RE: The Big Damn Fight- Multiverse's Got Talent!
07-19-2016, 07:39 AM
-Meanwhile, on Stage 12 out of Stretching To Televised Infinity-
"-and that's a tough break there for Beasts of the Back Streets! Just goes to show hairy scary helter skelter the competition can get here on Multiverse's Got Talent™. Let's see if our next entrant's up to the challenge-"
Peppi, backstage and on in 60-and-counting, fiddled with her clip-on mic. The Robe was making last-minute adjustments, prodding and squeezing at her torso and arms like a vicarious helicopter-mum.
It was antsy as accursed nonsentient raiment could manage, still somewhere south of "legitimately useful for the situation at hand." This was a trap, these smiling Hosts and Call-me-Cadels were not her friends, the stage and spectacle and spotlights sufficient to restore day to the Praeterwater (Peppi's homeworld with its slain suns and grotto-chic) were the fucking service entrance to all this dimension had to offer.
Peppi had fucking earned her red carpet entrance. If not by dint of actual royal blood, then at least by the amount of bullshit she'd been through.
She gripped, through one layer of Preysome vestment and several more of mundane cloth, the Huntsward's Dagger. Soon as she found herself in a nice hick world with a deep dark hole, she'd push one of the legger brats down it. Drop this shitawful knife after her. If that didn't break the Robe's curse and let Peppi dress in something that offered better sob stories than "I'm royalty bitches", she could at least take a breather. Stop being constantly mentally prepared for some dagger-wielding feral to screw her over.
That'd be nice.
"Princessssss Peppi Nephrite!"
It took a backstagehand's shoves to get Peppi front and center, where she gave the featureless applauding darkness beyond her winningest (toothiest) smile. She bowed, low and unblinking and bordering anatomically improbable.
"ＡａｌｒｉｇｈｔＡＡＡＡＡＡｎｄうぇっｌcome," screamsang the sentient aesthetic occupying Judge Seat #1. Obviously there was a/the Cowells in Seat #4, and some other cosmos-politan parodies of b-list glitterati who Peppi could give two fucks about. They were predatory - no, worse, they could care less if she lived or died on this stage right now. The only way out was to wow these Merr-dregs for all Peppi had.
Peppi put her best foot forward, planting it square atop a monitor speaker. The front couple rows of the audience enjoyed a scandalous quantity of leg. "Ah'm actual princess Peppi Nephrite, and ah'm here to offer yehselves a how-to of how t' really dodge responsibility."
"Are you certain you're on the right show, little madam-"
"Gimme a number!" Peppi shot back.
"... Four."
"Gimme four! Rude'n hostile securiters tryin'ter foist me off'n this stage!" She pointed, bam bam bam bam, and to her delight they burst into thoroughly-theatrical existence, suitably startled. "Give 'em four'a those gunsajiggers apiece while we're at it!"
16 assorted handguns later: "Righteous! Alrigh', down th' line, let's have me a righ' royal gauntlet of deadly death and such: startin' with Winterbreath Technicolor Rainbarf on m'left!"
"-and that's a tough break there for Beasts of the Back Streets! Just goes to show hairy scary helter skelter the competition can get here on Multiverse's Got Talent™. Let's see if our next entrant's up to the challenge-"
Peppi, backstage and on in 60-and-counting, fiddled with her clip-on mic. The Robe was making last-minute adjustments, prodding and squeezing at her torso and arms like a vicarious helicopter-mum.
It was antsy as accursed nonsentient raiment could manage, still somewhere south of "legitimately useful for the situation at hand." This was a trap, these smiling Hosts and Call-me-Cadels were not her friends, the stage and spectacle and spotlights sufficient to restore day to the Praeterwater (Peppi's homeworld with its slain suns and grotto-chic) were the fucking service entrance to all this dimension had to offer.
Peppi had fucking earned her red carpet entrance. If not by dint of actual royal blood, then at least by the amount of bullshit she'd been through.
She gripped, through one layer of Preysome vestment and several more of mundane cloth, the Huntsward's Dagger. Soon as she found herself in a nice hick world with a deep dark hole, she'd push one of the legger brats down it. Drop this shitawful knife after her. If that didn't break the Robe's curse and let Peppi dress in something that offered better sob stories than "I'm royalty bitches", she could at least take a breather. Stop being constantly mentally prepared for some dagger-wielding feral to screw her over.
That'd be nice.
"Princessssss Peppi Nephrite!"
It took a backstagehand's shoves to get Peppi front and center, where she gave the featureless applauding darkness beyond her winningest (toothiest) smile. She bowed, low and unblinking and bordering anatomically improbable.
"ＡａｌｒｉｇｈｔＡＡＡＡＡＡｎｄうぇっｌcome," screamsang the sentient aesthetic occupying Judge Seat #1. Obviously there was a/the Cowells in Seat #4, and some other cosmos-politan parodies of b-list glitterati who Peppi could give two fucks about. They were predatory - no, worse, they could care less if she lived or died on this stage right now. The only way out was to wow these Merr-dregs for all Peppi had.
Peppi put her best foot forward, planting it square atop a monitor speaker. The front couple rows of the audience enjoyed a scandalous quantity of leg. "Ah'm actual princess Peppi Nephrite, and ah'm here to offer yehselves a how-to of how t' really dodge responsibility."
"Are you certain you're on the right show, little madam-"
"Gimme a number!" Peppi shot back.
"... Four."
"Gimme four! Rude'n hostile securiters tryin'ter foist me off'n this stage!" She pointed, bam bam bam bam, and to her delight they burst into thoroughly-theatrical existence, suitably startled. "Give 'em four'a those gunsajiggers apiece while we're at it!"
16 assorted handguns later: "Righteous! Alrigh', down th' line, let's have me a righ' royal gauntlet of deadly death and such: startin' with Winterbreath Technicolor Rainbarf on m'left!"
peace to the unsung peace to the martyrs | i'm johnny rotten appleseed
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow
clouds is shaky love | broke as hell but i got a bunch of ringtones
eyes blood red bruise aubergine | Sue took something now Sue doesn't sleep | saint average, day in the life of
woke up in the noon smelling doom and death | out the house, great outdoors
staying warm in arctic blizzard | that's my battle 'til I get inanimate | still up in the same clothes living like a gameshow