Rain crashed down upon the grand House of Blackthorn, rivulets of water like ghostly hands dragging down the glass panes in frenzied pique, frothing specters made frantic by the single desire to tear into the man safely on the other side.
Michelangelo Blackthorn stood, in his terrible glory, an ominous model of grace and beauty with shoulders rolled back, posture ruler straight, long hands clasped loosely just above the tail of his coat, legs like the ancestral trees his heart is buried under.
He, last son of House Blackthorn, watched with dispassionate gaze as the storm sought to rend this everlasting House from its very foundation, the very atmosphere temperamental and glorious in its underwhelming judgment of the creature who stood before it as if it were naught but April rain. Michelangelo considered how pitious it was that a scientific phenomenon could conjure more emotional presence than he could, for all intents and purposes being far closer to humanity than water vapor and wind currents. Yet when was the last time he produced such feeling? How many ages had passed since he last felt inspired, or even could inspire, the frenzy of movement and change upon the world as this storm does? How funny, how cruel! That an eternal being lost, with the loss of his own heart, the ability to register as a presence on this Earth– doomed to observe and never to cause–
“Mike, come on, we’re getting food.” The tone was euphonious, yet Michelangelo had to close his unnatural gray eyes for a second, to remind himself that he liked this human and killing her would be . . . a shame.
“As I have explained time and again, Jacaranda, I gain no nutritional substance from human f–”
“Yes, I’m aware. But you still can eat it, and let’s not pretend that it was the hellhounds that got into my Crumbl Cookies, so come on. This fucking Twilight Zone town finally got some real cuisine, and since you’ve spent literally three days pouting in front of the window like a little crybaby bitch, I figure I can treat you. Even though your old money ass should be treating me.”
Michelangelo’s glare grew in intensity, luminous glow cutting through the shadows of the office as he used the full of his imposing height to intimidate his PR agent, watching as she squared up in kind, somehow managing to look down her nose at him from her smaller stature, even adding a toss of her long braided hair over her shoulder.
“Hark! You will leave this room, and bother me no more. I have no time for your silliness!” Michelangelo barked, and he was fearsome in his austerity– umber curls framing his face, a heavy brow and sharpened grimace that drew shudders from any other person he’d met.
But never Jacaranda, which was precisely why they were now riding in his beloved carriage. Michelangelo seethed, the frosty silence coating every velvet-covered inch of his prized black carriage as the team of horses– a lovely birthday gift from Death’s very own stables, can you imagine the luck?– led them steadily on the only path that led from the House to the town.
“The insolence,” Michelangelo hissed suddenly, drawing a loud sigh of aggravation from the vexing woman across from him, and the sound only stoked his ire. “I am Master of these lands! I have immeasurable power, and you defy me?!”
“Do you like Mountain Dew?” Jacaranda asked, and she had to bite back the grin that threatened to crack her face when the immortal creature across from her imitated a tea kettle with the fury of his released breath through gritted teeth. “Wait, do you even know what Mountain Dew is?”
“What fool doesn’t know?!” Michelangelo sneered, hands flexing into claws as he attempted not to attack his, sad to say, closest friend. “It is the condensation of evening humidity coating the blossoms atop the–”
“What the fuck was I thinking, of course you wouldn’t know.” Jacaranda sighed, looking up briefly to offer a gaze dripping with pity, met by a face completely blank from overload of rage. “I’ll just order like . . . a bit of everything.”
“I just explained what dew on the mount–!!”
“Look,” Jacaranda interrupted him again, and Michelangelo would have passed out from fury were he human. She made a final tap onto the screen of her smartphone, then put it away into her dusty pink jacket pocket and focused on her ridiculous monster. “I know you’re mad because you just got broken up with for, probably the first time in a millenia for you–”
“I wasn’t broken up with, and I’m not mad because–”
“So you’re hurting and upset, and I just think this will be the thing to distract you from that.” Jacaranda finished, emphasizing with a hearty nod, before perking up and gesturing to the window. “Oh, we’re in town now.”
“Listen to me! I wasn’t broken up with!” Michelangelo insisted. Jacaranda didn’t respond, merely threw him another look of pity, and Michelangelo really had to bite into his own hand to prevent himself from saying things that would feel really good but have dire consequences.
The town of Blackthorne was as you might imagine any other small, fog washed town with a monster living at its topmost peak. Fucking creepy. Insular, and a slow growing population with little newcomers, thanks to one currently seething immortal who had a distaste for those “digital nomads” and their podcasts. Their town was sleepy, haunted, but slowly growing into its place in the 21st century thanks to the decision to install Google Fiber, and an authentically spooky environment that’s seen some popularity with Halloween tourism. Right now the town was quiet, most of the people at home or tucked into taverns or the only two cafes to escape the rain. Still, Michelangelo could see perfectly that his handsome carriage was attracting many looks of awe and envy. As they should! He could even see one local youth raising up one of their smartphones, likely to take a picture to commemorate the great honor of seeing the town’s most important member.
“And where is this place you are dragging me to?” Michelangelo demanded, looking askance at the young woman plucking at her thin black leggings. Jacaranda returned his look with a smug curl of her lips, and pointed a jewel tipped nail to her window.
“Come over here and see.” she replied. Wearily did the creature do as bid, and shuffled close to her to see out of her window. Michelangelo’s brow furrowed as he took in the building composed of mostly earthen tones, it could almost be described as squat, though he could discern that it was a clearly modern design with its clean lines and sharp edges. The carriage gently steered over the dip in the sidewalk and slowly crept into the parking lot before coming to rest.
“What on Earth . . . is a Taco Bell?” Michelangelo glanced over at his companion, concern now twisting his brow. “Are not tacos a Mexican dish? Jacaranda I’ve taken you to Mexico before, this is–”
“It’s not Mexican,” Jacaranda interrupted, pushing him gently back as she adjusted her jacket and flipped her hood over to cover her head. “And I ordered ahead on the app so I’m just going to pick it up okay?” Without waiting for a response from him, Jacaranda quickly slipped out the carriage. He could see her make it to the door and then walk in, a lazy wave offered as she showed the cashier her phone. The cashier walked away for a moment before returning with two bags, one curiously large and the other a more reasonable size, and a little cup holder filled with drinks. Michelangelo watched her grip the two bags in one hand as she made to exit the establishment, pushing open the door and bowing her head to try and avoid the worst of the rain stinging her eyes. She jogged once more, but stopped just out of his eyesight for a brief few seconds, before the door to the carriage opened once more and in came Jacaranda.
She clutched the very large bag, but the other– “You brought the driver food?”
Jacaranda gave him a sunny grin as she plunged her hands into the bags and started taking out items. “Lucien and I have come here twice since they opened, he loves the chalupas– which are right here,” she placed some slim wrapped packages beside her left thigh. “And I got some soft shell tacos– chicken and beef–” four so-called ‘tacos’ rested against his thigh, neither of them smelling remotely like any beef he’s ever had, “Crunchwrap supremes, two doritos locos tacos, quesarito, fiesta potatoes, cinnamon twists, and nacho fries!”
The rest of the food was piled up between them, and all Michelangelo could do was stare at the food, unblinking. “This . . . none of this smells like it is . . . good for you.”
Jacaranda shrugged, leaning forward to grab the drinks she’d laid at her feet, and passing him a cup filled with something an alarming shade of green . . . blue . . . neon teal . . . ? “Physically, no. But spiritually? Immaculate.”
“I don’t have a soul.” Michelangelo’s reply was feeble, staring at the cup with something that seemed remarkably like fear, a conclusion emphasized by the way he held it away from his body like one might a chalice of noni. The crisp sounds of paper unwrapping wrenched his gaze from the cup of possible death, and his furrowed brow raised in incredulity as he watched Jacaranda hold up something that looked like a wonky cosplay of a quesadilla, and bit into it without the slightest wince. Indeed, she even seemed to enjoy it! Some humans could be worse than monsters, Michelangelo mused.
When he just sat there and made no indication he would join her in her carnivorous bliss, Jacaranda grabbed a doritos locos taco and gently pressed it into his free hand. With a gentle smile and sparkling eyes, Jacaranda tilted her head and asked, “What are you, a pussy?”
The creature stared at her, unimpressed. “I would threaten to make you dinner one day, but if this is the kind of food you consume then I might end up dead— de-animated.” He hesitated, then gave in with a gusty sigh and started to unwrap the food. “Jacaranda if I start throwing up ichor, then you’re fired.”
Michelangelo looked at the thing that was certainly shaped like a taco in his hand, tilting it just slightly, grimacing. With a deep breath, he raised the curious item up to his mouth and slowly took a bite. The crunch of the outer shell was loud in the lumbering carriage, the only sounds coming from Michelangelo as he slowly chewed. Then he swallowed, and his lips parted, yet no noise came forth. Michelangelo took another bite, then another, and one last bite– the taco was finished. He stared at his hand, and there was no discernible emotion present on his face . . . but, since he didn’t appear disgusted, Jacaranda boldly grabbed the quesarito, unwrapped it, and passed it to Michelangelo who didn’t even hesitate before he bit off nearly half of it. She could see a sort of awakening happening behind his ghostly eyes. As he demolished the last half, he made an aborted move to raise the cup of toxic neon slush to his mouth before gazing imploringly at Jacaranda.
“Um . . . here, try–” Jacaranda plucked the cup from his hands and replaced it with one colored like a bruise with swirls of red and deep blue.
This time Michelangelo needed no help from the woman, and he picked up for himself one of the cartons of nacho fries and a little cup of nacho cheese. Balancing the carton against his stomach, Michelangelo uncapped the cheese on his thigh, swiped a fry through it, and popped it whole into his mouth. Now, here– here was the emotion she was looking for! As Michelangelo’s jaw slackened, his eyes sparkled, tongue lulling around the thick cheese, the robust flavor of the fries! This flavor, so unique, so new to him . . . how rare does such a thing occur to him now, he who has seen ages grow and crumble . . . how the breath of fresh innovation caresses his being, revitalizes a black soul to rumble with invigoration!
Michelangelo swallowed thickly, uttering a rough “Fuck,” before bringing up the Cherry Breeze Freeze, wrapping his lips around the straw and drinking the sweet icy beverage. It only took three heavy pulls before he reared back with a wet gasp and another exclamation of, “Fuck!”
“Mm-hmm.” Jacaranda agreed, idly sipping at the Baja Blast Michelangelo refused.
“Where the fuck was– how long has this been out?!” Michelangelo demanded. “Why wasn’t I told?!”
“You know now.” Jacaranda soothed, offering up her cup of Baja Blast for Michelangelo to try. He took one sip before his nose crinkled and he retreated back to his sweeter drink. Some minutes passed in silence, the two steadily making their way through the pile and leaving wrappers amongst their feet on the floor.
Michelangelo’s tone was peevish when he spoke next, a statement so casual yet outlandish. “You know, I sold my soul for fresh bread and milk. You kids have it so easy these days with your nacho fries and your doritos.” When Jacaranda spluttered with laughter, he allowed himself a small smile as he took slower sips of his Cherry Breeze.
Hello~!
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