02-20-2022, 02:55 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-21-2022, 08:26 PM by Crunk. Edited 4 times in total.)
Art Deco stands in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton on 900 W Olympic Boulevard in downtown Los Angeles. A bellboy approaches him to take his coat away for dry cleaning. In the elevator, Art lights up a Macanudo cigar in spite of the “No Smoking” sign.
By all accounts, Art Deco is not what you would call a “good” person. Coming from a place of extreme privilege and wealth, things have always been easy for him; and silly rules have always bent to his will. It is no surprise then that he’d been selected to participate in the upcoming Prospect Bowl ahead of the DSFL draft.
The elevator stops abruptly and the door opens revealing the interior foyer of Deco’s apartment–paid solely by his well-to-do parents. His mother, and Olympic sprinter, and his father, an inventor, had been able to put away a sizeable trust in Deco’s name far before he could even walk.
He ashes his cigar on the floor without breaking stride as a clockwork vacuum cleaner, glowing with blue alchemical coldfire, springs into action and begins to clean the floors with a whirring of gears. Its suction inhales the cigar ash, pausing for a moment as a thick gout of steam is released noisily from a pressure valve. Seeing no further detritus, it whirrs itself back to its base where it powers down once more.
Setting down his cigar in a crystal ashtray, he moved to the fridge where he pulls out an ice cold Heady Topper IPA from The Alchemist brewery in Stowe, VT. Such a beer is nearly impossible to find on the west coast, but the Deco family has long been patrons of many fine breweries, distilleries, and wineries all over the world.
“Jeeves, play Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor.” He says aloud while cracking open the can of suds. A mechanical voice responds almost immediately from hidden speakers in the walls.
“Very good, sir.”
Art walks over to the sprawling plate glass window in the den and looks down upon the city as the music floods the room. He sips from his beer and admires the piney and bitter taste of fresh hops. In his mind his thoughts are consumed by the coming draft. Being a star cornerback for a big team like USC was just the first of many accomplishments to come, he thinks. This prospect bowl is just another stone on the pathway to his Hall of Fame ISFL career. He thinks this as if it were a certainty–as easy and natural as breathing. He will be successful, as he always has been.
His informants have been messaging him incessantly about the coming draft. Though they are nearly certain that Chicago would be selecting him for the eventual ISFL draft, the waters are a bit murkier when it comes to the DSFL. He resents their incompetence. For what his family is paying these people, they should know for certain where he’ll end up. The only thing worse than uncertainty, in his mind, is waiting.
The opening swell of Lachrimosa hangs in the air as thick as smoke.
“Jeeves, I should like to do a press conference this week. Answer a few questions for the people so they can get a better understanding of who “Art Deco” is.” He says referring to himself in the third person, as he is wont to do.
“Very good, sir. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Will you be dining here this evening, sir, or shall I make you a reservation?”
Art walks back over to where the cigar lay smoldering in the crystal ashtray. He picks it up with his free hand and takes a pensive pull off it. He exhales a thick blue-tinted cloud of smoke.
“No, I’ll be staying in tonight. Prepare me the usual.” Placing the cigar back down he strides over to a glass dining room table, long enough to seat 16 people comfortably, and sits down at the head of it.
“Very good, sir.”
The whirring of gears mixes and overlaps with the sound of Mozart as a clockwork butler is revealed from a previously closed pantry. It’s golden gears catch the dim light as it shuffles towards the refrigerator. With the elegance of an invention meticulously powered by gears and coldfire, Jeeves reaches out and wraps his golden fingers around the freezer door, pulling it open with one smooth motion.
“Sir, will you be having one or two boxes this evening?” The mechanical voice of Jeeves calls out from over its shoulder. Its clockwork hand overs over stack-upon-stack of Totinos Combination Pizza Rolls 15 Count boxes.
“Better make it two, Jeeves. I’m feeling hungrier than ever.”
There he sat, drinking and smoking, with the sound of music in the air as he ate twenty two pizza rolls exactly.
(774 words)
By all accounts, Art Deco is not what you would call a “good” person. Coming from a place of extreme privilege and wealth, things have always been easy for him; and silly rules have always bent to his will. It is no surprise then that he’d been selected to participate in the upcoming Prospect Bowl ahead of the DSFL draft.
The elevator stops abruptly and the door opens revealing the interior foyer of Deco’s apartment–paid solely by his well-to-do parents. His mother, and Olympic sprinter, and his father, an inventor, had been able to put away a sizeable trust in Deco’s name far before he could even walk.
He ashes his cigar on the floor without breaking stride as a clockwork vacuum cleaner, glowing with blue alchemical coldfire, springs into action and begins to clean the floors with a whirring of gears. Its suction inhales the cigar ash, pausing for a moment as a thick gout of steam is released noisily from a pressure valve. Seeing no further detritus, it whirrs itself back to its base where it powers down once more.
Setting down his cigar in a crystal ashtray, he moved to the fridge where he pulls out an ice cold Heady Topper IPA from The Alchemist brewery in Stowe, VT. Such a beer is nearly impossible to find on the west coast, but the Deco family has long been patrons of many fine breweries, distilleries, and wineries all over the world.
“Jeeves, play Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor.” He says aloud while cracking open the can of suds. A mechanical voice responds almost immediately from hidden speakers in the walls.
“Very good, sir.”
Art walks over to the sprawling plate glass window in the den and looks down upon the city as the music floods the room. He sips from his beer and admires the piney and bitter taste of fresh hops. In his mind his thoughts are consumed by the coming draft. Being a star cornerback for a big team like USC was just the first of many accomplishments to come, he thinks. This prospect bowl is just another stone on the pathway to his Hall of Fame ISFL career. He thinks this as if it were a certainty–as easy and natural as breathing. He will be successful, as he always has been.
His informants have been messaging him incessantly about the coming draft. Though they are nearly certain that Chicago would be selecting him for the eventual ISFL draft, the waters are a bit murkier when it comes to the DSFL. He resents their incompetence. For what his family is paying these people, they should know for certain where he’ll end up. The only thing worse than uncertainty, in his mind, is waiting.
The opening swell of Lachrimosa hangs in the air as thick as smoke.
“Jeeves, I should like to do a press conference this week. Answer a few questions for the people so they can get a better understanding of who “Art Deco” is.” He says referring to himself in the third person, as he is wont to do.
“Very good, sir. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Will you be dining here this evening, sir, or shall I make you a reservation?”
Art walks back over to where the cigar lay smoldering in the crystal ashtray. He picks it up with his free hand and takes a pensive pull off it. He exhales a thick blue-tinted cloud of smoke.
“No, I’ll be staying in tonight. Prepare me the usual.” Placing the cigar back down he strides over to a glass dining room table, long enough to seat 16 people comfortably, and sits down at the head of it.
“Very good, sir.”
The whirring of gears mixes and overlaps with the sound of Mozart as a clockwork butler is revealed from a previously closed pantry. It’s golden gears catch the dim light as it shuffles towards the refrigerator. With the elegance of an invention meticulously powered by gears and coldfire, Jeeves reaches out and wraps his golden fingers around the freezer door, pulling it open with one smooth motion.
“Sir, will you be having one or two boxes this evening?” The mechanical voice of Jeeves calls out from over its shoulder. Its clockwork hand overs over stack-upon-stack of Totinos Combination Pizza Rolls 15 Count boxes.
“Better make it two, Jeeves. I’m feeling hungrier than ever.”
There he sat, drinking and smoking, with the sound of music in the air as he ate twenty two pizza rolls exactly.
(774 words)