Also, the remaining quality-time with her father is drastically on the wane because gorgon stepqueen Trefoil always finds a way of unncessarily interrupting, making grand entrances and investing all of her time/energy to dazzle King White.
J.S.W soon enough finds herself a driver [Tsunamoto] who for an astronomical monthly wage is willing to shake off her father’s tails, which many a time includes switching back and forth between sub-orbital shuttles, using prosthetic disguises and even resorting to expensive body doubles. However, all this ingenious secret agent manouevering is not enough to loose another highly regarded professional in the business. Thus when the unequal pair of Princess White and her stocky, short Japanese ronin make their way to Luceria where word of medieval repercussions seems not to have spread all that virally yet [precisely 21 days after her historical birthday bash] Jesus “No Worries” Mercurio shadows them undetected.
As they step out of the cooling shuttle into one of the numberless alleys of a nestled spiderweb of alleys that constitute the outskirts of the luminous city, trusty Tsunamoto is killed instantaneously. His blood, under the night sky and purple neon flicker has the appearance of gushing black ink. However, by the chance distraction of a stray dog who chomps into J.M.’s leg Joelle is able to escape down the littered little street in loud-screeching flight. Having a naturally atheltic build, as well as being high on three cups of ristretto, J.S.W. is able to put some distance between herself and her stepmother’s hitman before “No Worries” catches up, fells her and the Princess lands face first in a pile of big dumpster bags. She whirls around at once, tears already flowing copiously from her mesmeric eyes with her torn white skirt bunched around her red bleeding knees, etc. [see above, pt.I]
Joelle is still grinning and Charlie is still laughing. Her teeth feel like vacated, dilapidated highrisers and she wouldn’t at all mind tearing her arm off clear. She looks pensively at the chandelier, which is in view as an immensely complex explosion of fractured light that would make any student of optics very happy indeed. She is battling internally now, not for a story to tell but to remain calm or actually to maintain the frame of mind that will allow her to appear composed. J.S.W. can feel the real inner beast awakening which is hot and horrible. The living room’s six walls seem to move in on her claustrophobically.
Charlie is studying her carefully, an alacrity otherwise only found with conman always afraid they will be conned themselves. His clothing is utmost ridiculous as it is clear to see he saved himself some time by scooping his duds from the colorful children’s apparel section.
Next Princess White experiences mild formication, as though tens of thousands of imaginary ants are swarming all over her skin: exploring, probing, biting, exchanging messenger chemicals along their antenna. This makes the calm and composed act near impossible but she manages by applying high-pressure caresses that look comically like Joelle might be fondling herself.
His question about whether she was running around the block trying to score nose candy still hangs in the air between them. There is something buddha-like about Charlie’s diminuitive size and motionlessnes:
- Yes, exactly, that’s it. But that is not the whole story. I could be back home in Altra Luna procuring the goods but this has become impossible because…. My father, he can be a bit of an authoritarian, he’s been having me shadowed. I don’t know, you might know him, name of White, King White.
- I hear you Joelle, yes, parents! But you should be happy though, believe you me. Mine hailed from the liberal end of the spectrum, to the degree of allowing everything in the name of my self-development, “entelechy” they called it. But it just made them feel far, far away like stars in the night sky. Benevolent indeed but stars nevertheless, cold and distant. If my kids were trying to score I’d give’em hell too because, truth has it, many folks do not know what’s best for them. They need somebody else to tell them, they welcome authorities in their life.
- Perhaps some do. But in this world one has to make one’s own way, I believe.
Charlie is looking at her with one corner of his mouth twisted upwards, one eyebrow cocked, quizzicaly. His yellow t-shirt has a giraffe on it and the shoes have cartoonish logos on them plus velcro straps for tying. He is a preposterous child-sage-drug-peddler-buddha figure:
- Ok, enough chit-chat. You want to procure, desperately. Well here’s the deal: I’m not living here all by myself so the other six will have an equal say in this. However, I can guarantee you that they will not have any addicts in our household. So what’s the price of me keeping my lips pressed? You trafficking some of my stuff amongst your model friends now and again. Deal?
Joelle S. White has heard of such agreements being struck but never having experienced supplier audacity in person, she assumed these outlandish deals were the stuff of fairy tales or rather cautionary tales about substance dependence. To see it all play out before her eyes now is blankly horrifying, after all she’s seen many enough examples of peddling gone bad. Her head feels about three sizes to small to consider the matter all the while Charlie is casually rubbing his temples, probably already considering the next of his life’s many headaches.