In the stairwell these chucklefucks used for a backstage, Shimmerlace seethed.
The match was so God damn close to perfect, if a butterfly had landed on its side, it could have brushed perfect's nose with its wings.
"Alright, everybody! I need you to do something for me. Are you enjoying your drinks? If you're enjoying your drinks, I need you to give me a big Osaka toast. Kaaaanpai!"
"KANPAI!!" roared the crowd.
The speaker in this case was a heretofore little-known minx in the short-skirt and low-cut blouse somewhere between Cabaret fun and maid kink. A pale-skinned drink server turned announcer, she fit the role like a latex one-piece with her mischievous little quirk of a grin and sly, dark eyes.
"Nice. Before our next match begins, you miiiight want to take a few seconds and pull up our app. Yes, we have an app. Maisilyn's App. It's where you go to VOTE during our next match...so go download it if you haven't!!"
And
there's the thin line of dogshit between perfection and reality. They went and made it a fucking popularity contest.
Shimmerlace's skin crawled just thinking about it. The absolute cunts in the seats had already put a lead ball in her gut around what had once been the highlight of an evening—her entrance. She ran her hands through her long, pink hair and chewed her lip and swallowed.
Fuck'em, fuck 'em, fuck 'em. They didn't matter. They didn't matter for fuck sake.
"Alright, everyone set? This next match is, I think, going to be a bit of a messy ride, you don't want to miss out on your chance to take part in the fun! Going once? Going twice? ALLLLRIGHT, our next match, here at the Open Bottle, will be a BEWARE THE BOTTLE MATCH, and our first contestant is—SHIMMERLACE, SNUGGLEBLOSSOM!"
Right, so, now her gut really did need to shut the fuck up. Shimmerlace slid down the hallway banister and popped out onto the bar's floor.
"GOOOOD EVENING, ye lovely patrons of Maisilyn!"
rumbled the patrons from their seats.
Shimmerlace blinked. She surveyed the tables arranged around the ring—the bouquets of global tourists, all dressed up in their penguin suit finery. Several had steaming plates of something in front of them, and the air smelled of steak and beer. It was different walking up close like this to the fans, all watching her expectantly.
They felt...friendly. Like a good crowd at a magic show. Huh.
She stopped halfway to the ring beside a table with some particularly bright-eyed young men. She slipped a bit
too close beside one brown-haired gentleman, hand on the tablecloth, her bare thigh in breathing-distance of his side.
"'Scuuuuuse me, eh...if I could have your name, my fine feathered friend?"
The boy grinned, leaned back in his chair, and said,
"I'm Jordan Rook!" Alright, alright! He's into it. Shimmerlace lifted her hand and slid the stem of Mr. Jordan Rook's wineglass between her fore and middle fingers.
"I'm...gonna have to drink tonight, I understand. Possibly a lot. I figure—yanno, strategically. Might be wise if I warm up. May I?"
Jordan tossed her a
well why not kind of look while his boys around the table laughed.
"Thank you!" And she lifted it up in mock-toast, for the whole crowd to see. A white wine, by the look of it.
"Eh, but I prefer red!" Her fingers fluttered over the glass—and whammo! Red bled through the drink, and the crowd roiled.
"KANPAI!"
"KANPAI!"
Down the hatch went the red wine. And when she balanced that glass on one finger and refilled Rook-Jordan's glass seemingly with her mind and a flourish of cloth, they applauded.
Fuckin' lively like she hadn't known in months.
By the time she got into the ring and slipped into her corner, she was feeling giddy, grinning wider than the announcer herself, tip-tapping a happy little rhythm on the ropes. It was all starting to make sense.
These weren't LAW regulars. These good people were Maisilyn's people—and they didn't know Shimmerlace.
Perfect. As fuckin' perfect as the beautiful twelve shots of amber liquor lined up in a circle on a table at center-ring.
