Flea
Flea stared at his reflection in the mirror as he delicately applied his make-up. The slight hint of rouge on the cheeks, lips stained crimson, eyeshadow carefully blended in shades of pink and purple, eyebrows delicately pencilled in. Everything was there. Flea was proud of his appearance; he was well aware that he was more feminine than most women and he loved it. He had based some aspects of his life around it. And very enjoyable those aspects had been. But Flea had no time to dwell on his adventurous past. For, as he so often did when he was alone, Flea was fuming. Fuming at the simple injustice of life, fuming at everybody that had scorned him. He had always been faced with prejudice - who hadn't, he reasoned, at some point or another - but he got over it. And the way he got over it was by having a good fume. Of course, it wasn't some past injustice that had forced Flea into evil. No, Flea was just an intrinsically bad person. He knew this, and was comfortable with it. It had taken him some time to work out that he was not like other people, in two ways. The first he was proud of, but the matter of being evil troubled him. It went against all his teachings. Do the right thing. Look after the underdog. Put others before yourself. He had never been able to do these things, no matter how hard he tried. He had stolen, lied and cheated, all without a hint of guilt. And that had made it all the harder; he had always felt that there was something missing from his life, and it was guilt. The force that propelled a thousand people onto the path of goodness had left him out. So, with no conscience, no concern for the fate of others and a multitude of adolescent complexes, Flea had left his foolish background behind and gone to find life. And find life he had. He had found much that was good - wealth, power, sex, the hundred-and-one other things that had served to lighten his mood and make his existence more bearable. But the best thing had been finding out that bad guys were in fact better at dealing with life than the good guys. He had deceived people, lied to them, used them and then left them when it seemed appropriate. So it had been, until he found a problem. His power. The magic had grown within him, and now it chose to break free. So, faced with a new force in his life, Flea had sought instruction. The transvestite scowled prettily as he donned his robes. Magicians! Sorcerers! Vile, liver-spotted, palsy-stricken old men. He hated them, as he had hated them on first meeting them. Their smug self-assurance, their insistence on asceticism and self-denial, their awful clothes and filthy personal hygiene. He'd followed their ways, hoping to gain power and control and get out as soon as possible, but every time he had tried to gain new knowledge there were new privations, new hardships to be endured. And after nearly three years of awful, aching chastity, he had come up with his theory. Sexual tension, he reasoned, equalled power. The strongest physical force, if denied outlet, could (in certain individuals) be released through magic. And his masters, with their stupid phallic wands and their perverted little master-apprentice rituals, had thrown him out for daring to suggest that such worldly matters could intrude into their sacred environment. Well, it hadn't. Flea smiled as he remembered the fires consuming the old stone building that shouldn't have burned but did anyway under the force of three years of his frustrated hormones. Yes, sexual tension did equal power. His smile dimmed somewhat though, as he thought of the past several months. With Magus becoming increasingly dedicated to the 'ritual' as he called it, and Slash growing even more obsessed with hurting things, Flea had been very powerful recently. He was starting to wonder whether it was worth it.
Flea stared at his reflection in the mirror as he delicately applied his make-up. The slight hint of rouge on the cheeks, lips stained crimson, eyeshadow carefully blended in shades of pink and purple, eyebrows delicately pencilled in. Everything was there. Flea was proud of his appearance; he was well aware that he was more feminine than most women and he loved it. He had based some aspects of his life around it. And very enjoyable those aspects had been. But Flea had no time to dwell on his adventurous past. For, as he so often did when he was alone, Flea was fuming. Fuming at the simple injustice of life, fuming at everybody that had scorned him. He had always been faced with prejudice - who hadn't, he reasoned, at some point or another - but he got over it. And the way he got over it was by having a good fume. Of course, it wasn't some past injustice that had forced Flea into evil. No, Flea was just an intrinsically bad person. He knew this, and was comfortable with it. It had taken him some time to work out that he was not like other people, in two ways. The first he was proud of, but the matter of being evil troubled him. It went against all his teachings. Do the right thing. Look after the underdog. Put others before yourself. He had never been able to do these things, no matter how hard he tried. He had stolen, lied and cheated, all without a hint of guilt. And that had made it all the harder; he had always felt that there was something missing from his life, and it was guilt. The force that propelled a thousand people onto the path of goodness had left him out. So, with no conscience, no concern for the fate of others and a multitude of adolescent complexes, Flea had left his foolish background behind and gone to find life. And find life he had. He had found much that was good - wealth, power, sex, the hundred-and-one other things that had served to lighten his mood and make his existence more bearable. But the best thing had been finding out that bad guys were in fact better at dealing with life than the good guys. He had deceived people, lied to them, used them and then left them when it seemed appropriate. So it had been, until he found a problem. His power. The magic had grown within him, and now it chose to break free. So, faced with a new force in his life, Flea had sought instruction. The transvestite scowled prettily as he donned his robes. Magicians! Sorcerers! Vile, liver-spotted, palsy-stricken old men. He hated them, as he had hated them on first meeting them. Their smug self-assurance, their insistence on asceticism and self-denial, their awful clothes and filthy personal hygiene. He'd followed their ways, hoping to gain power and control and get out as soon as possible, but every time he had tried to gain new knowledge there were new privations, new hardships to be endured. And after nearly three years of awful, aching chastity, he had come up with his theory. Sexual tension, he reasoned, equalled power. The strongest physical force, if denied outlet, could (in certain individuals) be released through magic. And his masters, with their stupid phallic wands and their perverted little master-apprentice rituals, had thrown him out for daring to suggest that such worldly matters could intrude into their sacred environment. Well, it hadn't. Flea smiled as he remembered the fires consuming the old stone building that shouldn't have burned but did anyway under the force of three years of his frustrated hormones. Yes, sexual tension did equal power. His smile dimmed somewhat though, as he thought of the past several months. With Magus becoming increasingly dedicated to the 'ritual' as he called it, and Slash growing even more obsessed with hurting things, Flea had been very powerful recently. He was starting to wonder whether it was worth it.