You could be my main man.
Kirsten is the Brian Slade to my Curt Wild aka the Bowie to my Iggy. Life without her would be incredibly glitter-less, wig-less, fabu-less and generally full of fucking suck.
I am so happy to be that pretty
I agree with this wholeheartedly.
Essentially a neutral group of people that goes around and does the dirty work for gangs. They’re particularly good at being back alley undertakers. General intro writing. Blood and things— Have fun with it. I’ll eventually figure out how to properly label these short pieces.
Butchered until he was a supernova of hues tossed against skin like a mauve and mustard yellow painting; Ferris would have been better off left to rot in the self-deprecating trench of a modern art gallery than continue his current line of work. There was a significant difference between being caught and getting out with a couple scrapes, but the space between the two was growing thinner and thinner with each job he took on. He would have been lying had he said he wasn’t growing weary of the continuous almost-failings on his part, and at a young twenty-three, there were days when he had to wonder if he had taken on more than he could chew. The shock value of whipping a nail studded baseball bat around—only to swing the makeshift weapon as if a homerun was a matter of life or death—was yet to wear off. He could only assume that jolt was the shiver of humanity essential to keep him anchored. That being said, he was still waiting for the erosion that would make plasma splatters easier, fairy dust brain matter less trivial, and popping blood vessels habitual. For someone who had excelled in all of the levels of education he had bothered with, Ferris hadn’t picked a conventional occupation.
“Hey, dicksmack.” Catching Lester’s attention with a quick deck to the taller man’s bicep; Ferris wrinkled his freckle splotched nose and pointed at the dive that was glowing before them. “How many, again?”