The first signs of the dawn light shone and scintillated behind the forming silhouette of the city of Zenith, New York. The metropolitan streets were looking gray and empty, save for the occasional stray scrap of urban litter that broke free from the rest of the stash that was seemingly compressed in any available shady alley, as if the municipal cleaning staff conveniently pushed the trash aside to more inconspicuous corners, given that the city residents would be too absorbed in their own affairs to appreciate their efforts anyway.
Brittany S. Piece, a young blonde just turned 21 years of age, traipsed down the worn sidewalks of the awakening city, rotating her shoulders and stretching her arms as she appraised the morning sights the urban locality had to offer.
There really was nothing to see, though.
I guess now is not the time for window-shopping, she thought, shrugging as she continued down her way to the main city park.
It was 5 a.m. in the morning.
Of course it wasn't.
She had just recently arrived at the city of Zenith. She did not really have anything else to do, though. She had just lost her job as a Hooters waitress as a result of the manager replacing her for a 'bolder, friskier, and flightier' redhead named Jasmine, dismissing her on the account that she had neither the bust nor the rack to fully live up to and satisfy the customers' expectations of female aesthetics, which she thought curious for she had just been awarded employee of the month the week before and she thought Hooters was all about selling hot wings. Oh. Maybe… could that be it? Was it because she was not secretly a bird like the rest of the girls were? The manager hadsaid that Jasmine was 'flightier' so it was the only logical explanation.
Brittany's shoulders slumped in despondency. I thought the contract said they wouldn't discriminate against other species.
She soon straightened up with a sudden pump of determination, though. She wouldn't allow this job loss to get her down. She had now moved (well, more like hitch-hiked, but the details of the journey matter not) to one of the most prosperous, propitious, and promising cities in the whole of the United States—Zenith: the City of Dreamers.
She scanned her eyes about her environment contentedly, taking in the figure of a dull fire hydrant, a city rat being eaten by flies, an X-rated video store, and a random toilet paper-printed flyer advertising a strip club.
It just doesn't look very dream-like yet because it's too early in the morning, Brittany reassured herself with a tight smile.
The quirky blonde nodded to herself, convinced that since she had no job, no love life, no companions, no home, no car, and no money, she couldn't possibly plummet any lower in the scale of epic life failure. She was already putting to shame the purposeless, uneducated bums and meandering college dropouts in the streets by virtue of her presence, and she had learned from her philosophy class back in her sweet high school days that once you scraped the feces residue at the bottom of the toilet bowl, you could only go back up (unless someone flushed the toilet and ended up sucking you further down the sewers, but she tended to ignore that part of the metaphor).
She added a slight skip to her previous trudging gait as she neared the park located at the heart of Zenith. When she noted the familiar city fountain at the center of the park, she knew she was getting close to her destination, but as she passed said fountain, she noticed the glimmer of an object submerged in the clear water.
Brittany crouched low and leaned her head into the fountain to get a better look, and when she realized it was a quarter, her expression adjusted to allow her lips to spread into a delighted smile.
"Yes!" she quietly cheered to herself, aware that it was still very early and disinclined to disturb the park's sleeping creatures. "The first signs that my optimism is being compensated!"
She was outwardly bouncing with giddiness now as she resumed her trip.
She panned her field of vision left and right, looking for the particular pattern of trees, flowers, and benches that would lead her to her temporary, makeshift dwelling—a discarded cardboard box from Home Depot. She had lived in that box for about three days now, if one counted the present day.
Now, she was by no means a homeless loser, even if at the moment that description suited her best. Brittany had lived a fulfilling life. She had received a high education, had participated in various sports, had made several friends, had spent fun school years, had lived under a loving if overprotective family, and had rocked her childhood and teenage years to the fullest.
These things were all fine and dandy, but now that she was making her debut into the world as an adult under the eyes of the law—well, that was back when she was 18, but she hadn't felt like one yet, so she decided to wait for the drinking age—she knew she had to officially begin her own life: living by her own rules, crashing at her own hours, working for her own salary, making her own contacts, and partying until she passed out… in her own apartment.
It had all sounded marvelous to Brittany when she had one day abruptly decided to walk out of her home and abandon all traces of her previous life, all set with two incredibly packed purple suitcases, a Hawaiian straw hat, a pair of Barbie sunglasses, and a very grouchy Lord Tubbington in arm.
I'm not sure where I went wrong in my plans, though, Brittany thought, scrunching up her nose.
The first mistake was probably that, at the moment she took off, she really had no plans, just a general outline of what she wanted to do and where she wanted to head in her life. Lord Tubbington, her impossibly obese cat, had usually been her one constant source of guidance, but after he had left her one night for a drug addict that had offered him some weed, she found herself at a loss of what direction to take.
Ah, Lord Tubbington, I never thought your heart so fickle, Brittany inwardly voiced, pained.
In any case, the past was the past (no matter how recent… like, 'last night' recent), and her current goal was to find a job so that she could afford a modest living space, not that she was ungrateful for the carboard box, as she had seen other homeless bums struggling to find shelter from the rain and the brief, irregular bouts of snow—and sometimes even hail—that appeared to inadvertently befall the city at odd hours. She had overheard from passing locals that the weather was at times crazy, so she had chosen to desist mulling over the climate's bizarreness after a while.
Brittany halted her steps as she caught sight of her box, not very well hidden behind a pathetic-looking, anorexic tree. She immediately noticed a man sitting in the bench right beside her home tree. She appraised him, looking over his worn winter coat, his wrinkled pants, and his frayed shoes. His hands held what appeared to be a coffee cup from Starbucks, and it was slightly tipped to the side, for he was sound asleep.
She looked down at the quarter she held in her fingers and sent him a sympathizing look. She seemed to deliberate her next action, looking intermittently between the quarter, her box, and the man. After a few more minutes of profound consideration, she took nimble steps forward toward where he sat and quickly dropped the quarter in his cup.
He probably needs it more than I do, she thought with a faint smile as she scurried off to her box, picked it up, and carried it off to someplace else so that the man wouldn't see her when he woke up—that would lessen the effects of the magic if he knew who it was that did him the kindness.
It's good to feel good about doing good, Brittany proudly thought to herself as she gingerly skipped off into the opposite direction of the bench.
Had she been a little more observant, she would have noticed the cup was filled with freshly poured Caramel Brulée Latte ©.
~ X~ X ~ X ~ X ~
Quinn Fabray rode into her private parking space, swished her glossy hair as she removed her helmet, and stepped off her luxurious motorcycle, straightening out her knee-length grey skirt and fixing her loose white blouse as she checked her overall appearance in the mirror.
Flawless, she thought hubristically, reluctantly detaching herself from her bike and sauntering into The University Of The State Of New York At The City Of Zenith (TUOTSONYATCOZ).
Ignoring the fact that the institution sounded like a Chinese black market car manufacturing company or a Japanese-Korean game brand conglomeration specializing in the module designs of perverted dating sims, The University Of New York At The City Of Zenith was quite the big deal in the city—no—the state—actually—the nation. In fact, the administration had thought that in order to accentuate the establishment's grandeur, and to avoid any association with commoner colleges like the University of Zenith at New York (UZNY), the Public University of New York at Zenith (PUNYZ), or the University of the City of Zenith at the State of New York in the United States (UCZSNYUS), a longer name would be necessary, hence the ridiculously protracted acronym as a result of the obvious inclusion of articles and prepositions; this was crucial, for if they hadn't added them, then the latter university might have beat them.
Imagine their disappointment when, throughout the years, enrolled students eventually shortened the acronym from "TUOTSONYATCOZ," to "TUNYACOZ," to "TUCOZ," to "COZ," and finally to a simple "Z."
The university was ranked right alongside the Ivy Leagues in prestige and recognition, and anyone with outstanding intellectual qualifications or financial assets could be admitted.
Simply put: hardly anyone.
But Quinn was not just anyone.
She was part of the remarkably, incredibly, and extraordinarily successful Fabray family. No, seriously. Success was somehow engineered into their DNA. No one had ever met a bearer of the Fabray name that had accomplished anything below the completion of a Ph.D. or the achievement of an authoritative position at any law firm, sales company, manufacturing factory, or hot dog stand.
In short, greatness coursed through their veins, and Quinn was no exception.
She had spread herself thin by becoming involved in almost every academic activity her secondary school had to offer, managing to excel at them all; she had participated in almost every physical activity imaginable to man, including bungee jumping, cup stacking, and parkouring. She had outstanding social, writing, reading, and public speaking skills, having won countless arguments and debate contests, only one of which she ended up in second place because she was tardy to the competition after having accidentally run over a coyote and heroically remained to tend to its wounds and later drive it to a clinic—where she was promptly awarded the "Honorary Animal Rescuer of the Year" certificate and had posed for a commemorative picture along with the town mayor that was to be framed and positioned at the main hallway of the establishment for all to awe at her ridiculously photogenic face.
Today, aged 21, with various experiences in life, countless of fawning men at her feet, several envious female colleagues seething about her person, and a law student at one of the most distinguished universities in the nation, she knew she had to be one of the happiest people on earth.
At the least, she was supposed to be.
But she wasn't.
She could think of a few reasons why she wasn't happy, but none seemed great enough to beget such an adverse influence in her life, or at the least she didn't think theyshould have been.
"Good morning, Quinn!" the obsequious voice of one of her female classmates piped up as she entered the building. "How are you today?"
Quinn dismissed her thoughts and flashed her a practiced smile. "Hey, Karen, I'm as fine as ever. How about you?"
"Oh, I am sure the boys would agree with that," she teased, giggling. "I'm doing alright, too, though I am about to rehearse for my presentation on the ethics of the death penalty. I really need an audience. Do you think you could help me out if you have some time later?"
Ugh…, Quinn inwardly expressed, but outwardly she replied, "Of course, just tell me when you need me to help and I will try to make some time."
"Thanks, Quinn, you're the greatest," Karen gushed. "No wonder you're at the top of our class."
"It's a tough road to the peak," Quinn said, shrugging.
"I'll bet. Oh, I have to take the elevator here. I'll see you around, Quinn! " Karen said, walking off. Arrogant Barbie.
"Bye, Karen!" Quinn said, waving. Fake Bitch.
Quinn continued down the lengthy hallways, passing by the Fine Arts department on her way.
" Remember that piano?
So delightful
Unusual "
She stopped, hearing a mellifluous voice emerge to make its sound known to her ears. She graciously turned her head from side to side, searching for the source of the melodious singing. She casually ambled forward, so that any spectators that might have been watching her (because there usually was someone following her, disturbingly enough) wouldn't catch anything out of the ordinary from her demeanor.
" That classic sensation
Sentimental
Confusion "
She noticed that the voice and, now that she was closer, the sound of a piano were both originating from the department's vast choir room. She peeked in through a small rectangular window located in the double-door entrance to try and catch a glimpse of whoever it was that was singing.
She saw a girl wearing a pair of relatively loose skinny jeans, a casual white top, and a carmine beret drooping to the side of her head as she became engrossed in the music.
" Used to say
I like Chopin
Love me now and again "
Quinn remained still. She neither entered the room nor left her bent-over position at the double-door window. If she wasn't so distracted by the choir room's environment, and the manner in which the unfamiliar girl availed herself of it, she probably would have been questioning exactly why and what kept her rooted to her spot.
"Quinn?"
The blonde jumped in surprise, but did not turn out. She recognized the voice as being fangirl classmate #0356.
"What are you doing?"
Quinn's body retained its cool exterior, but she was internally agitated, which she momentarily took the time to find strange because she wasn't doing anything bad—just appreciating music. So why was she—?
Quinn mentally slapped herself. This is not the time to be contemplating my motives.
Her eyes shifted left and right, trying to miraculously find an excuse for her bent-over, slightly crouched position at a tiny rectangular window.
"Ah, zero—Zoey!" Quinn corrected herself, smoothly rising from her lower level and straightening herself out. "I was just on my way to the business department when I saw a smudge on the window to the choir room."
#035—err—Zoey's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh, I get it, Quinn! Since you are keen to the knowledge that our institution's janitors come in late from who knows how many other part-time jobs, and that they are so exhausted from the day's proceedings that they might miss a crucial cleaning detail such as the smudge on that window, you decided to save them the trouble tonight by removing it yourself!"
Shrug.
I'll take it.
"That's exactly it! No one would doubt you're an Investigations Analyst major, Zoey," the blonde suavely praised.
The girl's smile impossibly widened. "Ehehe, thanks, Quinn! I guess I'll leave you to it then!"
"Bye!" The girl continued down her way. Smart-Ass Floozy
"See you!" Quinn waved. Skanky Lickspittle Hussy.
Quinn swished her hair, stole one last sidelong glance at the girl in the choir room, and just as she was about to resume her path, she noticed a thin piece of toilet paper, with the silhouette of a dancing stripper poorly printed on the surface, crumpled beneath the door.
"… the hell?"
~ X ~ X ~ X ~ X ~
" Rainy Days
Never say good-bye
To desire
When we are to— "
" My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
Buzz
And they're like
Buzz
It's better than yours "
Buzz
Harmony practically head-banged into the piano keys, releasing a jarring cacophony. She didn't even need to look at the caller ID to know who it was that had disrupted her mid-song. Not that she was surprised; the caller in question was uncannily skilled at screwing her over while she found herself at her best.
"What is it, Sugar?"
"Heeeey, HarHar," the girl on the other side of the line chirped.
"What's so funny?" Harmony queried, furrowing her brow.
"What do you mean?" Sugar questioned.
"You said 'hey' and then laughed," Harmony explained, like it was obvious… because it was.
"OH! That," Sugar shouted into the phone, finally understanding. "It's your new nickname."
"My what?" Harmony asked incredulously.
"Nickname; pet name; byname; appellation; an affectionate or shortened form of a proper name. I can keep going, I'm scrolling down the iPhone right now."
"Sweetie, I had already figured that wasn't coming off the top of your head, no need for justifications," Harmony replied, smiling mischievously into the phone.
"Ignoring that," Sugar said, slightly frowning. "So wha'cha think of it?"
"I think ew," Harmony expressed with clear distaste. "People will laugh at me after calling me that. No, scratch that. People will be laughing before they even realize they're laughing."
"Don't be so self-conscious," Sugar appeased. "How about Mony."
"Okay, for one, it's lame; two, it's so uncreative; and three, it makes me sound like what one of the unnamed horses from a banned and unreleased mystery edition of the My Little Pony's toy collection would be called."
"Psh, so hard to please," Sugar said, rolling her eyes. "Reminding me of someone's moooom—"
"Why did you call, Sugar?" Harmony asked, cutting her friend off and folding her arms.
"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot!" Sugar voiced, her voice elevating in pitch and her step picking up as she walked down the sidewalks of Zenith. "TODAY'S THE MEETIIIIIING! ! ! !"
"That's great, Sugar, now could you repeat that at a sound frequency that won't annihilate my eardrums?"
"The meeting. It's today!" Sugar gushed, trying to contain her excitement, but being unable to so opting instead to scream outside of the phone's range, scaring some bystanders within her vicinity.
"The meeting? What are you—oh. OH! The meeting!" Harmony repeated, fully understanding the source of Sugar's current exuberance. "That was today?"
"Yup. The date's on the document so I'm pretty sure it's happening today," Sugar reaffirmed cheekily.
"What's with that tone of voice?" Harmony said, narrowing her eyes.
"What about yours?" Sugar prodded smugly.
"What about mine?" Harmony said, scowling on the other line.
"When is it?" Sugar deliberately continued her pestering.
"…"
"Sorry, what was that?" Sugar questioned innocently.
"I said I don't have a date," Harmony mumbled, disgruntled.
"Oh, HarHar, someone will look your way soon, I promise," Sugar consoled condescendingly.
"Not that kind of date. I meant date as in calendar. And my romantic affairs are none of your business. And also don't laugh at me. Wait, no, actually, was that that bizarre nickname again? For the last time, it's not going to catch on!" Harmony said, finishing breathlessly.
"How about Harmon?"
"Too fish-y."
"Harny?"
"Too kinky."
"Har?"
"Too hairy."
"Harmonaaaay."
" I'm a Barbie girl
In a Barbie world
"Hold up, Sugar, I got someone calling on the other line," Harmony quickly said, glad to be switching from Sugar to the new caller.
Imagination
Life is you crea— "
"What's up, Rory," Harmony greeted casually, shifting in her seat at the piano.
"Hi, HarHar," Rory said cheerfully.
"Ugh, not you too, have you been talking to Sugar?" Harmony questioned, exasperated.
"Yeah, it's a bit hard to ignore her calls when she's sending threatening text messages about tearing my shirt open, ripping my pants down, gagging my balls tight, shoving me in a dark closet, and leaving me locked there in starvation until I cry for mercy if I don't pick up."
"Hmm, strange, a lot of guys would kill for that offer," Harmony remarked aloud to herself.
"What was that?"
"N-Nothing. Nothing!" Harmony quickly shook the thoughts off of her head and cleared her throat to continue. "Anyway, just stop calling me HarHar."
"I only did it because Sugar said you secretly dig it when others called you that," Rory mumbled shyly.
Harmony shuddered uncomfortably. "Rory, now what's wrong with the sentence you just uttered?"
"You don't 'dig it'?" Rory said, shrugging.
"No, 'Sugar said,'" Harmony clarified. "If it's coming from Sugar, more often than not, just forget something even came out of her mouth."
" My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
"Speak of the devil…"
"What is it?"
"I'll get back to you, Rory."
And they're like— "
"Yes, Sugar?"
"You put me on hold."
"So?"
"Without any on-hold music. I was getting bored waiting. What's taking so long?"
"I was talking to Rory."
" I'm a Barbie girl
In a Barbie world "
"Ah, there he is again," Harmony noted, listening to the ringtone cut into her conversation.
"Oh! Put us on 3-way!" Sugar said excitedly.
"Suuuure," Harmony said, complying with the click of a button.
"Harmony?" Rory called, unsure.
"Heeeeey, Roar!" Sugar greeted cheerfully.
"Hey, Sugar!" Rory greeted right back, smiling into the phone.
"Ror?" Harmony repeated, trying the unfamiliar sound out with uncertainty.
"Yeah, but you pronounce it 'Roar,'" Sugar gladly elaborated.
"It makes it sound manlier," Rory explained with a grin. "Oh, which reminds me. Harmony, do you think you could change my ringtone? I can hear it from my line when I call you, and others look at me weird. It's a bit…"
"Gay?" Sugar offered.
"I was going to say effeminate but if you want to put it bluntly…" Rory trailed off. "Not that I have a problem with that because you know that my pa—"
"Sure, Rory, just tell me what you want to switch it to; it was Sugar that was messing around with the ringtones anyway."
"I thought it fit him…" Sugar defended.
"I want Macho Man," Rory requested.
"See what I mean?" Sugar continued.
"He doesn't want a macho man, Sugar, he was talking about the song," Harmony explained.
"Whatever stops the nagging, HarHar," Sugar said.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Harmony queried, standing up from the piano stool.
"Hmm, now that you mention it, yes," Sugar said in sudden realization. "I'm trying to find the place where the meeting's going to be."
"Oh, isn't the address on the document?" Harmony reminded.
"You underestimate me," Sugar said, sounding playfully offended. "Of course I've looked for it on the document, and I'm pretty sure it's not there, unless the 103rd time is the charm."
"Once you find it, don't forget to schedule an interview," Rory said, aware of the meeting, since Sugar had talked to him about it for hours.
"For sure!" Sugar trilled, thoroughly enthused. "I'm going to hang up now 'cause I almost got run over by the same taxi cab for the fourth time—what are the odds, right!?AND I've found the most intriguing piece of toilet paper."
"'Kay, talk to you soon, Sugar," Rory said, waving 'bye' at nobody in particular.
"Later, Sugar," Harmony said.
"Bye, Roar! Bye, Harmoany!" And Sugar promptly hung up.
"SUGAR!"
"Hmm, so you dig that."
"RORY!"
~ X ~ X ~ X ~ X ~
A small troupe of young college kids were walking down the streets of Zenith, their laughter echoing off of the various buildings as they aimlessly wandered about. Their late-night stroll eventually had them arrive at the city's central park. They continued to mindlessly chatter, joke around, and lean on and subsequently push one another as they ambled through the park's gardens.
"Hey, what's that?" one of the guys in the group said, calling to attention a curious object partially concealed by a scrawny tree and its adjacent bush.
The others turned and looked in the direction he pointed.
"Is that a… box?" one of the girls commented.
"No, Sharon, it's not just a box," another girl, Lucia, explained. "Judging by its texture, shape, logo, size, location, and color, it is obviously a large, cubic, discarded, foldable Home Depot cardboard box."
"Oh, wow, sorry, I didn't realize there was so much I had missed," Sharon sarcastically replied.
"It's okay, it's common amongst people like you," the other one said dismissively. "Just make sure that if you're going to say something, get it right."
While the two girls had become absorbed in their exchange, the other three college students had already made their way to the box. The blonde sleeping in the box began to gradually wake up as she heard the previously diaphanous noises become slightly louder. She stirred.
"Holy shit, it's moving!" one of the guys shouted, startled.
"Shut up, Charlie," one of the girls shushed.
She looked at the sleeping girl and then at the box, finding a name written on it. She cleared her throat and proceeded to speak.
"Psst, Brittany?" the girl called out with uncertainty.
Brittany stirred and slowly rose, looking dazed.
"God?"
…
…
…
"Um, no, it's just me, Jennifer, your average medical school undergraduate student, but you can call me that if you'd like."
"Oh, sorry," Brittany said sheepishly, scratching the back of her head and making her way out of her tiny box.
She stretched and curiously looked around at the five college kids that surrounded her. "How do you know my name?"
"Oh, it was written on your box," one of the guys, Jason, pointed out.
"Well, it was either that or the printed SC-23236," Charlie added. "Took the best bet."
Brittany giggled. "Oh, that! I thought that was short for South Carolina, zip code 23236, and I didn't want to be accidentally shipped to another state, so I wrote my name on it with some wet soil I found on the sidewalk."
The two guys raised their eyebrows.
"At least I think it was soil," Brittany later added, furrowing her brow.
The three girls exchanged horrified glances.
"I also drew a 'Welcome' mat on the bottom flap so that the box would look more home-y and less shipment-y. I even hung some leaves for decorations."
Everybody broke out laughing. And it wasn't the alcohol.
"Oh, gawd, you're killing me. How long have you been living in that thing?" one girl said, motioning to the box as she dried away tears of hysterical laughter.
"About three days," Brittany replied stoically. "I'm not counting the time these little girls found my box thinking it was full of abandoned kittens and reported me to the police, because I got taken to the slammer."
Everybody stared at her wide-eyed.
"I got to sleep under a roof for that one night," Brittany chirped optimistically. "Those girls were so sweet."
Everybody cracked up again.
"Oh, wow, just…. Ha ha… just stop… I can't…. wow," Sharon laughed.
Brittany regarded them with a puzzled look on the face.
"Ok, listen," Jennifer started.
"We just met you," Jason continued.
"And this is sort of crazy," Sharon said, rolling her eyes.
"But there's this nightclub," Lucia shared.
"You wanna come, maybe?" Charlie finished, wiggling his eyebrows.
Brittany immediately perked up. "Ooooh, I love knights, I think they're so gallant!"
Everyone laughed.
"Cool. Cool. So you're coming with us, then?" Charlie asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of toilet paper.
"Charlie, get tissues like a normal person," Sharon said with a grimace.
"Nah, babes, the address for the nightclub is on here," he assured.
"Charlie, jot it on notepads like a normal person," Lucia said, stepping away from him.
"No, guys, I meant, all the info we need is on here, I found it in the bathroom after washing my hands!" he elaborated.
"Charlie, use paper towel like a normal person," Jennifer said with disgust.
"SHUT UP!"
"Charlie, just say it quietly like a normal person," Jason joked.
"UGH!"
Chalie took off in the direction of the club, and everybody followed.
"Charlie, hold up, walk slower!" his friends shouted.
"… Like a normal person," Brittany completed aloud, trailing right behind them as she skipped her way to the nightclub.
X ~ X ~ X ~ X ~ X ~
Un-break my heart
Say you'll love me again
Undo this hurt you caused
When you walked out the door
And walked out of my life
"Unbreak my heart, Rachel, and stop singing that song," Kurt said, casually leaning on the doorframe marking the entrance to Rachel's carefully remodeled, meticulously designed, and maniacally kempt dressing room. "You're making me want to take this tie and choke myself with it."
"Ah, Kurt, you mean to say, my singing has so stirred your sentimental spirit that you are now choking with tears and feeling as though terminating your connection with this world in hopes of experiencing something beyond anything you have ever imagined?" Rachel replied, brushing the same area of hair for the umpteenth time, as she had to be sure that no rebellious strand of hair would come erect like a stimulated penis during her performance.
But she really shouldn't be too stringent, for it was understandable; her voice did things to people, even inanimate objects such as hair. If anything, her hair coming undone would probably only be a sign of her mind-blowing performance. Ah, let's be honest, sometimes her performance was so ineffably swaying that even she felt like choking on her sobs, blabbering incoherent words of praise to herself, and walking off the stage to grab a recording camera and make sure the rest of her performance is captured for her to obsessively view in the nonjudgmental solace of her home.
Kurt opened his mouth to retort to her comment but he quickly closed it shut, sagely judging that it would be best not to reply, as Rachel had an excessively elevated self-esteem and arguing with her probably would probably only serve to arrive at a cul-de-sac.
"Look, never mind that, just tell me are you going to be ready any time this century?" Kurt inquired playfully.
"Yes, yes, just give me 20," Rachel said dismissively, too absorbed in her own reflection before the mirror.
"Well, alright," Kurt said, shrugging and getting on his knees. "But I don't see the point in push-ups at this point."
Rachel cracked an amused grin and turned on her stool, so that she was now facing Kurt and his charming antics. She had only known Kurt for about a year now, and although the first couple of months were tense – not in the sexual way - between them (what with her overwhelming diva-ness encroaching upon his), they managed to get inebriated, have a diva-off, pass out, and then work out their differences the morning after, what with killer hangovers and intermittent bouts of vomiting spasms pushing them to reach a quick agreement.
"Get up, you goof!" Rachel playfully chastised, muffling some of her words with her laughter. "I meant 20 MINUTES."
Kurt flashed her a droll grin and, from his facedown lying position, blew on the floor and bounced his body upwards to his previous standing position.
Rachel's jaw dropped.
"How did you do that! ?"
Kurt chuckled at the threshold. "Rachel, you know better than to ask that! A magician never reveals his secrets"—he winked at her—"Now, while I enjoyed our brief confab, if you will excuse me, I need to leave or otherwise my very distracting presence will hinder you from completing your pre-performance prepping sesh."
At that moment, a young lady wearing a floor length, shapely, and simple electric amethyst gown stepped into the dressing room. She audaciously sauntered in with an intoxicating grace, not bothering to knock or even check if the room was occupied, her hair swishing from side to side as she turned her head and her eyes scanned the room in search of someone.
"Kurt," she said curtly, making her way towards the young magician. "This is what I'm wearing for tonight's show. I need opinions – go."
"Rotate slowly to the right," Kurt requested instantly, placing the back of his hand underneath his chin.
The female youth did so.
"Um, guys, you know—"
"Now to the left," he ordered.
The female youth did so.
"Hey, so, as I was about to say—"
"Hands on your hips, and flash me a smile."
The female youth did so.
"Are you guys even listening to m—?"
"No, Santana, I don't want a cheap grin, I want a pink-eye-blinding, deserted-orphan-children-cheering SMILE."
Santana rolled her eyes in irritation but reluctantly obliged, promptly widening her smile to the point that her cheeks rounded with a cute blush.
"Now catwalk it, twirl when you turn, and wink when you're done."
Santana nodded and did as told, perfectly executing the instructions.
"I swear, you guys, stop ignor—!"
"Great, now take some tango steps, leap into a pirouette, land on your hands, do the cartwheel, and bounce to a finish."
"I can only take your bullshit so far, Kurt," Santana retorted with a smirk. "The wink? Totally unnecessary, and although it would probably take chains, handcuffs, and frozen cheese sticks up the ass for you to admit it, I straightened you out for at least five seconds of your bent rainbow existence."
"Girl, please, you know me better than that," Kurt said, daintily crossing his arms. "I prefer zucchini."
"Whaaaaat? But the cheese melts between your ass cheeks," Santana argued presumptuously. "I would think that would better simulate the real thing."
"OKAY, NO MORE SUGGESTIVE PRATE IN MY DRESSING ROOM, PLEASE," Rachel enunciated loudly, stepping between the two engaging in their exchange.
"Berry, how long have you been there?" Santana questioned with a genuinely befuddled and slightly incredulous expression.
"Seriously, does NO ONE pay attention to what I'm saying? This is MY dressing room, ergo, I am here," Rachel clarified, exasperated.
Santana shrugged breezily. "You can't exactly blame me, your stature plummets beyond freakishly miniature, honestly, I keep hoping that one day one of Snow White's dwarves will come and mistake—no—recognize you as one of them and kidnap you so that I don't have to trip over you every time I'm rehearsing my numbers."
Rachel inhaled deeply, held her breath, and then exhaled at length. "Just… Santana, may I inquire as to why I have been presented with the… opportunity to be in your presence?"
"I just needed Kurt to confirm what I already knew."
"You're smokin'," Kurt singsonged.
"Uh-huh, alright, fruitcake, just 'cause I converted you doesn't mean you can get all up in my grill," Santana cautioned assertively, gesturing to herself, or more like, her cleavage. "If you want the recovery potion, then Imma just hand you over to Berry, one night with her is guaranteed to bring back all recollections of your despondent disillusions with the opposite gender."
Santana laughed, a surprisingly mellifluous sound considering the source of her mirth.
"Berry, I think I cracked more gay jokes during this 5-minute exchange than Kathy Griffin has during her two-hour specials," Santana chuckled, shaking her head in self-satisfaction. "Gawd, you should've been there."
"… I was there."
"Hmm, yeah, now that you mention it, I think we did establish that at some point in the recent past," Santana mused to herself. "I dunno, most of the time I try to erase all traces of your existence from my memory, and only deign to dig it up when I'm forced to interact with you."
"All right, bon-bons, I got to go," Kurt announced, slipping one hand into his sleeve. "And, Rach, before I go, you might want to rethink those clothes."
"What? Why? What's wrong with them?" Rachel said, genuinely offended. "I mean, look, my wardrobe should be fine, even Santana hasn't commented on it."
Santana, who had retired to repeatedly slap one of Rachel's homemade bubbleheads of herself, shrugged and casually said, "What? Nah, you look whore-e-fic, but saying something would imply that I cared."
"Well, considering the place we work at, that's probably a desirable aim?" Rachel reasoned, albeit partially insulted as she thought that her choice of apparel was quite fitting and decent.
"Berry, like, you've been here trolls-know-how-long-certainly-not-me, but let me explain to you who, where, and what you work for exactly, since it seems you haven't caught on," Santana began, walking over to Rachel's vanity, sitting on her special cushiony chair, and checking out her own reflection on it, confidently smiling. "Katharsis is a smexy establishment generally known, first of all, for its diverse clientele: bourgeoisie swine, perverted but financially able teens, depravedly wanton college students, sexually frustrated mafia members, nefarious kinky internet deviants, and the occasional innocuously bewildered virgin that accidentally steps in thinking this is another kind of 'entertainment center.'"
Santana stopped to take a breather, grabbing Rachel's champagne, pouring herself some of it into an elegant glass, and then taking a sip before continuing with faux enthusiasm. "But that's not all! We are not your regular old nightclub. We offer several forms of entertainment ranging from the relatively innocent erotic song performances, spicy shots drink-offs, sex toy shops, vulgar lap dances, and wanky magic shows"—Kurt took a bow—"to room rentals for naughty high jinx, shady all-you-can-fit-in-your-car prostitution services, sick fantasy-fulfilling role-playing sessions, and wicked internet private performances for our more timid, underage, but no less lecherously corrupted audience."
"And food, don't forget the food," Kurt added. "Now, buttercups, as it seems I am getting repetitive, I will now take my leave."
Kurt slipped his hand from under his sleeve and, following the almost imperceptible sound of a pop, a puff of smoke immediately materialize, quickly rose, and entirely enveloped Kurt within its colorful gases.
Rachel and Santana's eyes watered as they coughed and swatted their hands back and forth in an attempt to clear the air.
"Gawd, what the hell WAS that! ?" Santana fussed, looking around the room for Kurt.
"Judging by the smell, I believe Sasha Varon Soulgasm," Rachel supplied, coughing again.
"I wasn't talking about the fragrance, Berry, but uh stupid name much?" Santana remarked snarkily. "I meant, how in the hell did he pull that teleportation shit?"
Rachel sighed, "It's not teleportation, Santana, it's just a magic trick. He probably ran out as soon as we couldn't see him. I think the gas is deliberately supposed to strain our vision."
"I don't believe your pragmatic hogwash," Santana said, huffing. "I swear that boy's a freak. A pretty, fashionably sensible, god-sent freak."
Rachel smiled. Santana obviously liked Kurt. She couldn't really infer much from her own relationship with her, but Santana hadn't tried to kill her in her sleep as she had repeatedly threatened to do during several drunken fits, so that had to mean something, right?
"Why are you staring at me like a creeper?" Santana questioned, disturbed. "Oh, no, don't tell me I turned you, too? Damn my outrageously good looks."
Rachel sighed and internally rolled her eyes. "I just happened to be gazing in your direction as my thoughts drifted to our new form of advertisement."
"Ugh, don't remind me, it sickens me to think about it. I can't believe Sue would actually enlist toilet paper as a legitimate form of advertisement. I mean, seriously—"
~ X~ X ~ X ~ X ~
"—what in fuck's name is she thinking?" Puck voiced incredulously, shaking his head and directing his gaze at no specific location as he talked on the phone with his half-brother.
"Look, man, I don't know your life, wha'cha asking me for?" Jake countered from the other line, purposelessly shrugging, as there was no one to see him.
"But what does that say about us, bro? That we're shit? You gotta look at the metaphorical undertones and crap."
"You mean the symbolism?" Mercedes interceded, making her way over to Puck's DJ booth. "Listen, boy, you can view it this way: it's something people can use; they clean their butts, or lord forbid, their noses with it, so they'll be sure to pocket it, and when the time arrives that they need it, they'll take it out, do their biz, and then notice what's written on it."
"Huh," Puck said, uninterested, hanging up his cellphone.
"Yo, Bro, are you still there?" Jake asked. "… Hello?"
"Like, after they clear the brownish butt-residue or the green slimy snot off of it…right?" Sam supplied with uncertainty, having left his bartender post to join the conversation.
"Why, surely so, they can't read the words printed on the toilet paper if some of their excrement is smudging it," Artie reasoned, wheeling himself into the small circle that was beginning to form around the booth. "It's actually quite a brilliant idea."
"Let's me just say that," Puck began, lifting his palms up in defeat, "it's definitely something that shrew bosshag Sue would pull."
"I saw Becky riding her scooter and littering the roads with rolls of those things," Artie added. "She still had her chef hat on."
"It didn't fall off with the wind?" Mercedes questioned, puzzled.
"Maybe she taped it to her head… with Velcro," Sam speculated with a dark expression.
"Naw, don't be ridiculous," Artie said dismissively. "That's too far-fetched."
"Yeah, it's obvious she's wearing a wig attached to a chef's hat," Mercedes concluded easily. "It's the only plausible explanation."
"…Special Steadfast Stick Supergloo," Sam continued listing his mind's machinations.
Puck slammed his head against a wall in irritated despair. Why is a stud like me stuck with these losers?
"Alright, LISTEN, that shit is only going to ruin the non-existing shreds of 'classy' we have left to lend to this whorehouse," Puck cut in, agitated. "If business slows down, we don't get paid, and if I'm not getting paid, I quit. And let's get real for a minute, once I'm gone, this place doesn't stand a rat's chance. I vote we march to her office and talk the crazy out of Sue."
"Boy, you're talking about getting real? Okay, for one, if you were to leave, we'd reel in the masses so tight, the business would expand to international levels. And two, when has talking ever solved anything?" Mercedes finished skeptically.
An explosion of colorful smoke broke out and everyone gathered in the DJ booth began coughing violently.
"According to America's marital statistics, not much," Kurt supplied, poofing into existence.
"DUDE, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GOTTA DO THAT!?" Puck yelled in exasperation, furiously rubbing his eyes so that no one will see that the gas actually caused him to tear up.
"Kurt, hun, we love that you're all magician extraordinaire, but do you think you could maybe mix chemicals that won't cause me premature vision loss?" Mercedes questioned.
"Yes, less toxic would be preferable," Artie agreed, cleaning his glasses.
"Wait… waaaait… nope, I'm blind," Sam recognized in defeat, sighing. "Guys, I wish I had been able to appreciate the last moments I had been granted to treasure your glorious faces, it's something I'll regret for the rest of my dark life… literally."
"Um, Sam," Artie began.
"Oh, yeah, except for your face, Artie," Sam amended. "No offense, but your glasses magnified your eyes so much, you looked like the bug-eyed damselfly."
"…"
"Which creeped me out, 'cause, you know, you're not a damsel."
"…"
"But you're pretty fly."
"…"
Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Goldilocks, fix your bangs."
Sam flipped his hair, caught Mercedes in his line of vision, exuberantly smiled at his recuperation, and then promptly turned to everyone to give them a hug—
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
"Seriously, you were fine with looking at me 30 seconds ago!" Artie chided.
"I hadn't come into terms with my phobia," Sam relented, looking away.
Puck chuckled.
Kurt sent him a bitch glare.
"What? He's an ugly motherfucker," Puck said, shrugging.
"That aside," Kurt continued. "We all have to start getting ready. It's about to be nine o'clock. It's going to get busy in here."
"Oh, yea, the time when the child predators and sexual offenders emerge from their nocturnal caves," Puck said, nodding to himself. "And come… here."
"Hey, so long as they got the assets, I'll bring them the asses," Artie said, in business mode.
"Kewl," Sam laughed, nodding his head. "Well, I'm gonna head back to the bar and experiment with some shots."
"I'm just going to chill here and work on some remixes," Puck said, pointing to his booth.
"I'm gonna head backstage and look for Santana and Rachel, warm them up," Mercedes announced.
"I gotta look over some ho-files and review the script for tonight's show," Artie said.
"All right, then, let's break!" Kurt said, snapping his fingers and promptly releasing another rainbow smoke bomb.
"FUUUUUU—!"
~ X~ X ~ X ~ X ~
Brittany deliberately lagged behind the group of eager college kids, taking her time viewing the nocturnal scenery of the city of Zenith.
She had not had much time to appreciate the nightlife these past three days, what with job-hunting at Taco Bell, Bath & BodyWorks, and a potato clock stand; food-scavenging in Walmart trash containers, recycling bins, and church charity meal donations; and shelter-seeking at an elementary school tree house (which fell over as she slept), trying to post and reply to craiglist roommate ads while accessing the internet through Barnes & Nobles display Kindle Fire tablets, relishing that one time she was detained at the police station, and finally landing her Home Depot box.
As one might imagine, it was difficult to concentrate on other leisure activities while she was desperately scraping for the means to her survival.
As Brittany was too distracted with her inner musing, she lost track of the college kids she had been following, and now realized that she was left alone.
Well, not exactly.
She actually found herself lost and pressed within a huge crowd of people, dispersed throughout the street, all heading the same way.
Brittany directed her gaze in their direction, and identified one of the largest, most shady-looking, yet paradoxically most luxuriously majestic buildings she ever had the pleasure to view in her cosmically insignificant life.
Brittany swallowed, trying to recover her voice.
"Wow…"
She kept her eyes on the building, guiding herself closer to the building by the push of the masses, not attentively seeking the entrance because she knew that, sooner or later, she would be admitted into the institution.
"This is it—WHOA!"
"OUCHIE!"
Brittany accidentally bumped shoulders with one of the attendees, and immediately turned to apologize to what she found to be a pretty blonde, with fine features, a nice figure, and a very perplexed expression on her face.
Oh, right, apologies before judgment, Brittany internally reminded herself.
"Sorry."
"That's alright," the other girl smiled, and continued on her way, biting her lip as she neared the entrance.
Brittany immediately lost sight of the girl as she became enmeshed with buzzing throng, but she felt herself close to the entrance because the people were now tightly pressed against one another.
As she tried to find a space to squeeze through, she inadvertently locked gazes with a petite girl donning brown and purple highlights on her hair, holding a tight grip to her phone, wearing an exceedingly elated expression, and engaging her with an intensity to her eyes.
They stared at each other.
And stared.
And stared some more.
And then stared a little longer.
And then continued to stare for some more time.
And someone pushed Brittany forward to she couldn't keep staring anymore, but she wasn't really regretting it, because she knew she was about to lose the staring contest since her eyes were tearing from not blinking, so she was glad to have an excuse to forfeit.
No shame, Brittany repeated in her head, as a mantra. Honorable Defeat.
Brittany finally made it to the giant double doors, and gulped in anticipation. She followed the mob in, and as soon as she was inside, she heard the microphone-amplified booming voice of the dainty host on stage.
"Welcome to Katharsis, you freaks!"
Cheers and laughter.
"Let yourself loose, enjoy the booze, check out some kaboose, and now without further ado, it's time to watch the crew, and get this show on the move!"
And Brittany eagerly observed as the club darkened, the lights on the stage lighted, fog began to invade the space, and five silhouettes emerged on a platform.
Please ignore any recent updates you might see for Ch. 2. I was playing around with document uploads and I did it too many times. I'm not sure but I think fanfiction is experiencing some delays right now according to what other users are saying, so some "fake" updates might come up. Please bear with that, I messed around for too long so it'll probably only repeat up to 3 or 4 times in your e-mail. If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's cool, you'll see soon. Thank you so much for reading! I just want to have fun with this piece, and improve my rusty writing skills!