"Quiet!" the teenager hissed, a hand immediately coming down over the man's mouth without the slightest hint of hesitation; that easy, enabling composure seemed to backfire this time, however, as several of the cool glass bottles he'd selected fell from the cradle of his crossed arms and to the pavement, where they shattered and wetted the dusty and crumbling surface as their contents splayed up and fell like rain. One of the glass bottles hit Frederick's booted foot and broke there, causing the teenager to suck in a tight breath of air and the young face to twist in a way that was incredibly unattractive (that was, just in case Harry happened to be lingering around), but he had not lost so much control as to dampen the pavement with any more of his precious alcohol, as he was not entirely certain when he'd be able to get his hands on more of it again, especially considering that he was in the presence of an all-business, no fun type, the kind he'd always hated—all-business/no funs were typically very corporate, very money crazed, and enough of them labeled people of his nature, those who liked to drink and use and enjoy, as hippies and addressed homosexuals as fags (at least those he'd encountered)—and who he'd only really been able to control so as to be granted access to the stuff because of the circumstances of their situation (perhaps the late hour contributed to Vlad Plasmius' weakness, but Frederick found himself believing that perhaps it was rather the unsettling idea of what they had done in knocking out a fifteen-year-old child with the butt of a gun, and the rather exciting but frightening [in its uncertainty, of course] future that may lay ahead). Instead, the dark-haired teenager simply paused to let the pain pass into a dull thud, the foot lifted up slightly so that to anyone who might have been present that cold night could observe that he looked too much like a flamingo, his lip bit and his eyes shut tightly, watching as neon blobs of nothing floated before the black canvases and danced irregularly in a fashion he and Monica and Harry might have in the late hours of the night when they were all high off their asses. When this pain finally did pass, he carefully let his boot fall onto a part of the pavement where there was not sparkling shards of expensive bottle and opened his eyes to stare down at the man sitting in the passenger seat.
The man might have proved to be a sight—he was shaking as he stared at the teenager who stood over him, clutching bottles of liquor in his arms and returning his horrified gaze with a hardened glare of his own. But Frederick wasn't really thinking of Vlad Plasmius then, even though his eyes were affixed to his face and his hand plastered over his mouth, slowly being warmed and moistened by his rapid breath—rather, he was thinking about the way that bottle had felt as it had broken upon impact with his foot…one enclosed in the supposed safety of a heavy, steel boot. It was perhaps one of the most painful sensations he'd felt in a very long time—other than the splitting headaches he'd get the morning after a good party with friends or a wild night alone with Harry or Monica, that was—and it sent his mind into a state which resembled the course of a Ferris wheel but which didn't alter his face, as his features remained unchanging, the eyes reflecting no evidence of such frenzy. Questions began to present themselves, and as he stared down at the man, he appeared to be cool as a cucumber but in reality his mind was shrieking, That hurt! Why the hell did that hurt? But the part of him that was higher, more intelligent and calculating, immediately countered this with a smart, Why do you think, moron? You know you can't stay in this form forever! It uses too much energy!
Well, he knew that, of course, as he'd used this form before and experienced its draining nature; his human form was good for seducing young women who naturally assumed he was straight into giving him money for drugs and alcohol, as well as means of preserving the (nonexistent) integrity of his circus when concerned parents would drop by to see just what their child was being fed. After all, a pretty, young, and surprisingly unaffected face—considering the never-ending stream of drugs that made their way into his body—appeals more than that of an aging, hairless and shrill clown, as to be expected…and should, because when he'd whip out his sweet-teenage-boy smile and shake the missus' hand, saying something along the lines of, "I just graduated from high-school and it's been my dream since I was little to operate a circus. My dad took me to see Dragons." the face would melt and all suspicion and concern would leave immediately as she responded with something like, "How wonderful to have chased your dream and succeed so!" He wasn't lying, really, but he wasn't disclosing the whole truth to his circus, either; he may have looked in his twenties, but he had the desire for pleasure like a balding and sexually-starved hermit, surrounded by that which pleases the eyes…and because there were plenty of attractive young men who came to his circus, he constantly was, and sometimes he could not keep those eyes from manipulating the boy to follow him into his trailer after the show's completion and night's dawning.
Yes, he had used this form time and time again, but he could not see how this truth might connect to the pain that the bottle's shattering had evoked inside him—that was, until the higher part of him screamed out again, bringing forth the knowledge that was always there but typically buried in the muck of his highs and alcohol binges and only seemed to come forth, like clockwork, when he needed it most. It said, Stupid, you've never used this form for so long before now! It's used so much energy that it's weakened you to a point that your being is becoming unstable!
And this little voice was all he ever needed, really, to dictate the decisions he made, insignificant or otherwise they may be; he believed that that voice was smart, the voice he knew he'd always had, one which should have been put to med or law school but was too consumed by his unfortunate habits. It was sad, really, because when he did hear this intelligent voice, with its elegant wording and condescending tone, he was reminded of the thing his parents had been and had wanted him to become, and how his failure to live up to their standards had led them to die in disappointment, knowing they had themselves failed to produce something they could be proud of in the afterlife they so feverishly believed, something which would take the world by storm and which they could look down upon and say, "That's our boy!" But that voice wasn't him, never had been; really, the worst thing his father could have done to him was take him to the circus that one day so distant in the past but closer to his thoughts than most things, because perhaps if he had not tasted the freedom that was the life of a ringmaster, that voice would be his now and perhaps he'd never cross paths with Mr. Plasmius, because he'd be in an office somewhere or performing complicated surgery, arguing the freedom of a client or looming over factory workers as he brushed money across his lips and inhaled its sweet scent. But that voice was buried, and although he never refused hints from this smart voice, he would die with maybe five dollars and some cents in his pocket, and would play the role of surge, not the surgeon, the defendant, not the defender.
Now he took from this voice that he should not remain in this form any longer and should rest so as to restore his dwindled energy, and he did not fight it much because he was frankly very tired of driving and deduced that he wanted the Ghost Boy in one piece but also felt the growing desire to get himself very drunk, very quickly. Plasmius could take the wheel—after all, the man looked a tad stressed when condemned to the passenger's seat, and so he probably wouldn't mind steering the rest of the way.
"Okay," Frederick said softly, his attention shifting back to the fidgety man before him, whose heart was now skipping with the irregularity of a rabbit's. "I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. Don't scream. I know it's very deserted looking out here, but we don't need to draw any type of attention to ourselves."
When Vlad's mouth was freed up, he did not try to scream, and, seemingly satisfied, Frederick opened the passenger door and used his unoccupied hand to shoo Vlad out of the seat; the man stumbled out, looking dazed, as Frederick climbed in with a certain meticulousness so as not to drop any of the remaining bottles of liquor he held. When he was situated, he shut the door and poked his head out the open window; as he changed back into Freakshow, he smiled at Vlad and said, "You're driving, chief, but I'm drinking."
And he did just that.
