AVAN JOGIA As Johnny Johnny & Clyde (2023)

Days like these, he supposed that life would be so much easier if he'd just disappeared, or, well, if strangers around him did. What was he even looking out for? Was anyone around him at the moment, or that would be for the rest of the day, even be worth this much hypervigilance on his behalf? Almost everyone seemed to be going about their day-to-day life, and he was just standing in place, smoking, and letting his imagination get the best of his mind at the moment.

It was completely silly. He was better than this. Was. He was better. But since the early morning hours he woke up out in basically no man's land, feeling as awful as he did then, and just as awful now, and more, when he had to keep up appearance and deal with the onslaught of questions, or trying to keep the facade going so that rumors could not dominate the narrative. What was the narrative, though? That everything was normal, still? What was supposed to be normal now? Azazel sneers a bit, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette, frustration coming then.

Closing his eyes, he adjusted his head, trying to steer the sudden assault of intrusive thoughts from getting the better of him. He was safe, he was home, nothing had changed. He was still him. Yet nothing seemed at all right. Everything still seemed so wrong. His nose started to feel ticklish after a second, a sneeze suddenly escaping him, breaking his composure with it. Bringing his free hand up, he covered his mouth and nose, sniffling slightly. It wasn't a cold, it wasn't allergies, he had none. But now he had to think, was this sneeze going to be another sign that something was wrong?!

Catching himself, he laughed under his breath. He was being irrational it was just a normal sneeze, nothing wrong with that. He brought his hand away. There was nothing wrong with walking, no one should be or would be out to get him, at least, not that he could remember at the moment. He started walking again, he still had things to attend to, despite his thoughts and feelings toward things around him.

It wasn't too hot out today, and he was thankful for that. Thankfully, even more so, he chose to wear an outfit that wasn't going to let him be bogged down with whatever little heat there still was. After a bit of walking, he adjusted his glasses again, continuing on his bath to who could tell outside of the moment, aside from him. Azazel still, however, had a thin layer of sweat forming over his body, which thankfully his clothes did not show due to their showy looseness and presentable, colorful appearance.

Coming up to a hobby store along the strip, he took another moment to glance around. A guy stood on the sidewalk, trying to get someone's attention. A woman was walking her dog. A child was being led along by their mother into another shop along the road. A woman with a Walkman strolled by, followed by a man making his way to his truck in the opposite direction. Azazel looked back, wondering why he just couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched.

Pulling the door open, he made his way inside, sighing as a blast of cold air hit him. He smiled weakly at the person standing at the register, who gave him a small greeting and asked what he was looking for, “The usual.” Azazel replied, moving to jot down his order on a forum at the register, “Wood. Sheets of metal.” Tucking a hand into his pocket, he pulled out a sheet from his work to order less easily accessible items, “This stuff here.” A moment or so later, he was finished with his requests and turned to look around for more items that would be on hand that he didn't need to order to go straight to his house.

Once he collected those items, taking nearly forty or so minutes in total to complete his shopping, he walked back out of the hobby store, putting his sunglasses back on as the sun continued to bring pain to his eyes just by being in the sunlight. It was, he had guessed, certainly due to his now never-ending state of exhaustion. Letting the bag hang at his side in his left hand, Azazel again continued on his journey.

The will-o-the-wisp, silent venturer a few feet dutifully behind, and sorely lacking the expertise of someone whose profession relied on stealth and grace, the eloquence of ballet's training shaped her up to be deadly enough. Making tracks with enough pace to keep up, her gangly legs forced to slow down as to not draw attention to herself, her eyes were trained on the broad figure traipsing along, a fine hairline of tension palpable in the body language, how the other toyed with their sunglasses and seemed to rouse at the barest hints of tension sparking in the air.

Her dark eyes snapped away as she drew closer and he swung around, trained ahead as if she were walking through the downtown of Las Vegas like anyone else would be on a sunny afternoon, the dry heat beating down with its harsh rays and onto her skin, soaking up the vitamins and the acrid disdain for the warmth. Sleepy Hollow was cold and rainy. Nothing like here, where there was little reprieve where the rain alone was reprieve from its inclemency, and few and far between.

The idle wonderment of where he would go next was there, itching the back of her brain — the mild fixation with the oddities that presented in the other's physical condition, as if the life force tethering him was being siphoned out by an enigma, could have seen her time better spent, and there were limits. Salem didn't want to know where he lived, or menial details — she wanted to know what was attached to him, whether it was a spirit's whim to manifest in the physical realm or a demonic vice — like a computer gathering information. What made him tick.

Slowing down, the medium pushed her hair against the wind's plight to billow it into her face, warmth staunch to her fingertips, astounded that sweat didn't come away and slick her fingers when she wiped her visage. Letting out a breath, she gathered her bearings and dug her hands into her pockets, removing a Walkman and a pair of earbuds, figuring it would add to the image that she was on a leisurely stroll and didn't want to be bothered.

Smoking, Azazel pulled his cigarette from his mouth, glancing out toward the drive-in as something started to happen, he scrunched his nose, “Well, things could be worse… I guess.” He muttered with a stream of smoke drifting out from between his lips, with little enthusiasm in his voice. After a moment, he blew out the rest of the smoke trapped in his lungs, turning away. Then dropped the cigarette, flicking it toward the ground, staring down at it as he stomped on it. Just at relatively the same moment, someone bumped into him, making him stumble a bit. The next moment, gaining his balance once more, he turned to face who it was as they spoke.

Staring at their hair a moment, then looked to her face, “I'm fine--” Though, he stopped himself from saying more as she spoke on, “Well, if you're any good at Frogger, the streets might be one of the safer places.” He suggests. Before waving out his left arm, staring after her from behind his sunglasses. Then turned his head, looking over at the masked men, and their dogs. No extreme reaction on his face or in his actions to what was going on at the drive-in, because he really couldn't be bothered to care much about it, it had nothing to do with him, “You first?” He offered, not really sounding like he was in any rush to get out of there. Perhaps he was just being too confident.

( weekend of horrors, april 21st, shortly after 8:00 pm ) @boneyardstarters

Cassandra couldn't have devised a better excuse to wander the strip freely if she tried, beyond thrilled for the evening crowds to get lost in during her clandestine evenings out that weekend. But even despite the comfort she found in the surging throngs of people spilling out of fluorescent establishments, she still donned her usual disguise, the blonde wig firmly in place, lest she run into any of her family's associates during the festivities. The last thing she needed was any of her father's lackies reporting back on her whereabouts and movements, which would no doubt prompt a barrage of questions she would rather not answer. So you can wander around Vegas at all hours, but you can't be bothered to leave your apartment during the day? Instead, she opted for anonymity, anything to find some answers. But it seemed that she had underestimated the reach of the Weiss family. Her eyes catching on the commotion brewing over at the drive-in across the street, of vaguely familiar figures clad in dark clothes and masks (accompanied by dogs that would surely pick up her scent), Cassie swiftly turned on her heel towards the opposite direction. But not before she collided with an unsuspecting person on the sidewalk. "Shit, are you okay?" she blurted, shooting a paranoid glance over her shoulder towards the masked guards, hoping to get out of the area as soon as possible. "We should probably get out of the street, yeah?" Anything to keep from being recognized.

Narcissistic Cannibal - EarlyRise (Cover of a Korn song)

found on reddit

and the artist's tumblr: @nullxface

Whatever source it was that drove the universe forward conspired against him, that he was certain of upon opening the door to find the other standing on his doorstep. Azazel narrowed his eyes, thinking that if he believed in any god or higher power, he would fight them upon his death, which was his highest calling at this point. Glancing down to the ground, he moved his right arm up, resting it against his door frame before bringing his forehead to rest on his forearm, the sweat coating his body at that moment, accumulating enough in that spot to have a drop fall from his arm a moment later, muttering under his breath as he did.

He did need a drink, and the medicine he was on to numb the pain long enough he could pass out so comfortably onto the floor for, at least a short while, in some brief moment of absolute bliss, he supposed. Going by his drool that still remained on the floor. It didn't need to be five, however, to get that drink or otherwise. That was his current lifestyle at the moment. Which is why he had just kept the arrangement with his sibling to take his son in for the time being while he worked on all of this. Laughing a bit, he pulled his head up from his arm and looked at Sévérine, feeling a little unstable for a brief second before catching himself. Clearing his throat, he dropped his arm from the door frame and leaned against it instead, “I guess they don't know about Girl Scouts where you're from, neighbor.” Hell, he thought, that had to be where the other was from.

Azazel takes in a breath before continuing, when the other made a demand of him, “Do I look like a fucking grocery store to you?” Apparently that's what he was now. His jaw clenching, however, he reminded himself not to cause waves, all manner of people lived on this street, who were most likely spying on him. No, most certainly were. Though his paranoid state of mind at the moment wasn't just causing him stress, he wasn't dealing well with, but anger, he wasn't dealing well with. Not only this, however, but intrusive thoughts, especially in this moment. His imagination, conceptualizing great atrocities he could be committing on this neighbor, if he were just to snap right then in there, in a fit of rage. He wondered how the rest of the neighbors might react at the scene he could be causing right now. But, he steeled himself to those notions, shrinking again as a wave of nausea started to rise from his gut, “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” He didn't understand that last bit, and he didn't want to.

Pulling away then, he made his way toward his kitchen, not bothering to close the door. As if it were an unconscious invite to 'try him' on his rising intensity and dip into greater madness. Coming up to his fridge, he yanks it open and drops into a crouch, reaching out toward his container of eggs, pulling it out, opening it, taking two, and replacing it back as it was before. Though, he paused, staring absently at the eggs as another bout of errant emotions suddenly bombarded him. Breaking down a bit, his eyes filled with tears, soon enough spilling over and trailing down his face, an unhinged sob left him, almost making him sound like he was laughing, maybe giggling from the distance he had been at.

Bringing the back of his hands to his eyes, he thought, briefly, how stupid it was to be sobbing over fucking eggs, of all things. But that's not really what he was crying about. After the briefest moment of that, he took a few deep breaths, trying to control these emotions with his breaths. Once he did, he wiped away the remaining wetness on his face and searched his cabinets for the sugar, “Get your shit together, focus, no one cares if you're fucked up. You have to control your shit.” He told himself under his breath, seeing another package of sugar as he did, he grabbed it before making his way back to the front of his house. As he came to the door, he put up his best smile he could muster at that moment toward Sévérine, “You're in luck, I have the stuff.”

Sévérine wasn't the type to stir the pot between familial demons that would circle one another in a spaghetti Western gunfight at sundown no matter what he did. What was there to gain from something that was inevitable? If anything, long as he stayed out of it, he didn't see himself reaping the bloodshed. However, that didn't mean that the on-call translator thought it frivolous to always play by the book of no contact, and even in a city as big and bold as Las Vegas, one was bound to run into their mortal enemy. Life was full of impossible standards, like the saying that microwaves gave people cancer. ( Not so funny joke now, in retrospect, but the French native seldom made out like anything bothered him at all and laughed hollowly at the joke, nonetheless. No one was getting past his defenses unless they were going to pry him open with a crowbar. If it was going to be the Vitellis, though, he'd like to think he wouldn't give up trade secrets. Maybe. If they brought out an electric razor to his hairline, he'd reconsider that argument. Hey, it was hard work to grow it back. ) Thus, after weighing the odds, he couldn't say definitively that he was there on innocent terms, but neither was he intentionally playing the part of gambling with fire.

"...It's five o'clock somewhere?"

The brunette didn't exactly understand the query, raising his eyes to take note that the squeezed orange colors of the desert sky were certainly present. "Hm. Funny." For once, he didn't have a smart-mouthed quip in return; maybe he wasn't looking to take shrapnel to the throat, after all. Lifting his chin slightly, a hand fussed with the rim of his beanie. "Sugar. And two eggs." For what? Well, that was none of anyone's business, regardless of where he hailed from; it didn't pertain or award itself a positive result to the questions are you making meth or are you attaching something to someone's mailbox that might combust. "...S'il vous plaît."