaned forward with the force of the motion. He did not lean back into his seat, nor did he remain as still as a store display. Marc shifted more, hunched more, and placed his face in his hands on an impulse. Paul had a show. Everyone was gone. As odd as it was, such a truth was not the main reason for his discomfort. It was his birthday, and Paul had promised him that they would do something together that evening. They had made plans to go out for a night on the town - to go to a theater perhaps, maybe even a bar, which Paul had suggested. It had been a fine idea, and Marcello had gotten excited over the very suggestion [even if his poise had remained urbane and casual]. However, Paul had betrayed the promise of which he had made to Marc. Instead of spending the birthday getting to know one another further, doing something like a possible family, they had gotten a cake for the bus and some soda, some confetti, some balloons. They had thrown a small party on the bus and then they had left for Paul to do the show - which Paul had lied about. The man had told Marcello that there had been no show for the day, yet, there was one! There was one, and rather than missing it for one night Paul had gone to do it. To make the matters worse, their words of exchange before it had been brutal and embarrassing. The entire crew had been watching them as they fought.
A soft sob escaped Marc's mouth as he rubbed at his eyes with the palm of his hand. They had been yelling at each other like no one would believe. Marcello had called him a two-faced liar, Paul had called him a mooching twit, and then they had just gone off to war, dropping atomic bombs until they both said words - with tonal sincerity - that were the sound of hurt. They had told one another that they were on equal terms of hate, and Marcello had stated he would be leaving that evening.
Yet, he had not moved from the place of which he had sat down after the argument. He had remained on the bus, as if leaving it would mean having to depart forever. He did not really want to leave, though he had said such a thing, nor did he really hate Paul. He was angry, that was all! But, whether or not it was the same case for his 'father' was for anyone to guess.
The tears were held within as Marcello straightened himself and gave the bus' roof a glance. His generally urbane eyes were riddled with complex melancholy. Each moment that passed led to a breath inhaled and exhaled. His chest rose and fell in a rhythmic manner. The silence continued, and continued, and cont -- A sudden noise captured his senses. Violently, Marc straightened himself and wiped at his eyes, trying to erase the glaze that had coated them. Footsteps were echoing down the path, loud and clunky. When Marcello had finished wiping his eyes to look at the scarlet curtain that separated the front of the bus from the very back, it had been moved slightly to the side and there stood one of the crew members - Marcello's favorite - and the only one he was never sure of what pronouns to be using - Ginny.
Ginny was a being far bigger than Paul, and far bigger than Marcello. While the both of them stood somewhere within the ranges of five feet and six, Ginny stood like a giant at mid way to seven. The person was huge! The shoulders were vast, the arms long, and the feet like those of an elephant. Whatever Ginny was, it could not be denied that Ginny was prodigious.
"Ginny." Marcello spoke, trying to sound as if he were perfectly contented and everything was fine. He sat himself up further and tried to make his body less tense, as well as fight off the sobs threatening to continue. His emotions were running wild! "I... Uhm... The show. The show's over?" He asked regretfully, expecting that when the show ended he would have to gather his things and keep to his comment of actually leaving.
Ginny smiled, and, in a deep, robust voice spoke: "No. The show is still rolling. Paul's got his hands tied, so he said during the break."
"Oh." Marc cleared his throat. He was hardly relieved by the news. "What are you doing here, then?" The inquiry was made with genuine curiosity. It did not make sense for one of the crew to miss Paul's show. They never did, and, ordinarily, Marcello never did either.
"I need a reason to check up on our favorite James Bond patricher? Kid, you sure you want to sit here all by yourself? There's plenty of room behind the stage -- " Ginny had started to speak in a lecturer's tone of voice. The crew member's monologue was cut off soon after it had started, though.
"I don't want to go back stage. I - I have to get ready anyway. I'm leaving tonight, remember?" Marcello had stated with shaky confidence. His hands had started quivering, as had his shoulders. Still, he tried to remain calm and contained. "Thanks for checking up?" He smiled a cocky smile and tried to stand up, only to sit back down and look out the window, away from Ginny.
Ginny gave a shake of the head before shifting to have a seat next to Marc. Hesitantly, the mass creature gave the boy a pat on the shoulder and began to speak again: "Paul can be a real insensitive idiot some times, you know? He means well, but he has his priorities."
"And I'm not one." Marc scoffed, giving a faint sob somewhere in between it. How ridiculous! What was he doing, beginning to cry over Paul? He didn't need him! He didn't need anyone! "He's a liar."
"I agree, he is a liar. When I first met him he said he was from the other side of the planet. Was he? No, not at all. Just a runaway from home who got mad at his parents." Ginny chortled, giving yet another shake of the head.
Marcello cast a look to the being, observing the dark skin and eyes, the false long-hair atop the head of a blond coloration. Ginny was such a ridiculous being in appearance, and Marc wanted to laugh at the choice wig of the night, but he didn't. Instead, he listened to the words with intrigue.
"He's thick-headed and stubborn, just like a certain someone else I know around here. I'd say it ran in the blood, but I don't want any offenses taken here." Ginny's eyes narrowed.
"None taken. What's blood matter?" Marcello retorted, grunting and whimpering at the same time. "What's your point, Ginny?"
"My point is that Paul's got things in a loop, Marc. You two have to cooperate. Some times you both have to make sacrifices. Paul has his job. You have your social life, your exploratory tendencies. Both of you need to reach a common ground. There's plenty of time in the day..." Ginny sighed.
"It's not about time or scheduling. H-he promised me. He promised and..." Marcello gave a swift shake of his head before standing up again and walking towards the red curtain. He took hold of it with his hand and squeezed it tight. "He's just not around, and when he is he's busy. I'm tired of moving around all the time."
"Do I sense light of a new issue?" Ginny laughed and stood as well. Carefully, the being placed the large hands within the pockets of slacks. A few steps were taken, but Ginny did not move close again. "If it's not about your birthday, what is it about, kid?"
"There's always something more you wish he'd say... Something more I wish he'd say. It's always 'Marc, how is this?' or something about nonsense, about comedy, about silly things! Even when I try to have a serious conversation with him, he makes it unserious, and he never listens. That's why today went so wrong. He just wouldn't listen to me!" Marc seethed, tugging at the curtain slightly to emphasize his points. "And he never wants to talk after a show, or just before it, about anything but the damn show, and then for weeks he prepares for another, and we never do anything. Today he promised we would, and he lied. It's just... There's always something I want him to say. He won't say it. He never has." The boy flicked the curtain and spun around. A hand was carefully placed on his forehead and run through the brown hair.
Ginny gave a wry smile and let out a howl of laughter. "You two are better than any soap opera I've ever seen! Marc, you're coming with me." The prodigious individual piped with great amusement while advancing towards Marc. The crestfallen teenager had not been given a chance to protest, for Ginny had made haste in grabbing his arm and dragging him off the bus and towards the building.
----- They had entered through the back door and into the back hall leading to the stage side passages. The old, twisted lights above them had been flickering with an obnoxious tendency, buzzing every few moments, some finally clicking off and dying. Perhaps the worst thing of all was the smell. Marcello could hardly stand the stench of the hallway, for it was so similar to that of raw sewage. It made him sick to his stomach. Oh, how he wanted to yell at Ginny for dragging him into the place! He had not even wanted to see the show, nor enter the building! He had no business in doing such in the first place.
Weakly, he gave a wheeze and began an excessive coughing. It was just such a horrible smell. How Ginny could handle it was beyond him! Marc's face twisted and turned as his stomach did, and he felt himself growing more ill - until they finally reached the door. It had been a lonesome thing within the hall, tall and silver with an illegible sign hung on it, and smothered with rust. For the nicest comedy club in Durem, the hall to the stage and dressing rooms proved nothing short of ghetto status. It was garbage, disgusting, and Marcello was particularly appalled by it - but, before he could comment on the ludicrous nature of the hall, Ginny had opened the door and relieved him of the horrors he had experienced. With desperate longing, Marcello inhaled and exhaled breaths, panting like a diver who had been deprived oxygen for a ridiculous amount of time. He coughed, he sneezed, he held his stomach and leaned over as if threatening to vomit. With such a motion, Ginny had taken liberty to slap him on the back and nudge him forward. On shaky legs, Marc obeyed the figurative demand and moved forward, stopping to have his coughing fit an breathe again. When he did finally look up, what he saw forced a bright red flush upon his face, Ginny had dragged him not to the dressing room quarters, but to the side of the stage, where the guests waited to be signaled on for their performances. He gulped and stared at the long, shadowy strip that seemed to consume his portion of the stage. How poetic it seemed to be! It reflected the night, though Marc had not the slightest idea of such a thing. Regardless, a connection remained, and as he gazed hard at the shadows he found himself growing mesmerized.
"Well, here we are, Marc." Ginny had said with a glimmer resting in the eyes. Cautiously, the massive thing moved forward, attempting to not make the wooden boards beneath their feet creek, as they had done when Marc had carelessly strolled and trudged across them.
Marcello took in a final deep breath before straightening himself and continuing to stare out at the stage. He did not respond to Ginny's comment; something else had happened to capture his attention: his father. There he was, dancing across the stage and telling his petty jokes in a sing song tone. He was chortling and frolicking, having a merry time. There was something unique about his actions that was difficult to place, but one could propose it was fear. Paul Revere looked afraid and melancholy, only it was hidden by a handsomely built mask of vulgar hilarity. For a long while Marcello gazed at the man on the stage, scrutinizing, taking in the features and the motions, committing them to the asylum that was his mind for the night. Was it truly the last night he would ever see such a performance? His breath continued to stagger as he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I don't want to watch him. I already told you that, Ginny." He gave a firm, annoyed grunt - spinning around afterwards to walk off in a huff.
Ginny had not allowed such a thing. The being had thrust and arm out to grab hold of Marc's wrist and drag him back to the spot behind the curtain and in the shadows. "No sir. It's not a matter of watching him." Ginny gave an askew smile before glancing off towards Paul. "What you said on the bus... You're right that Paul is a bit of a liar, but he also proves himself simply dense and insensitive. He's no mind reader." The murmurs flittered forth, soft like a pigeon's coo.
"Your point?" Marc shook his head, growing slightly more agitated with the evening. Just hearing Paul's voice, his jokes, served to rile him.
"He's no mind reader, Marcello. He's not in tune with emotions, with feelings, and I'm certain he didn't know how much it meant to you today, and that he's hurting from the same blows dealt." Ginny had continued, the smile only growing wider by the second. "You're both stubborn, but break down your walls and he will break down his." With a mighty motion, Ginny threw Marcello forward, failing in getting him beyond the darkened part of the stage. Like a skittish rodent, Marc had rushed back behind the curtain and had tried to escape. Ginny caught him again and held tight, frowning. Dreadful that the first launch had been a failure!
"What are you doing? I can't go out there! He's acting!" The teenager had gasped in disbelief. He was astonished by the sheer proposal that he waltz onto the stage and begin ruining Paul's entire performance. His teeth chattered and body quivered due to the scare. If he ruined Paul's show...
"What's blood matter?" Ginny mockingly piped. Once again, Marcello was thrown, all the while Ginny loosely singing: "Just tell him how you feel. Improvise. It's a family talent." - and with such a thing said had stood back to cross the arms and stare with a satisfied and knowing smirk.
Marcello tumbled forward, spiraling out of control. He was his own fighter plane and had been shot down behind enemy lines! Quickly, his eyes had shut and he had tensed. His legs dragged horribly on the ground as he tried to slow down, though his figure appeared that of a soldier on the charge. A quiet, disturbed, and angry snarl was given as he came to a grand finale. "Ginny!" Marc roared as he rammed into something and fell onto his rump. He would never forgive that creature! Never!
A massive gasp had been emitted from the crowd, which had triggered Marc's eyes to open. Timid and shaken by the shock of potentially making a bad scenario worse, he looked up from his spot on the ground, wincing due to the pain in his rump at the same time. There he stood. There Paul stood, glowering down at him like a startled giant. Their eyes locked and the sound of the microphone hitting the stage echoed throughout the entire room. No laughter accompanied the accident, only silence.
Marcello gulped, shutting his eyes and looking away. He was dead. He was so dead.
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:16 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:17 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:18 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:20 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:21 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:22 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:22 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:23 pm
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Posted: Sat Sep 30, 2006 4:24 pm
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