[ Goodfellow is sitting on the rooftop of one of the apartment buildings - notably not his own, but Ishiah's. The cheap green and white aluminum and polyester beach chair he's sitting in creaks when he leans back and folds his arms behind his curly chestnut-haired head, large sunglasses more expensive than most people's rent falling down to cover half of his face. The smile on his lips is broad, but slightly jaundiced; there are cracks in his veneer to those who would recognize them. ]

The rumor is that that damn prison is going to be lit up and there is usually an ounce of truth in rumors, especially the panicked kind.

For gods' sakes, if you are going to blow the thing up, blow it up already. I am waiting so long that I am starting to feel like a piece of white trash NASCAR fan-- not a pleasant overtone. It deserves it anyway, filthy, smelly eyesore on an otherwise decent piece of lakefront property. The whole interior smelled like stale Kin piss and Hephaistos' ballsweat. And I left it having vomited up my very delicious supper and covered in wolf fur and other creatures' bodily fluids. By the way, somebody owes me a new pair of shoes. I do not care who coughs up the capital.

Get on with it already.

And no Nero jokes.

When NASA first started sending up astronauts, they quickly discovered that ballpoint pens would not work in zero gravity. Not to even begin to note that this should have been a complete damn no-brainer, to combat this belatedly realized problem, NASA scientists spent a decade and what would in the current year I am from be twelve billion United States dollars to develop a pen which writes in zero gravity, upside down, underwater, up your own ass, on almost any surface you can think of including glass and at temperatures ranging from below freezing to three-hundred Celcius.

The Russians used a fucking pencil.

There is no moral to this story. Your interpretation depends on your priorities in life. That is what life in society is all about. Our ideas of who is moral, or who is wasteful, or who is lucky, or who is evil, or who is guilty do not always or even frequently match up with the other members of said society.

Interesting, is it not?

I can see what is going on here. Come to me and you will not have me. I have no shame and you will need something far more evil to take down my fighting spirit.

Call back when you have employed a small army of Auphe. Then I may deign to cower a little for the sake of your capricious egos.

And now, all said and done, I have time to rest and lament on my deplorable and regrettable loss of tits and ass. As happy as I am to once again be in my own body, my wonderful body which naturally people may dislike on face because they hate me because I am beautiful, multifaceted, talented, witty, intelligent, wealthy and internationally famous-- as much as I am happy about all that, I am sad to see my passing grab at womanhood gone again. It was enjoyable, Promise, thank you for the test drive. I had fun abusing the curves, but I assure you that I drove responsibly.

I have come to two conclusions.

Firstly, that being a woman feels just as sex as looking at one.


And, of course, secondly, that men buy more free drinks in bars, but individual women buy more of them.

Oh, and thirdly-- there are not enough fucking lesbians here for an urban environment. What is up with that?

Alright, kids. Robin needs a distraction before he finds himself throttling a parakeet and a leprechaun and possibly a few other items for the bestiary.


Things which are worth working up a disgusting sweat over: Go!

Putting a claim on something does not ensure that it is yours. If you really wish to own it you must put it physically under your control, and keep it there. Some may talk of morality, and others of religion, but give me a snug bit of property and I shall be happy enough.


filtered to Chuck Bass;

Hello, hello. Can we have a little talk? Are you busy?

Change of topic!

What's the worst thing that you have ever done to get even with somebody?

Points will be awarded for creativity and effort.

A true curse for those with an active imagination, for once. Simple men are happy alone.

The rest of you stranded should try simply not to think too much and stay distracted. It is the only way to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in the mortal condition. It thrives in the lonely places in the world. It always has.

Their work is already done for them. Light yourselves a campfire.


[ooc: finally out and about again- and determined to be misanthropic and extra puckish.]

[ it's early in the day-- so early that Robin Goodfellow is still at work at Hinode Dojo. And while he usually isn't a particularly easy instructor, he also usually displays some level of enjoyment in his work and compassion toward patrons. He is all business today, and then again not business at all. The young man he's working with quickly finds his back meeting the floor with a punishing elbow below his chin. He mumbles some complaint unintelligible on the audio. Goodfellow's response is clear is enough. ]

I am not your wetnurse, child. Walk it off. You payed for an hour. It's now up.

[ seemingly noticing that he;s being recorded, he stalks over and shuts the device off with a smile that is a mockery of his usual confident smirk, too saccharine sweet and decayed, all wormy soft apples and rotted forest detritus. The video flickers off, but his voice remains for a moment longer. ]

Promise. A message. We need to have a talk about something, when you get your three-times-a-leech bones out of your bed. I always hate doing business with your kind. Your restrictive hours bug.

Tonight.


[ooc: A Road Not Taken. Had Robin not, as he did for whatever reason, taken that proverbial left turn after Hob spawned him. Hobgoblin!Robin. Up a little earlier than normal for a castmate headed out tonight.]

Why aren't all of you wearing white? I want to see those leopard-print bras and Superman boxers. What a rip-off today has been.

My hair is frizzy for no good reason.

And if I find a single one of you has gotten my cat wet, there will be hell to pay and you should all be aware of it. She is somewhat dry clean only.

The prostitute has to forsake a man who has no money, the subject a king that cannot defend him, the birds a tree that bears no fruit, and the intelligent guest a house after they have finished their meal.

That's it. Everyone loves a party, and visitors keep the ambiance fresh, but I have used you all up to my liking, you have worn out your welcome, and now I do not care from whence you came or to where you go but you've got to get the hell out of here.

Except you, Rafferty. You may stay. I have further use for you.

[ooc: audio post from the hallway of the hospital, he's heading back to Niko's room. fourth wallable ♥]

I took an hour or two to myself today, to do some looking around for nice little shops and restaurants of report. I did find a lovely little Indian place, but more importantly, I found a beautiful piece on oil and canvas that I had to have.

( cut not ic. possibly not worksafe fine art. )

I think I'll hang it in the living room. The other living room, I mean. Although it makes me wonder if I shouldn't open an art dealership or something of the sort. Not that what I'm doing right now isn't ah-- fulfilling. If you want. Simply that the pay is crap and there is no room for advancement. I don't like working for other people.

It is to think on.

Also, how now, all of you? Are any of your poor, miserable, wretched selves still stuck in the hospital? Are we all getting ourselves better so that I can stop pretending to have sympathy and asking once every three days how you are all feeling? At least you're not as bad as all of my employees at home. They want cards.

It seems as if a third of the damn population is ill this month. To the point that the two smallish words 'waiting room' now begin to fill me with dread, contempt, and an urge to curse fluently at anyone who aims them in my direction. Lucky for us all that the dire cases seem to be tapering off, and that medicine simply is what it is here. You can all receive treatment, not simply a prognosis.

For the longest time humanity believed that sickness was brought on by an imbalance of substances known as humors-- as far back as Egypt, in my memory. Nothing funny about them, of course. Blood, black bile, yellow bile and phlegm. Too much of one, get rid of it. Bleed them out, induce vomiting, sweating or diarrhea. It wasn't entirely without merit, the idea of using citrus juices and honey to cure a cold was and is ideal, but humorism normally did more harm than good, and of course the majority of them for centuries were loathe to listen to the suggestion that perhaps those methods were a little primitive. Well, until Hippokrates started finally listening to me. Most of his work sadly did not survive the break between the medical school at Kos and the one in Shalimar some few hundred years later. Idiots.

He was a bit of a stubborn ass, went bald early. But a professional, always a professional. Honest, sangfroid and far too understanding. Bad qualities in a salesman, good in a physician. And he never bit his damn fingernails.

Promise, we need to talk about working out our schedules.

The rest of you, get well. And try not to breathe on one another, for Asklepios' sake.



One week.



[ooc: Robin's started getting things ready in the apartment for Niko to come home. he sent Tony a gift basket. one week is the number of days since Robin has coupled with someone in the City. he's nearing a cracking point.]

I hate hospitals with the cold passion of Hades itself.

I hate them because I always feel as if I am being rushed around like a guest at an art gallery opening. I hate them because they smell like an old people's home. I hate them because they serve toxic sludge proclaimed to be coffee. I hate them because they are full of magazines meant for housewives and men over fifty. Most of all I hate them because you go there to check on someone you actually give half a shit about and are objectionably and forcefully confronted with such tender scenes as critically-ill Timmy kissing his mommy and daddy goodnight and both of them praying that he survives the evening hooked up to his beeping and whirring machines. It breaks my heart. I weep. I vomit. Alas, poor Timmy. May Zeus will it surely that he is put out of his misery; his daisies pushed, his buckets kicked, his farms purchased.

It makes a puck want to punch puppy dogs.


Anyway, did any of you know that Doris Day's real name was Doris Von Kappelhoff? There is no question in my mind that she had every right to change her godforsaken name and I think we're all in agreement here.

I love children.

I love them because they are easy to capture and sacrifice. I love them because they are naive. I love them because they are good for a ransom. I love them because they lack preconception and are easily molded or perverted. I love them because one may learn many things from them-- for instance, the limits of one's infinite patience.

Most of all I love them because if you wait around long e-fucking-nough, they turn into adults, and then they can be considered actual people as opposed to an affliction best defined as a perpetually dirty, sticky noise.

[ for a few seconds, there is a clop-clop noise, before a growl of frustration. ]

This is starting to get very tired very quickly. Most importantly, this isn't my lot in life. I'm the practiced beguiler. Never the straight man. Such a thing is clearly and emphatically not the way of any sane universe.

[ more rustling and bright, earthy clops. ]

And now I'm lost in this stupid garden. I don't want to wake up naked in foliage and not remember how I got there unless I'm on more drugs than Keith Richards for the entire year of 1972, you arrogant, puffed-up want-to-be-worshipeds with a little bit of magic and a lot of nerve.

Typical. The irony is not beyond me, but it is also not appreciated.


[ooc: cursed into a woodland animal, of course. action for anyone in xanadu.]

Let's talk of something of great social and cultural import. Dancing. Dance, along with writing, music, and physical exercise, was basic to the education system and I cannot extol enough its virtues as a means of cultivating both body and, if you're into such concepts, soul. So important, in fact, is dancing, that in Arcadia-- a place where I spent some chunk of very enjoyable time --the expenses of teaching singing and dancing to the young men were met from the civic purse. In exchange for this schooling, our nubile pupils in question staged annual displays of their recently accomplished physical skills, which all proper citizens attended. Such high regard was dancing held in that eminent citizens were referred to as protorchesteres, or lead dancers. Hell, in Sparta, physical exercise was tantamount to a political creed, and these men danced mainly beautiful, masculine martial dances. The Spartans not only danced before battles, they also fought with rhythmic movements to the strains of pipes.

The famous general Epameinondas-- fun to look at, less to hit on --had received such lessons in Thebes and was a talented flautist (although nowhere near my own expert level with any kind of flute, if you know what I mean,) lyre-player and, like the tragic and tragically bad in bed poet Sophocles, an accomplished singer and dancer. Truly, a man who cannot dance is uneducated and unrefined, while an accomplished dancer is the epitome of a cultured man. Plato, the dumb repressed bastard himself, strongly urged that girls should be taught the same dance movements as the boys stressing that their teacher should be a fine woman and her instruction not tempered with the Spartan's sharp severity.

Just as dance should be a physical pleasure to perform, it should be a pleasure to admire. The joyous rhythm which binds together; a harmony more than personal; the sinuous plasticity of the body; movements that arise from an inner compulsion and accord with the laws of raw nature and the dancer’s own body.

Now, who wants to practice?

( setup narrative for those in hinode dojo )

--ways knew you would give in and see sanity, Niko. Ah, she's no good for you, and I, I have everything to offer that she does and more,--

--just never knew--

--expect you to be so good at this straight out of the barn--

--OH, oho, yes, a little higher. Skata. Yes. Trust me, you're the willing student here.

....Ishiah? What are you--

Join us? No, I wanted-- No-- oh, yes, definitely yes, actually. Zeus, yes.

--now come over here to me and I shall climb you like a tree...


[ooc: naturally, Goodfellow has an everything fetish. but the one he seems to never be able to have is tall, taciturn blonds that could kick his ass. ]

[The tail of a cat waves in front of the camera for a bare second, followed by a playful, batting paw and the chainsaw noise of a purr. Robin Goodfellow stands in the kitchen of Niko Leandros' apartment, head bowed over slumped shoulders, muscles over his jaw taught above the wrinkled green silk robe over his shoulders. The robe looks just as defeated as his hair does, usual Greco-Roman waves and ringlets replaced by a curious combination of lank and frizz. Two furred cats pace around his feet, stopping occasionally to stretch upward and miyaow plaintively as he opens one can of catfood with a can-opener, slams it down ill-humoredly onto the counter, and then opens the other, before placing one can each onto a pair of chipped tea-plates.

"Shut up. I'm going as fast as I can. This shouldn't even be my responsibility-- I have to get to work and make cheddar to feed your ungrateful, unfortunate asses so that you don't die."

A third cat sits off in the corner of the visible area, hairless tail swishing back and forth across the floor angrily, darkened eyes almost jealous. As Robin lifts the plates, one of the furred, normal-looking cats leaps up to take a look over the counter, doing so by attaching to Robin's barely protected torso with its claws. He heaves a yelp and drops one of the plates in surprise, which falls to the floor and shatters. The noise is followed by a frustrated groan, the snarl of a man clearly at the end of his chain, and Robin sinks to his knees to pick up all of the shards of glass meticulously, even as the cats attempt to eat the soft pink mush.

"I hate you! I hate pets! I've got too much shit to do to be worrying about any of this! The next time I see that bastard, I'm going to make him pay for all of this-- I mean, Zeus, I'm carrying on a conversation with a pair of stupid animals."

After he's finished, he tosses the remains of the plate in the garbage and notices the recording device on the ground-- not on the table where he'd been checking his e-mail. The desperation on his features is replaced by a pilot light of anger in narrowed green eyes. The feed cuts out abruptly as his foot comes down on the network device in a curb-stomp that would make a gang member proud.]


[ooc: oooone is the loneliest number.]

What's the difference between medium and rare?


Six inches is medium, nine inches is rare.



Anyway, the weather's finally getting fit for a lamb roast, and I've been saving up, so I think it's about time we had one on the beach. A good old-fashioned open-pit barbeque, in the greatest of American traditions. That's what my country is founded on, isn't it? Light things on fire! And then eat them! Music and dancing! Slinky swimming suits! Come one, come all!

Any takers?


Where can I rent a woofer the size of a full-grown Saint Bernard?