RE: Quick Dirty Bastards: What Goes Around
07-20-2013, 11:08 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-21-2013, 09:25 AM by Pharmacy.)
SHOPPING AT GOODWILLS, STARRING DAMIEN AND PETEST
“So you are back,” Billy Blanc raised an eyebrow. “Damien.”
“Yep, yep,” Damien said, trying to act casual. “Just need to pull some clothes from the charity bin. Not exactly unethical to take clothes people don't need anymore, right?”
“Right.” Blanc said. “And you brought along a friend.”
As if on cue, Guy waved. He was behind Damien. He was still missing an arm. He was also still wearing Shodan's little black dress. Lydia, it still said on the dress – thought the red faded to a grody maroon. Guy smiled, not exactly helping Blanc dissuade his deepest suspicion that this elf was, perhaps, a psychopath.
“Your friend is starting to freak me out.”
“Well, that is what he is usually,” Damien made motions with his hands. “I would say he's traumatized.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” Guy walked past Blanc and Damien, heels clicking on the tile floor. His heels were clicking because he was also wearing Shodan's five-thousand nuyen heels. They were black with tiny silk flowers inlaid with man-made diamonds. They were pleasantly minimalistic and made of the finest chamois ever to grace the Sixth World. They were also on Guy's feet. Blanc tried not to vomit on the spot.
“I would say he's traumatizing me,” Blanc said.
“You get used to it,” Damien said, attempting to brush this off as though this happened every day.
“Wait, isn't he a criminal?” Blanc asked.
“Nah, how can you call that face incriminating?” Damien said. Even though every television screen on display was going “GUY PETERSON IS THE AMERICAN'S MOST WANTED ALSO HE IS A VERY TERRIBLE METAHUMAN BEING HERE IS WHY,” listing the many crimes he did that were, in fact, actually done by Pete.
“Well, I thought his face looked familiar,” Blanc shrugged. Behind him, a television screen showed Guy's unflattering portrait (taken during his brief tenure in EvoCorp) in virtua-high definition. A triumph and a waste of scientific progress.
“Yup,” Damien surreptitiously shut off the screen. A nearby group of customers started to complain.
“Also where he go?” Blanc asked.
“Hey guys, does this make my butt look fat?”
Guy came out, smiling as though he just won a million bucks. Though, he didn't look like a million bucks considering he looked like a thrift store took a dump on him over him. On his head, there was a rainbow-colored hat (polyester, eye searing, awful). He wore like a shirt (cotton, has an unicorn and a rainbow on the front), Capri pants (nylon, hot pink), and a horribly purple sweater (dunno what material but it looks more fungus than wool, to be honest). Draped around his neck, there was a scarf that looked like a dead animal (and it was in fact, actually, an dead animal). And for some reason, a red tie (silk, boring).
And he still wore Shodan's heels.
“Well?” Guy smiled, oblivious to the jaws swinging in the open.
Damien crossed his arms. “Well.”
“Well,” Billy Blanc had no idea what to do. He was not an expert on the aesthetics, but he knew some people who are. He dramatically called the FASHION POLICE on the FASHION PHONE, which turned out to be a blue rotary phone decorated with sequins and glitter. He doesn't know why the FASHION POLICE didn't use a Commlink but hey, who was he to judge when they are this fabulous.
A rainbow-colored Prius (it kinda weird that production survived to 2072, but whatever) kicked around the corner, knocking over a box of tampons. An disco ball on an antennae bobbed into view as two men walked out of the eyesore of a car. They were the burliest men Damien ever saw, even more so than the prostitute sailors from Session 3. And damn, were they swag. Damien wanted to be offended at their clothes, but, but, but, they was so goddamn beautiful.
“Ess. Eff. Pee. Dee,” the cop on the right spelled out with a clearly fake French accent. He had an rainbow-dyed beard and his uniform hugged uncomfortably close to his rippled muscles. There was also the words “GOOD COP” written on his chest in hot-pink glitter. Damien decided to assume that was his actual name.
“Seattle Fashion Police Department.” Good Cop made a pose that would be described as “sassy.”
“You are under arrest for crimes against humanity and good taste,” a smaller but equally as muscular man snipped. His officer's cap changed colored every two seconds and he looked more appropriate for a rave club than on the beat. “BAD COP”, it claimed in rainbow-sequins on his butt. Damien decided that was his name. Damien also decided to advert his eyes.
Guy being the most charismatic decided to choose his words wisely.
“I'm innocent!” He blurted.
Damien couldn't help but put a hand onto his forehead in empathetic embarrassment.
“Innocent until proven guilty, and you, my friend, are guilty as hell to me,” Bad Cop growled, taking out the most eye-offendingly colored magnum ever. “You should be glad we aren't going to drag your sorry ass into some shindig but you should be shamed. Did you forget what daddy told you?”
“I don't have a dad,” Guy said.
“Well, uh. Huh,” Bad Cop lowered his gun down. He turned to Good Cop. “Your turn.”
Good Cop swaggered like a drunk man but somehow managed to walk in a straight line because fashion. He stopped comfortably close to Guy, who could smell the needlessly expensive perfume and see every single strand of his beard. Guy noticed each follicle was painstakingly dyed to a different color. Guy was terrified.
“I am afraid you have to come with us,” Good Cop looked down even those Guy was at least one and half head taller than him.
“Why?” Guy asked.
“Excuse me but you have a dead ermine around your neck. Like a real dead one,” Good Cop pinched his nose. “Isn't that a case for the fact you look like a big mistake.”
“Well, I am a big mggGGzzskkkst--”
Guy fell on the floor, twitching and bearing a slightly higher voltage than his surroundings. Good Cop sniffed as he blew on his TASER (custom-built so it was also a bottle of perfume, an eyeliner, and a knife) as though it was a gun and put it away in the most truncated, yet, stylish way possible.
“Dude!” Bad Cop walked up. “I thought I was Bad Cop!”
“Only on weekends,” Good Cop sass-posed to Bad Cop.
“It's Monday, smartass,” Bad Cop snipped. “Now help me dress this asshole.”
Damien and Billy Blanc looked as the FASHION POLICE begin to strip Guy down to his undies, which turned out to be white boxers with blue stripes. Good Cop and Bad Cop had debated whether to strip him down to his birthday suit but decided it was way too generic for their expertise to handle. They then dragged the elf to be dressed in a more universally accepted combination of clothes.
Damien turned to his boss. “So...why does Goodwill have Fashion Police.”
Blanc shrugged. “I really don't know.”
But you, the reader, shall know! Emergence of corporations had been widely considered to be a plus in the Sixth World but like most things in real life (if this could be considered, real life), this was not without some unintended side effects. One unfortunate side effect was the emergence of fashion disasters – a result of Goodwill expanding into the more niche (read: sexual) interests of the metahuman market. Lack of regulation had proven how much of a gravitas the fine line between edginess and poor taste was. It was to the point that Barack Obama would had nuked Seattle in an effort to look less embarrassing to his international peers.
This was why the Seattle Fashion Police Department (SFPD) exists. To protect the innocent. To serve good taste. If it were not for their existence, Seattle would had been a smoldering crater.
“Interesting,” Damien contemplated the information that just came out of the blue.
“Tanner, who are you talking to?” Blanc asked.
“I really don't know,” Damien shrugged and pretended to be busy with some game magazines.
It was at this point that Guy came bum-rushing out with a bundle of clothes in his arms, dropping about one-eighth onto the ground. He had a dress shirt-red tie combo on him and expression on his face that he had been caught with his pants down. He also had no pants.
“Oh hey, Damien,” Guy smiled. “Gotta go.”
Damien tried not to look at Guy's boxers, but they were so goddamn generic.
“Gotta go. Go. Go,” Guy begin to fumble around for his Commlink. '
“Why--”
As if on cue, the FASHION POLICE barged in – just as fabulous as ever. There were furious expressions on their face and two guns. Good Cop had his makeup running. Bad Cop was applying makeup for him. They had furious expressions on their face. Why are they furious? You may ask. It is because Fashion Police Department is a subsidiary of Lone Star, and thus, technically police.
“YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM THE LAW, GUY PETERSON.”
It was pretty clear that Good Cop's accent was, in fact, Californian.
“TRY ME!” Guy shouted back.
In reply, Good Cop and Bad Cop both took out their magnums and proceeded to shoot at the ceiling. More lights were damaged than civilians intimidated. You really have to start wondering how much they were actually been paid.
“Lynx's in the back,” Guy said to Damien. Guy wore a pair of sunglasses for added effect and also because he wanted to looked cool. “Let's go.”
To the befuddlement of Billy Blanc, Guy and Damien hitched onto the Steel Lynx and galloped into the sunset. Clothes on their back. FASHION POLICE on their tail. Bastardly as ever.
“So you are back,” Billy Blanc raised an eyebrow. “Damien.”
“Yep, yep,” Damien said, trying to act casual. “Just need to pull some clothes from the charity bin. Not exactly unethical to take clothes people don't need anymore, right?”
“Right.” Blanc said. “And you brought along a friend.”
As if on cue, Guy waved. He was behind Damien. He was still missing an arm. He was also still wearing Shodan's little black dress. Lydia, it still said on the dress – thought the red faded to a grody maroon. Guy smiled, not exactly helping Blanc dissuade his deepest suspicion that this elf was, perhaps, a psychopath.
“Your friend is starting to freak me out.”
“Well, that is what he is usually,” Damien made motions with his hands. “I would say he's traumatized.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” Guy walked past Blanc and Damien, heels clicking on the tile floor. His heels were clicking because he was also wearing Shodan's five-thousand nuyen heels. They were black with tiny silk flowers inlaid with man-made diamonds. They were pleasantly minimalistic and made of the finest chamois ever to grace the Sixth World. They were also on Guy's feet. Blanc tried not to vomit on the spot.
“I would say he's traumatizing me,” Blanc said.
“You get used to it,” Damien said, attempting to brush this off as though this happened every day.
“Wait, isn't he a criminal?” Blanc asked.
“Nah, how can you call that face incriminating?” Damien said. Even though every television screen on display was going “GUY PETERSON IS THE AMERICAN'S MOST WANTED ALSO HE IS A VERY TERRIBLE METAHUMAN BEING HERE IS WHY,” listing the many crimes he did that were, in fact, actually done by Pete.
“Well, I thought his face looked familiar,” Blanc shrugged. Behind him, a television screen showed Guy's unflattering portrait (taken during his brief tenure in EvoCorp) in virtua-high definition. A triumph and a waste of scientific progress.
“Yup,” Damien surreptitiously shut off the screen. A nearby group of customers started to complain.
“Also where he go?” Blanc asked.
“Hey guys, does this make my butt look fat?”
Guy came out, smiling as though he just won a million bucks. Though, he didn't look like a million bucks considering he looked like a thrift store took a dump on him over him. On his head, there was a rainbow-colored hat (polyester, eye searing, awful). He wore like a shirt (cotton, has an unicorn and a rainbow on the front), Capri pants (nylon, hot pink), and a horribly purple sweater (dunno what material but it looks more fungus than wool, to be honest). Draped around his neck, there was a scarf that looked like a dead animal (and it was in fact, actually, an dead animal). And for some reason, a red tie (silk, boring).
And he still wore Shodan's heels.
“Well?” Guy smiled, oblivious to the jaws swinging in the open.
Damien crossed his arms. “Well.”
“Well,” Billy Blanc had no idea what to do. He was not an expert on the aesthetics, but he knew some people who are. He dramatically called the FASHION POLICE on the FASHION PHONE, which turned out to be a blue rotary phone decorated with sequins and glitter. He doesn't know why the FASHION POLICE didn't use a Commlink but hey, who was he to judge when they are this fabulous.
A rainbow-colored Prius (it kinda weird that production survived to 2072, but whatever) kicked around the corner, knocking over a box of tampons. An disco ball on an antennae bobbed into view as two men walked out of the eyesore of a car. They were the burliest men Damien ever saw, even more so than the prostitute sailors from Session 3. And damn, were they swag. Damien wanted to be offended at their clothes, but, but, but, they was so goddamn beautiful.
“Ess. Eff. Pee. Dee,” the cop on the right spelled out with a clearly fake French accent. He had an rainbow-dyed beard and his uniform hugged uncomfortably close to his rippled muscles. There was also the words “GOOD COP” written on his chest in hot-pink glitter. Damien decided to assume that was his actual name.
“Seattle Fashion Police Department.” Good Cop made a pose that would be described as “sassy.”
“You are under arrest for crimes against humanity and good taste,” a smaller but equally as muscular man snipped. His officer's cap changed colored every two seconds and he looked more appropriate for a rave club than on the beat. “BAD COP”, it claimed in rainbow-sequins on his butt. Damien decided that was his name. Damien also decided to advert his eyes.
Guy being the most charismatic decided to choose his words wisely.
“I'm innocent!” He blurted.
Damien couldn't help but put a hand onto his forehead in empathetic embarrassment.
“Innocent until proven guilty, and you, my friend, are guilty as hell to me,” Bad Cop growled, taking out the most eye-offendingly colored magnum ever. “You should be glad we aren't going to drag your sorry ass into some shindig but you should be shamed. Did you forget what daddy told you?”
“I don't have a dad,” Guy said.
“Well, uh. Huh,” Bad Cop lowered his gun down. He turned to Good Cop. “Your turn.”
Good Cop swaggered like a drunk man but somehow managed to walk in a straight line because fashion. He stopped comfortably close to Guy, who could smell the needlessly expensive perfume and see every single strand of his beard. Guy noticed each follicle was painstakingly dyed to a different color. Guy was terrified.
“I am afraid you have to come with us,” Good Cop looked down even those Guy was at least one and half head taller than him.
“Why?” Guy asked.
“Excuse me but you have a dead ermine around your neck. Like a real dead one,” Good Cop pinched his nose. “Isn't that a case for the fact you look like a big mistake.”
“Well, I am a big mggGGzzskkkst--”
Guy fell on the floor, twitching and bearing a slightly higher voltage than his surroundings. Good Cop sniffed as he blew on his TASER (custom-built so it was also a bottle of perfume, an eyeliner, and a knife) as though it was a gun and put it away in the most truncated, yet, stylish way possible.
“Dude!” Bad Cop walked up. “I thought I was Bad Cop!”
“Only on weekends,” Good Cop sass-posed to Bad Cop.
“It's Monday, smartass,” Bad Cop snipped. “Now help me dress this asshole.”
Damien and Billy Blanc looked as the FASHION POLICE begin to strip Guy down to his undies, which turned out to be white boxers with blue stripes. Good Cop and Bad Cop had debated whether to strip him down to his birthday suit but decided it was way too generic for their expertise to handle. They then dragged the elf to be dressed in a more universally accepted combination of clothes.
Damien turned to his boss. “So...why does Goodwill have Fashion Police.”
Blanc shrugged. “I really don't know.”
But you, the reader, shall know! Emergence of corporations had been widely considered to be a plus in the Sixth World but like most things in real life (if this could be considered, real life), this was not without some unintended side effects. One unfortunate side effect was the emergence of fashion disasters – a result of Goodwill expanding into the more niche (read: sexual) interests of the metahuman market. Lack of regulation had proven how much of a gravitas the fine line between edginess and poor taste was. It was to the point that Barack Obama would had nuked Seattle in an effort to look less embarrassing to his international peers.
This was why the Seattle Fashion Police Department (SFPD) exists. To protect the innocent. To serve good taste. If it were not for their existence, Seattle would had been a smoldering crater.
“Interesting,” Damien contemplated the information that just came out of the blue.
“Tanner, who are you talking to?” Blanc asked.
“I really don't know,” Damien shrugged and pretended to be busy with some game magazines.
It was at this point that Guy came bum-rushing out with a bundle of clothes in his arms, dropping about one-eighth onto the ground. He had a dress shirt-red tie combo on him and expression on his face that he had been caught with his pants down. He also had no pants.
“Oh hey, Damien,” Guy smiled. “Gotta go.”
Damien tried not to look at Guy's boxers, but they were so goddamn generic.
“Gotta go. Go. Go,” Guy begin to fumble around for his Commlink. '
“Why--”
As if on cue, the FASHION POLICE barged in – just as fabulous as ever. There were furious expressions on their face and two guns. Good Cop had his makeup running. Bad Cop was applying makeup for him. They had furious expressions on their face. Why are they furious? You may ask. It is because Fashion Police Department is a subsidiary of Lone Star, and thus, technically police.
“YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM THE LAW, GUY PETERSON.”
It was pretty clear that Good Cop's accent was, in fact, Californian.
“TRY ME!” Guy shouted back.
In reply, Good Cop and Bad Cop both took out their magnums and proceeded to shoot at the ceiling. More lights were damaged than civilians intimidated. You really have to start wondering how much they were actually been paid.
“Lynx's in the back,” Guy said to Damien. Guy wore a pair of sunglasses for added effect and also because he wanted to looked cool. “Let's go.”
To the befuddlement of Billy Blanc, Guy and Damien hitched onto the Steel Lynx and galloped into the sunset. Clothes on their back. FASHION POLICE on their tail. Bastardly as ever.