Central City in Chaos—Cross dressing?

Written by Isabella Hopkins

Have you ever seen an androgynous cross dressing palm tree? Colonel Mustang has, and he'd either fallen for the gay charm, or suffered a severe lack of usefulness due to the invisible rain. In other words: be on the look out for a gay, shape-shifting, palm tree. He is extremely dangerous, and diverts with curiosity of which gender he really is.

Cross dressing is a potentially dangerous fetish when conceived in the minds of the higher ups. For instance, Mustang's cross dressing fetish caused him to have a nosebleed as Envy, the gay palm tree, rampaged around in nothing but a revealing skort. As a result, the city is in ruins. Acrid smoke is stinging your reporter's face as she walks around the rubble right now.

The lesson of the day? F.E.A.R. In other words: Fuck Everything And Run. Keep this in mind if you see Envy.

I looked at the newspaper with satisfaction. Cynical, potentially hazardous to people as laughing gas, and probably illegal. Under the transcript was a large picture of Envy taken by the brave photographer, Malcom Litzler. Smirking, I crumpled the page and tossed it in the trash.

Taking a quick scan of the café, I found that most of the visitors were either staring in awe at the front page, laughing, or snorting up their coffee. Of course, this result was expected. However, a humble reporter can be allowed her fair share of pride at her newest masterpiece.

I'm afraid I'm somewhat of a legend to those involved with news. At seventeen, I write directly for the Comedy Central. No editing, no proof reading, no crossing out sentences. What I write goes into the paper, no questions. And it seemed whatever I wrote had the people wondering if the world was really as sane as it seemed to be. Not that was particularly sane.

"Um, Miss. Hopkins? Are you really Miss. Hopkins?" a waiter asked. I blinked lazily before leaning forwards and propping my face up with my hands.

"Yes? Is that hard to believe?" I said mockingly. The poor boy looked taken back.

"Actually, yes," he admitted, "you look really young."

Well what'dya know; there's some that actually admit it. Deciding to like him, I reclined once again, my legs crossed.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Flustered, the boy almost dropped my caramel latte.

"Careful there," I cooed as I stirred my drink. Caramel was my favorite flavor. Not chocolate as most people believed—caramel. Though if you do get me chocolates, buy either ones with caramel, strawberry truffles, or dark chocolate. Nothing better than dark chocolate with caramel filling. Oh wait, the boy was still looking at me.

"Yes?" I asked politely when he didn't respond.

"C-could I sit down?"

Blink.

"Help your self," I said bemusedly. His ears burned scarlet. Was I really that intimidating? Oops. Okay, stop glaring now, Izzy. You can do it, you psycho bitch. Yawning, I stirred some more. Stirring was now my distraction from the stare of the boy who thought I was scary. Me, scary? Pft.

"M-Miss. Hopkins?" This time, I almost snarled. Maybe I was scary. Don't blame me—I hated formalities. And Miss. Hopkins sounded so stiff…it was a wonder if I didn't age ten years. Immediately, the boy cowered. He's not very good company, is he? Nope; he's a bit too timorous for my taste. If I had a taste to begin with. A twinge of guilt shot through me at lightening speed. I tried to lessen the force behind my glare.

"Please, don't call me Miss. Hopkins. It sounds so stiff," I complained. This time, it was the boy who blinked.

"Um, okay…Miss. Isabella?" he phrased the last of the sentence as a question. My head drooped to the table. The boy was hopeless. I might as well let him do whatever he pleased. Come on—you're faced with a mouse of a boy; you are a sarcastic pessimist with boar like mother instincts. What do you do? Do you:

A. Urge your Napoleon complex into motion

B. Glare at him and hope he realized it's affectionate

C. Begin a rant about why you abhor being called Miss. Hopkins

D. Use a sting of long adjectives that he has no chance at all of knowing

Or E. Let him do what he wishes so he will provide dull entertainment.

Besides, I don't know his name.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"B-Benjamin Doyle," he said. Unlike him (and here I scoffed distastefully in my mindscape), I came up with a nickname at once. Just something to make him squirm and take away some awkwardness.

"So Benji, working here fun?" Right on cue, the café owner bounded out in all his flabby glory.

"BENJAMIN DOYLE GET YOUR A-"

"Woah, hold it there, Fatty," slipped out of my mouth before I could think. Fatty the café shop owner glared daggers at me which made me think: I'm glad looks can't kill. Well, at least I stopped him from cursing in front of the whole shop.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?"

"I called you Fatty, but that's not the point. (I flashed my card here). I'm Isabella Hopkins, and I do not appreciate you butting in on my conversation." About half the café fell right out of their chairs. The other half gaped, open mouthed. Choking in disbelief, Fatty stared alternatively at my card, then at my face.

"I-I," he stammered.

"Benji, let's go find you a better job," I said, hauling the stunned Benjamin Doyle out of his seat with strength that appeared to stun him.

Thirty minutes later, no such luck.

"Okay, you enjoy the piano…um…hey look, a spot in the touring orchestra is open!"

Benji shook his head. No? I guess he's too shy to perform.

"Um, you did say you liked little kids…"

A sheepish shrug this time. That's a no then…

"JACKPOT! You said you liked reading so maybe I can get you a job at the library!"

An eager nod. Then he ducked behind me to hide from the stares of the population that had heard my shout. Instantaneously, I sprinted at top speed towards the marble building.

"MISS. ISABELLA! WAIT!"

"Hello, I'm Isabella Hopkins, looking for a job for my friend here. You have a spot right? Good. He's efficient, extremely sharp, and loves to read. You think you can worm him in?" The head librarian nodded. Huffing, Benji skidded to a stop.

"What's the pay?"

"1000 sens per month. He can get his schedule tomorrow at 12:00 here. The job starts next week."

"T-thanks sir!" Benji nearly sang.

"Thanks, Miss. Isabella," Benji said quietly as we munched our way through a week's worth of sandwiches.

Frowning, I threw a pickle out to the geese of Central Park. They fell upon it at once, pushing and shoving each other out of the way in hopes of getting the revolting green slime.

"It's the least I can do right?" I said through my sandwich. Benji looked surprised. Maybe he's expected I was a heartless bitch. Poor kid—he'd had to put up with my mood swings for almost twelve hours now. The sun shivered above the lake, dropping tantalizingly close to the water but not quite submerged.

Huh? When'd I get poetic?

A smile broke across Benji's face and for a moment, he looked just as radiant as the half inundated sun.

It was then I awoke to the bleak reality, where Benji was dead, and I was crying into my pillow.