Post by Cirrus on Jan 10, 2012 16:33:51 GMT -5
[bg=000000][atrb=width, 500, bTable][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=vAlign,top] MAKE MY BLOOD It was windy. That was never a good sign; something bad was stirring from its slumber, a slumber that the normal folk of the island had relished; for when whatever was stirring shifted their lives did too. The stirring trouble was the axis around which their lives revolved; moving it made their day to day happenings skewed and contorted in a desperate attempt to resume the normal orbit of uneventfulness. The fact that it was windy was akin, to the folks of G-2, to an apocalypse. It was, to them, as if the sun itself was getting up and walking away without warning, expecting through its own self-importance for the planets to follow with it. But the sun was benevolent; it gave them life, warmth and feeling. The centre of the universe here, at one of the citadels of justice, was evil. Perhaps some would look upon that as ironic. Others, maybe, simple coincidence. And a further minority would see the juxtaposition of good and evil as logical -- of course, they cannot exist without the other, and only describe things relative to each other, and so if one were to exist in the absence of the other the world would be a very funny place. This being the G-2 marine base, the words 'a very funny place' were usually said just before said place was corrected, made unspectacular, made not dissimilar to a normal civilian habitat. That was, of course, their job, was it not? Who could argue that the marines didn't live to return the world to a basal state? Around these parts, marines that tried to cause sensation were termed traitors. Pirates. . . Bosco Cavellone woke with a start. One moment he was dreaming blissfully, the remnants of a celebratory drink splayed all over his bare chest and the effects of a drunken victory dance still prominent from under his lightly tanned skin as an ugly bruise, the next jarring noises jutted through his consciousness like spear tips of sound and a pillow did its utmost to smother him. It was a typical morning. Groans and muffled profanities were the harbinger of a conscious Bosco, who after defeating the pillow-cum-assassin set about conquering the transgressor of the law -- 'Never Wake Bosco!' Of course, like any other day, the law-breaker would escape, having slipped away from the ajar door leaving nothing behind but a glimpse of white and blue. He'd meld into the crowd of marines that lived below the blonde haired rabble-rouser and, like any other day, would receive no comeuppance. They'd quickly learned in the few weeks the lean mean arting machine had returned to G-2 that staying to ensure Bosco actually woke up was a mistake you'd never make more than once: the first time you did, you died. Well, maybe they were being a little too harsh -- Bosco's punches only sent one spiralling into the dark abyss of unconsciousness, not to the brink of death as the rumours went. Things only became dicey when he decided to punish those who had disturbed his slumber -- it's amazing how much pillow you can stuff down someone's mouth before they wake up and start trying to cough and vomit it from their bodies. And the way they turn bright red is simply captivating. At least, that was how Bosco saw it. From his horribly skewed perspective. At any rate, Bosco showered and dressed and went down for breakfast, giving everything that moved -- as always -- a malicious snarl that reminded some of a shark, or an alligator, or, the majority seemed to say, that beast from their nightmares. That one always made him laugh. Of course it did; it was exactly what he wanted: Bosco wanted the marines of G-2 to fear him; it gave him both the pleasure and the knowledge that he could do, and get away with, anything he damn well liked. It was freedom. And when you give a twisted hedonist utter freedom, it's euphoria for them. It was certainly euphoria for Bosco. That malicious snarl was given out of delight, not out of any true malevolence. At least, not yet; there was no reason to warrant any evil so early in the morning. That sort of thing was saved for after the coffee, after the brain gets kickstarted into chaos-creating gear. The wind stirred again. Trees bowed, subjugated to the whims of the Aeolian gods; beings that never strayed into this part of the world, hence the name the Calm Belt. There was something unnatural about the wind -- it carried emotion with it. And not just any emotion too: the misplaced wind of G-2 marine base carried joy. Delight flooded the faces of all the marines in the breakfast canteen. This would only serve to unnerve Bosco, who was currently postulating that, as the son of Captain Enka Cavellone, he should receive more sausages than everyone else -- it was only logical, of course. The determined scowl of a dinner lady on a mission for whatever small justice afforded to those of the class in servitude was blocking the ne'er-do-well's path to meat-based triumph. At loggerheads, as seemed to always be the case with Bosco, he tried to grab for the hacksaw and begin cutting away at the sturdy trunk of the dinner lady's defence. "What do you mean I can't have extra? Do you know who the fuck I am?" He said, raising his voice with indignation; a tone practised so well that it became believable. This was a man who was used to getting his way. This was a man who, as a child, terrorised the G-2 marine base with nothing but high-pitched demands and the threat of his father. This was a man who still did the same. This was a man who knew what he was doing. "I don't care: rules are rules -- two sausages per marine!" Came the retort, came the treehugger. Now, if Bosco had his way -- which he would, in due time -- he'd have kept on sawing, straight through the damned arboreal fanatic and all the way to the other side. If a tree falls in the forest, it was in his way, wasn't it! And so the logic should have been in this scenario. Alas... he'd tried this before. He'd tried force. He'd been terribly mistaken. It would appear that, as a dinner lady, there is some sort of self-defence course that went beyond the realms of anything the marines are taught at basic training. Of course, this is logical, but it never seems to enter the minds of those that dare challenge the superiority of she with the spatula and apron. But the way she moves those utensils... one never forgets. Never. "P-please... Gloria... I'm leaving today. Give me one extra -- something to remember you by?" He'd changed tactics. Brought legislation. Fancy words or empathetic words -- they were all the same in the end, weren't they. At any rate, they got the job done. The treehuggers never won. Maybe that's why they kicked up a fuss. The dinner lady baulked. 'Always a woman...' Mused Bosco. The tearjerker always worked. Although if this was so, why did he bother with the vehemence in the first place? Maybe he relished the challenge of getting by on bad tactics -- he was, after all, an artist. Time for contemplation was cut short though: Bosco had to accept the extra sausage Gloria was proffering before the window of opportunity closed with his fingers still on the ledge. A quick thank you later and the blonde haired rabble-rouser was sitting on his own, as per usual, wolfing down his food and watching the canteen's TV Den Den Mushi in relative silence -- silence apart from the cries of the battle raging on between his teeth and the nourishment he attempted to consume. The wind stirred again. And this time the trouble woke. Double doors slammed open, releasing a demon gust that lifted everything up at least a foot into the air and slammed it down in the most inconvenient place it could conceive: the floor; rafters; hair; faces. The calamitous flurry of an entrance gave hardly any time to witness the hulking beast of a man step into the marine canteen. And by the way his eyes seemed to lase through the amalgamation of hungry marines and find Bosco, he knew that his time had come. He was leaving. Those laser eyes the stranger possessed were going to incinerate every piece of luxury that he had become accustomed to and leave singes of the real big bad world on his skin. He was going to become a Shichibukai. And he just knew, just knew, that he was going to hate it. COUNT:1467 CHARACTER: bosco cavellone COMMENTARY: it'll do, it'll do CREDIT: cirrus | [bg=660000][atrb=vAlign,top] BOIL ! [/style] |