Think of a face. Not somebody you know. Think of a face with your mother's eyes but your father's smile. Your neighbour's ears. Your sister's crooked nose. The president's cheekbones. Or make a face up from scratch. Just think of a face, for someone who doesn't exist. But they do. They exist now. Of all the billions of people in the world, don't you think there's been at least one person who looks like this person you've just imagined? ; independent original character.
if anyone doesn’t know already i’ve been dipping back in for a chill time @mzone and writing kennedy a little there! i don’t plan on deleting this blog or anything but yeah. on a personal note i have an essay in a book being published in a couple months! i am out there writing and stuff. that’s very cool very neat. so yeah @mzone is buzzing if you like-a the writing ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
Richard knows every important person there is to know: he has shaken hands with them, taken their money, their conditions, their conniving speeches.
This person doesn’t have the face of any of those people, so who the hell are they to talk at him like this. He glowers at them.
Then wrestles his face muscles into a more casual, neutral expression because he really wants to know:
“Who are you?”
“Why?”
They don’t say it snappily, and only deliver the question after a pause to consider their answer. No, they don’t feel keen on giving their personal details to the strange man with a phallic bent, but it is curious that he’d want to ask at all. He mustn’t be used to this response. He wants to catalogue it. So it’s a simple enough question, with the implicit aftermath: what would you do if I told you?
That face. Right at them. For them. To them. There’s no way he’d be acting like this if his conscience weren’t stuffed away in his pants pocket right now (he keeps the earpiece on in low-stakes situations such as these; he likes the idea of his conscience hearing him but not being able to stop him).
Apropos the ‘bad attitude’ comment:
“Thank you.”
He does not give a fuck about that guy. What he does give a fuck about (half offended, half accusitive):
“Do I look like the kind of guy who needs to walk around in a trench coat to get people to look at his dick?”
There’s nothing to like about the man, not one thing. It’s a rare honesty. Not admirable by any means, but fascinating, like the ugliest bugs are. He’s somehow even lost a base level of handsomeness from sheer mean spirit – incredible, Ken has time to realize in a blinking flinch from his dick comment, that ordinary people can change their appearance in an instant too.
Their eyes flick over him head to toe, taking in how quick a man can turn repugnant. Faster than fruit. They shake their head. “You certainly don’t act like the kind of guy who can get people to look at it willingly. Or for free.”
❛it’s not like you could have kept me company… ❜ he shrugs, his wings jump as well. the next sentence he offers is full of pauses as if the words had to be forcefully yanked from him: ❛ i will always be… begrudgingly grateful… to you… for helping me in my… most vulnerable state. but i’m a BIG BUG now… and i do not require protection anymore. ❜
It’s music to their ears. You can cut the begrudging right out of that statement: all they’re hearing is gratitude, long overdue. “Anyone would have done the same,” they lie. Most people would have picked up a baseball bat or called animal control, but Kennedy’s trying to stay humble. “You know it’s a life debt though, and now you’ll have to mind me when I’m old and weak.”
