|Yep, click to open the cascade of nonsensical and bloody fanart plus other crap that is my gallery!|
One for SorrowThe scuffle it had taken to keep him from meeting with the same fate that had taken the life of his groupie had left him with a small gash just above his left brow that dripped a steady trickle of blood down his damp face. Riff Raff had been overpowered, his weapon rendered useless, and he and Magenta hadn't dared move a muscle since Columbia had fallen.One for Sorrow by Prosper-the-XVIII
While his master had attacked the mutinous handyman - half in self-preservation and half in rage at the fact Riff had thought he was allowed to destroy what was not rightfully his - Rocky had attempted to cower behind Janet, although while Frank had been unaware, she, her...male and Dr Scott had fled (in spite of the fact that they were partially nude and, in two of three cases, in drag) leaving the perpetually bamboozled Adonis standing looking pathetic and afraid, still in the center of the stage.
"You killed her..." Frank's bloodied, partially made-up glance fell on the offender after he'd spent a while mentally debating
Shuffle ChallengeYou walked into the partyShuffle Challenge by Prosper-the-XVIII
Like you were walking onto a yacht.
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye,
Your scarf, it was apricot.
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself go by.
And all of the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner....
You're so vain,
You probably think this song is about you.
You're so vain,
I bet you think this song is about you,
- You're So Vain, Marilyn Manson feat. Johnny Depp
At the first glance, he had been perfect. Sexy, suave, the best lover she had ever come across in her life....and the only one who happened to be a transvestite at that.
His true colours had come on later.
The manipulative shithead who used and abused her had stolen and broken her heart, and he knew it, too. Every part of her fucking hated him. But even more loved him for everything he was, and this confused and disgusted her. He had this ludicrous effect on everyone who he wished to bed at some point; they were putty in his hands within minutes.
Stories such as this have been told before, and there is no doubt that they will be told again; only in different words; in different times; with different names. Different people.
And it is here that we meet said ‘different people’ in this particular story. what you are about to read is a story of three women; each so alike and yet so different – all with their lives – past, present and future – intertwined in a way impossible to pick apart. The unfortunate heroine. The depressive sociopath. And the evil queen of utilitarianism. Each dancing with their own devils in their own ways, and all so sure that they couldn’t possibly be linked in the ways that they so closely are.
Who is who shall soon become apparent, as will their lives to this point, and the destinies that they shall soon face. But that is our story. And why spoil it so soon?
Evelyn ground her teeth together, attempting to force her permanent scowl into something that at least almost resembled a smile as her colleagues chanted along to another tone-deaf verse of 'For She's a Jolly Good Fellow'. Her office had been bedecked with cheap paper streamers and plastic bunting, hanging from the bare walls and scattered over the cardboard boxes filled with framed family photographs and spare-drawer clutter. Her mahogany desk, which for the first time in forever was free of small mountains of unfinished paperwork - about time too, as she'd been beginning to forget that the desktop actually existed beneath the lot of it – which she had spent several hours the previous day monotonically clearing out in preparation for the thing going into storage - there was no need nor space for it in her Mayfair apartment - had been made almost invisible once again beneath an array of floral arrangements that could probably rival the Royal Botanic Garden in size and a tray of slightly squashed cupcakes which someone had obviously picked up from Sainsbury's on the way to work. The yellow sticker proclaiming 'REDUCED TO CLEAR: NOW £1.79’ did nothing but to confirm the fact. Packed into the somewhat cramped office space were the handful of agents she had either assisted or befriended over the years, a few Q Branch technicians, '6's head honcho Olivia Hargreaves and a few other assorted staff members, all of whom were putting on a bad facade of sweetness and light as they battered on with the retirement do that it was quite clear that none of them could care less about if they tried.
The singing finished - thank the bloody Lord - and Olivia ('C' to the agents she commanded) tapped a false crimson talon against her plastic champagne flute, somehow managing to demand silence among the low hum of chatter in the room. She put on a plasticky-looking smile, raising her cup. Plasticky was the best way in which a person could describe her – materialistic and false. By no means was she an attractive woman in any sense – she possessed one of the most atrocious dye jobs a person could imagine, and a last-century ‘my husband makes more than yours’ haughtiness about her that could make a person baulk. A time had come and gone where Evelyn had professed Olivia to be the human equivalent to Chinese water torture – utterly harmless in the long run, but so irritating she could probably drive a person to insanity. As said, that time was long gone. Why exactly is another story altogether, and one which made Evelyn grimace on the occasions that her mind stumbled across it.
"I'd like to propose a toast," Olivia beamed falsely, glancing around the room until her gaze found Evelyn among the mob. "To one of the most dedicated members of staff I have ever had the pleasure to meet in my life; agent, mission controller, Chief of Staff and my would-be successor if she had not chosen to leave MI6 after fifty-one long and difficult years. To Evelyn Cameron, MBE." Evelyn shuddered as the last three syllables left Olivia's lips. The woman knew fine and well that her title was one which she bore on her name like a grudge. It was the element of botched repair about it – the fact that it was Olivia’s way of saying sorry without personal loss – that made her despise it. All the more reason, she supposed, for Olivia to say it.
"To Evelyn," A room full of voices droned back in a monotone. Evelyn coughed slightly, forcing a grisly thin-lipped smile, stepping forward so that she was next to Olivia. She walked with a not-so-subtle limp.
"Oh Lord, what do I say?" she gushed. She hoped that her attempt at sincerity looked at least slightly legitimate. There was truth in it all; her career had in fact been the best thing that had ever happened to her, and her experiences and the people she’d met (and, then again, lost) were beyond value. But she had no desire for any of the decorum and flamboyance; especially not from those who possessed no desire to be there in the first place. “Thank you all, and I can’t tell you all how much in words alone. This has been the best life I could ever have wished for, and with the best people – I couldn’t ask for anything more."
"I truly cannot thank you enough for all that you've done for this service, Evelyn. It truly is remarkable, your career. I mean, after 1996, I didn't expect to see you back here again; nobody did, I don't think," Olivia glanced up at her, the room with about half as many people now in it than had been earlier, a sizable chunk of them having left to catch the Tube home before rush hour set in.
"Olivia, could you possibly do me a favour?" Evelyn sighed, leaning against her desk. Her knee really was giving her hell now, but she couldn't walk out of her own retirement party, regardless of her excuse.
"Please, stop talking. Essentially, you are an oxygen thief. First of all, you don't have to pretend like this in front of me when it’s just us. I know exactly what you think; it doesn’t take a psychologist to read you. I also know everything that’s happened over the years concerning myself - as does everyone else in the room now - and you've got absolutely no need to keep going on about it. While you haven't spent a day in the field in your entire life, thus you haven't anything of the same ilk to speak of, you don't see me standing waxing lyrical about your various cock-ups, now do you?"
The poisoned dwarf glared. “Oh, grow up, Evelyn. I’m not going to account for whatever it is you’re doing, be it wallowing in self-pity or fishing for attention. It has been fifteen years and more; can you not bloody well let it go?"
"You appear to forget that the only thing about the entire thing not caused by you is that you weren't physically holding the gun."
"It was your negligence, Evelyn – while half of the UK at the time refused to believe it, I wasn’t at fault. Can you not just appreciate that I've stood trying to keep a straight face while-"
"Oh, go and shove your head up your backside, why don't you?" Evelyn scoffed, tossing her hair out of her face with contempt. "You can accuse people of anything and everything in order to save your own skin; it's not your most endearing trait, I'll tell you that much."
"Well, neither is your incessant implication that you are infallible, and that everything I touch dies."
"Oh, please, I-"
"Remember what happened last time you swore by your flawlessness? A woman died, and because you ‘wouldn’t’ cut a deal with terrorists. She could have come back alive, Evelyn, and it was only you that stopped her."
"She wouldn't kill herself, and they wouldn't have killed her. They wanted to-“
"To what? So you think they let her walk free when it was over and done with? After they’d extracted what they wanted to from her?"
“Well, while probably not parallel with the reality, I like to hope so.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. She was considerably older than Evelyn, who was the wrong side of sixty years old – the reason it wasn’t her retirement being celebrated was that she was stubborn as an ox (and most of her superiors were somewhat afraid of her) - and it was this among a number of other reasons that made her air of ludicrous superiority almost excusable. “Well, Evelyn, to put it in your words; ‘you do not exist in a vacuum, and your actions, or lack of thereof, can have pretty monstrous consequences outside of the bubble you appear to exist in’. You of all people should know that.”
The decision was made there and then by Evelyn that she wouldn’t waste any more of her breath; the more uneducated individuals among us would say that perchance she knew she was fighting a losing battle. But this was not the case. Olivia had a way with conversations; she twisted words and took chunks out of context to divert from the fact that she was the one to blame. It was this that Evy attributed to the fact that the woman hadn’t been fired as of yet. Shooting Olivia the evils as she gathered her bag and jacket – what she had been considering doing before the cursed soul had so kindly interrupted her getaway – Evelyn left her office for what she’d planned would be the final time if she was so lucky, trying her hardest to stride evenly and keep her limp under control.
Leaving with her dignity intact was a concept she’d tossed out the window a while ago. However, she would be damned if she left looking as weak as she was.
Meanwhile - In an abandoned hotel on ghost island somewhere in the rough vicinity of Macau, China
Elsewhere in the world, it was a different time altogether, and the dawning of a new day.
And this was when a Ms Rana Silva woke up. Her name was not one she had been born with, nor were any of her personality traits – her nervous disposition; her theatrical arrogance; her habitual enjoyment of isolation from others, and of course the fact that she was a blatant misanthropist – and they were not ones she had acquired by choice. Yet they were the ones that she was stuck with. Oh well. C’est la vie.
She didn't even have to glance at the glowing LED display of her alarm clock or even raise her head from her silk pillow to tell that it was well before five o'clock in the morning. Oh well. She wasn't even going to bother trying to fall back into a nightmare-fuelled sleep. The early hours of the morning had long since become her standard rising time. Besides, as someone who suffered from a horrific case of post-traumatic stress disorder, mixed through with a heavy dose of insomnia, midnight to five AM could be considered a decent night's sleep.
She sat up, running her hands through her mussed platinum-blonde hair and stretching her arms above her head. Her shoulders gave a satisfying cracking noise, and she smiled and groaned with a sort of pleasure in spite of the pain. Over the course of five months of absolute hell, so many bones in her body had been fractured, displaced and misaligned that it was almost difficult to move at all without some part of her body making some sort of popping sound. However morbid they may be, she had to allow herself to take some enjoyment from the things she did every day in order to suppress the urges to destroy herself. Depression was a heartless creature that she found herself fighting a constant battle with. No matter how much she told herself it was imaginary, it was forever there trying to hand her a noose, telling her that all she touched turned to dust, and that it’d be kindest simply to euthanize herself. Of all the things which Rana hated about herself – and there were many, many of these – her mind was almost certainly top of the list.
This, however, was just her life. She had one hell of a messed-up body, more mental disorders than she could count, and a pharmacy’s worth of prescription drugs (and on top of this, booze and cigarettes) to try in vain to correct them. It wasn’t pleasurable, nor was it easy, but it was what she had been dealt.
Some are born filled with hatred; others have hatred thrust upon them. With no shadow of a doubt, Rana fell within the second margin.
She wasn’t pleased about it, or proud of it. But that was how it was.
This means Scotland |
I'm Prosper, the Queen of Procrastination and....actually, that's about it...
I'm a substandard artist and alright author. I can do makeup sometimes, I cosplay once in a blue moon, and that's about it. Very unsopectacular teenager who needs to get a life outside of music, Netflix and Rocky Horror. Bleh.
Aside from this, I love the British hospital soap opera Casualty (especially the character Dixie, who is a paramedic), James Bond, Wreck-It Ralph, The Hunger Games, marilyn Manson, Joan Jett and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. At present moment in time, ESPECIALLY The Rocky Horror Picture Show
That said, enjoy your time here in my special little corner of the Internet which you have no doubt accidentally stumbled into, and don't forget to wipe your feet on your way in.
Oh, check out my Tumblr as well - it's suicide-by-cyanide.tumblr.com. If you want Rocky Horror, Marilyn Manson, Stanley Tucci, Sphynx cats and other such shit by the truckload, it's the place to be