Yo, LP here. Yes, this is a contest, my first one I'll be hosting actually. No, the actual content on this is actually a one-shot with MessengerOfDreams's Official Stamp of Approval on it (Who was kind enough to listen to my ramblings on this contest no less and actually sounded interested in said ramblings). If you can't be bothered reading my stories and actually want to read more about the contest, then go on ahead aaalll the way to the end. If you are still confused about the contest rules then this one-shot that I've written will serve as an example hopefully of what I'm trying to achieve by hosting this contest.

Anyway, if this one-shot sounds different from my usual work it's because it's based off Sandra Cisneros's writing style. I wanted to try something different (Harhar, aren't I usually doing that?), more poetic with more on-purpose fragments and run-ons. So yeah, try not to be too jarred by that.

It is what they all call him, whisper behind their hands as he passes by. Rolls of fat threaten to spill out as he walks, no waddles, down the pavement, arms jammed in his overall pockets.

La piovra.

He does not look like one though. He is not a sight for sore eyes or a sight for anyone to see. He's got a pink beak-shaped nose, eyebrows that arch and dip sharply to almost meet in the middle. They're thick, hairy, dark and imperfect. Wide, flat teeth that stand out jarringly when he grins from his mustache that is oddly angled, jutting inwards and outwards. Like a snake that shifts in and out. His mother often wonders who his real father was - There is no way she looked that awful or indeed slept with somebody who looked that odd, that strange.

He has a jaw too. A strong chin that holds itself high, level and completely parallel to the ground. It never bows down. Where a piovra bends, twists and shapes itself, he does not. He is rigid. He does not bow down to anybody and for that he is alone. Perhaps forever, perhaps not. And maybe then, maybe he is not a piovra.

But that is what they all call him because that's what they know him as. He reasons to himself that it is a good nickname - It is a ruthless animal after all. It can crush, strangle and suck the life out of people and that is what he does.

So as he walks that sunny day, with sweat rolling and beading about, the same hushed voices rise to his sharp, elfin ears. Life is never kind, he reasons. It is his excuse and he learned it a long time ago, had he not? Now it was time for the others to learn what it meant to live a life that was not unfair but rather a life that, more often than not, tried to exclude you from its plans.

He'd learned it a long time ago. How when he was young and played with his cousins he never got the praise they got but he felt he deserved. How when he told a woman once, what had he said? Sei il mio universo. How when he had said that with her porcelain hands in his ham-like ones, sweaty and clumsy she had pulled away and laughed with all the blueness of the sky in her eyes and all the richness of the sun in her hair. Derisively. A slight edge of red hot anger. And in beautiful Italian almost as beautiful as her, Gavone! Sei ubriaco?

You are my universe.

Pig! Are you drunk?

She had lifted the edge of her skirt and had swept away from him. His life, his trash, his filth.

How he had taken his first cigar subsequently afterward, thinking it would help him forget about her and the way her lilting laugh seemed to mock him just as much as her words when she flung them at him. How he felt the smoke ensnaring his lungs, choking him inwards to out. It was air but it was not. How his father had noticed one of his finest cigars was missing and did you know that those things cost precious euros that they did not have? Did you? That was before he'd thrown his worn out shoes at him. The heels were metal and when they kissed his skin, it was sweet and it was bitter and he had cringed away from it. No, no, he did not want it, it hurt. He was sorry, he had made a fool of himself, please just make the pain stop, he would try to be better, like those cousins of his who would someday grow to be heroes leaving him to fend for himself because who could ever want him to rescue anyone?

He was not beautiful. The marks that the heels left behind made no difference. Life was not unfair. It simply did not fit his expectations. And it was then, that he decided that he would throw his own shoes at life and make them fit his expectations. Leave a few scars on life so that it would yield itself to him. He would be. He would be great.

And that was how his nickname was born.

La piovra - The Octopus.

•••

"I know what it is that they call you," she says in a hoarse voice - English he thinks but there is a hint of something else in there he cannot detect - and he stops remembering the tale that teaches him nothing but bitterness and revenge against the world.

"Perdono?" He forgot he was thinking in Italian. "Pardon?" he asks, sneering it through that shockingly pink nose of his, a bright contrast against the tan Italian skin. He turns to frown at the woman dressed in rags. She is sitting, one knee up and the other folded towards her. The streets burn in reflection of the vengeance of the sun but she does not acknowledge it. Her eyes are an angry sort of red but she is not looking at him. She is looking through him.

She brushes aside his tone as easily as if it were just a gnat. "Do you know that they call you an octopus?"

He cannot see her face. The rags cover all except some sweaty sun-damaged yellow hair and those angry-but-not-seeing eyes. In front of her is a cup of change. She is blind he realizes. A blind beggar. Blind filth, not seeing, foolish and pathetic. Not worth his time. He ought to move on.

But then, "So what?"

"Do you know why?" She shifts her leg so that she is now sitting fully cross-legged as if it pains her to do so. As if sitting there makes her angry because all she wants to do is to touch the sky. But instead her legs reluctantly fall against the cobblestone street and melt into its very cracks. He waits. "You leech off those who need the money more than you. You are not strong. You are only a miser. An octopus."

"How do you know that it is I who is called that if you cannot even see me?"

"I hear your footsteps. They strike against the earth so heavy. Like the way a man who is carrying the moon of sorrows across his back would stomp against the earth. You are not an octopus at all in that aspect. A real octopus is wily, soft and soundless. A real octopus revels in what he does when he crushes and eats for himself."

"And you think I don't?"

"You cannot revel in what you do and be sorrowful about it at the same time. It is not real joy," she explains. He watches her run a colorless, dry tongue over her cracked lips. As if the explanation costs her dearly. As if it costs not a copper at all.

"You don't know anything. Bitterness and joy go hand in hand. And they don't call me an octopus just because of the way I reap in money."

"Then?"

He does not owe her - a stranger he's probably never seen before - any sort of explanation. But he does it anyway and he's not sure why. It probably has to deal with those bloody eyes of hers or the fact that he feels he has something so desperate and dear to prove. "There are two myths that surround octopi. One talks about how it symbolizes a dominating, powerful and manipulative group. The other myth, talks about how octopi are sole survivors of an alien planet. If you combine the two, what does that get you?"

A unique creature that does not belong on Earth who is dominating, powerful and manipulative.

She does not pause. "A lonely and sad creature that cannot bear to allow anybody within its circle."

A thrill runs up his spine, spreading irritating heat to his very fingertips. He decides he does not like this woman, who could easily be mistaken for the gum on the heel of his shoe. "Watch who you're addressing. Who are you anyway?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. You're just a beggar."

A faint smile like the way the moon hardly casts any light during twilight, appears on her lips, but he doesn't know how it looks because the bandages prevent him from seeing the lower half of her face. He can only watch the way the bandages move slightly, the way the light shifts in her eyes almost imperceptibly, opaque as saltwater. It is like she doesn't realize it is rueful and that it just appears that way of its own accord. "Yes. Just a beggar who watches every day without any eyes. Like a bat. A bat with regrets."

Silence twists into the shape of a worm that crawls into Wario's ears, a slow, torturous journey. Every beggar has regrets, he tells himself. Move on…

Still, the octopus lingers, tentacles seemingly relaxed, pores ready to suck, arms ready to strangle, to kill and to effectively dismiss his victim. "If what you want is money…" he hedges, wanting to know what she will say next. Play with his food. Play with it.

The bat's mouth moves soundlessly through her bandages, not exposing its fangs. "No money. Just a drink."

And it is now that he sneers for he can now peg her as what she is – an ugly blood sucker of the night, gum not even worthy of the sole of his shoe. Nothing more. She is stupid, he tells himself, for betraying her true identity so quickly. "An alcoholic like the rest of them."

She heaves a sigh so heavy that the very silk that ties the world together, seems to be tear underneath its weight. "The irony is not lost on me that it is you of all people who would accuse me of being a drunkard."

It is the way she pronounces, 'drunkard.' The 'd' is softer than that of one who speaks English as if they were nursed by it on the teat. It is not hard. It is soft. It yields much like she didn't those so many years ago. It is spoken in that way.

Like Italian.

•••

The wine is cheap – more water than actual wine – but she does not seem to care. Her bandaged fingers circle the rim of the wineglass precariously, absently, as if she's merely dreaming. Or perhaps he is.

You were my universe, he thinks to himself as he studies the rest of her face now uncovered by the bandages. Withered lips, sun-damaged blonde hair and a small pale scar that puckers horizontally across her cheek, effectively marring what she once was. The scar is as sour as tasting a lime. There is no more sky left to her – only mundane earth. A rueful smile. A hunch of shoulders more beaten and defeated. Just self-pity, nothing more.

He wants to ask, but he's afraid to. He discovers he does not have to. She sips the more-water-than-wine delicately, as if she's still who she once was. Her lips, even though they blend with the rest of her weather-beaten face, hardly touch the glass. She still is like a dream in many ways – almost but not quite there. The other side of a mirror, a parallel dimension, a ghost that can never touch him, a fragment to his existence.

She begins to talk but he doesn't pay attention to the music of her words. How her parents cast her away when it was discovered that she had fallen in love with some poor commoner with eyes that bespoke freedom. How she longed for that freedom and ran away. It is all like some sort of badly written telenovela. Some soap opera featuring a light-skinned heroine with the eyes of heaven and a man that any girl would willingly go weak at the knees for. How she had spent only a week of freedom in his arms before both were involved in a car accident. She had lost her eyes. He?

She chokes at the appropriate time that the heroine would. But now it seems like just a joke. He had lost his life. His soul had departed from his body. He had passed. He had died, died Wario and do you know how painful it was to lose somebody you loved with an ache so deep and great it crushed your ribs to just think about it? Well, did you?

How she had shamed her parents and how it could not be won back like the way God broke a vase into a million and one stars and they all refused to group back together and become one. What was done was done, they said solemnly. How she had changed her name on their insistence. No more was she the Zelda that was His Universe. She was Sheik the Beggar who was a Bat. Who sat in the dizzy heat and reflected on all her wrongs and did little else.

He doesn't listen to her words. He listens to his own heart carefully the way an experienced gambler studies the cards and odds with smooth precision, at the way it beats with consideration, with no passion. Where there is all music in the words of this Sheik, there is no music at all with him. Octopi, he reflects, have no frame, no skeleton. They are almost like shells but with three beating hearts that only exist to keep him alive. There is no romance here.

She tells him she is sorry for the things she said to him and prepares to leave, making him realize that she's sitting there once again, easy to kill. A creature of the night fading and melting away into the sun and its very ripples of light.

"It doesn't matter." He waves her apology away and with it, years of sorrow that built him into this hulking, ugly, mustachioed octopus that is he. He pays for the drinks and reflects on the Italian proverb that finally makes sense, makes him unravel like the threads of a once very strong rope.

Her red eyes question but she is left satisfied. She may yet touch the sky when it is a violent shade of violet, past the shade of red.

He repeats the proverb to himself. "Bacco, tabacco e Venere riducono l'uomo in cenere." Wine, tobacco and women can ruin a man.

He laughs because she's right about the irony but for the wrong reasons, that it is ironic that one stupid little Italian proverb defines his whole personality quite literally.

And how just one dream, maybe even a real woman, can prompt him to pay for the drinks.

But the universe is too small for just one woman, he thinks to himself, for even a bat. It's only big enough for himself. Because an octopus can stretch each of its legs and arms until each tip touches the corners of the universe and there is only room for him.

Lo sono il mio universo. I am my own universe.

He empties all the euros he has in his wallet on the table before he leaves, which covers more than the amount of the cheap wine. He is not generous to win her love or her gratitude, or even to see the way her eyes crease in confusion when she feels all the money, wondering what numbers are displayed on brightly colored bills. He doesn't do it for that.

He does it because he needs to pay the price to never look back again.

And now the octopus is free to touch, to court, and to finally conquer the sky itself.

HEY IF YOU'RE LIKE ME AND YOU DIDN'T READ THE STORY THAT'S INCLUDED JUST TO MAKE SURE NOBODY DELETES THE CONTEST RULES THEN HERE'S WHERE YOU WANT TO BEGIN TO READ!

Again, if you are still rather confused on what they mean after reading them then you may read the example that I've posted above. By no means should you follow verbatim what I've written… Just maybe a nod in the right direction.

So here are the rules for the contest. It's actually more of a prompt or challenge than anything else. The challenge is this: Choose any character you'd like, write about them doing something or feeling something that does not fit their actual characterization. In my example, I wrote about Wario being unnaturally generous. The challenge here is how well you can integrate that action/feeling/thing to the character you're writing about and the way they are usually portrayed (Wario is a miser, which is why I chose him doing something seemingly generous). This can be their usual portrayal in regards to their canonical personality OR how they are usually portrayed in SSB Fanfiction but the key point is that what you write about them doing/feeling must be well integrated with the rest of that personality.

You will be judged on how successfully I deem that this prompt was carried out as well as how interesting and original the story was, emphasis on the originality aspect. I can tell you already that if you're going to write about something I've already seen more than three times in Fanfiction, (E.g. Zelda, even though she's supposed to be all-knowing, is not aware of Link/Marth/Roy/Ike/DK's feelings towards her… Okay maybe that last pairing is something I haven't seen before but whatever, the basic plot is what I mean.) that you will probably lose some advantage in consideration.

Points will be deducted for seriously incorrect spelling, punctuation and grammar or any misplaced/missing words. So if you have a trusted friend, ask them to look over your work. I will not be reading any of the entries until the deadline has passed so that gives you a large amount of time to edit your story as many times as you want even if you've already submitted it!

Rules:

• Must range from 100 – 20,000 words. (I will not include A/N's in the word range and you may go 150 words over only if you absolutely must)

• Chapter limit is three.

• Only one entry is allowed. However, you're allowed to delete/resubmit as many times as you want as long as you finish it before the deadline.

• The deadline submission is June 30th. This gives you a grand total of two months to write whatever you want which is also why I will not be granting any extensions unless you give me a very good reason.

• Any genre is allowed with the exception of parody. Why? I feel as if parody or crack defeats the purpose of what you'll be trying to achieve here.

• The ratings can range from K – M.

• No gratuitous sex or violence. I'm not saying sex and violence are not allowed period, but they've got to be there for plot or characterization growth reasons.

• Are OCs allo- NO. No, no, no! You have like, 40+ characters to choose from so please do not use an OC! …I'll make an exception however. You may include OCs as long as they're veeery minor, meaning if they're in for more than a quarter of the story, you will be disqualified.

• AUs are allowed.

• Song-fics will be disqualified if you include more than a third of the lyrics in your entry and they're just scattered around the story for no purpose. You could include a portion at the very top, or very bottom to set the tone for your story or in dialogue but if I see that you just put them in between your story randomly, you will have tried my patience greatly. I only put this rule because song-fics are banned.

• Any pairings are allowed het/slash/twincest whatever.

• If you are planning on submitting, please write in your summary, "For the Great and Noble Paprika's OoC Contest." In addition to that, PM me OR review this OR contact me in any way telling me when you've submitted this. You think I'm joking about the summary bit?! WELL I'M NOT. AS COMPETITORS YOU WOULD DO WELL TO SUCK UP TO ME, YOUR ONLY JUDGE. MUAHAHAHA.

Third place winners will receive the following: A one-shot request OR a cameo of an OC of their creation in either Whodunit? Or The Life and Times of the Super Smash Sisterhood.

Second place winners will receive the following: A two-shot request OR one uncolored sketch, and can depict any of their current stories of their choosing.

First place winners will receive the following: A three-shot request OR ONE drawing, fully colored, of any story they so wish to choose. Oh, and bragging rights. Lots and lots of bragging rights.

I HAVE NO ORIGINALITY WHEN IT COMES TO PRIZES, OKAY?! DEAL WITH IT.

BONUS CHALLENGE IF THIS CONTEST IS TOO EASY FOR YOU: The Tabuu Emotion Challenge

You don't have to do this at all, but this will be interesting for those who feel like this contest is already a piece of cake. If your character is going through some sort of main emotion, you can only describe that emotion. You cannot say that he/she/it is feeling it. Meaning for example, if your character is feeling fear the whole time you may not include that, "Bowser was afraid/nervous/frightened." You could however say that, "Bowser felt his scaly palms turn numb and his head grow cold," or, "Sweat ran down his face at the thought of Mario beating him again." Get it? If done right, you may score some brownie points and further your ranking! If you wish to include the challenge in your contest entry, you may include in your AN that you are taking part of The Tabuu Emotion Challenge and include the emotion/feeling you are describing in the AN as well should you choose to do so.

Each story in submission will get a critical in-depth review once the deadline has passed and the winners have been announced. The review will explain why you lost/won and I promise I will be very in-depth. I will however, not molly-coddle you so expect some honest to God criticism from me. You've been warned. (Holy crap, do I sound like a little bitch? Sorry. I'm really not like this if you get to know me personally!)

Winners will be announced in the next chapter of this, so if you wish to follow this to get an alert for when the winners will be announced, go ahead! I can't make any promises as to when the results will be announced because I'm not sure how many entries I'll get or how many people even want to do this, but I will try to be prompt. :P

Anyway, I don't think I'm missing anything else and I've been talking nonstop so I think I'll leave it here so you can get your creative juices flowing. Good luck, future writers!

Lady Paprika out!