Beef Albini in Fusion Sauce with a Side of Fruit
rating: 0+x

This tale is NSFW.

22-year-old Isabella Kawajiri's fingers bled in and out of barbed tentacles as they idly plucked the strings of her beloved L7 Astrocaster Bass, whispering dull growls that echoed through Cousin Bradley's jury-rigged storage-shed studio through her L7 Informant Amplifier. The ambiance was a complement to the patterns stained onto the ceiling, giving soundtrack to the feeling of brief respite from a thankless residency in what was either the least livable city or most livable junkyard in America. The actual tune wasn't important.

"Seriously, dude thinks I'm made of fuckin' meat." To his credit, Bradley was both suspiciously affluent and conveniently generous. He was also frustratingly talkative, primarily in regards to niche, taboo, or otherwise unglamorous topics such as smuggling and fringe socioeconomic nonsense1. "Like, come on."

"Sounds like a problem." Was it a problem? Isabella hadn't been listening. Between the dust of an ill-maintained storage shed and the tentacle-shifted flesh squirming under her binder for breathing room, Isabella couldn't quite care. Today was an awful day to host band tryouts. Well, it was nearly always an awful day, any day one lived in Staten Island, but did her and Bradley really need to conduct this in a poorly ventilated storage shed? In the middle of June, no less.

Could people outside hear? And what people might be outside? How many would recognize the bassline from Side Project? And who fewer still would know enough not to call it a cover?

Sometimes, Isabella felt that she thought too much about Alex, and what Alex did. Time outside that was split between remembering her gentle touch and wondering what she'd look like with a tentacle crushing her windpipe. There was probably a reason for at least one of those three. If Isabella could find it, that'd solve at least one of the cosmic riddles that influenced the Kafkaesque procession of her life.

In retrospect, Bradley had still been talking when a knock at the door most likely shut him up; Isabella hadn't been listening. The irony of deriding him for talking too much when she couldn't spend enough attention to listen out for a prospective wasn't so much lost on her as it was swept under the rug.

Of course, she couldn't ignore the firm yet hesitant (if that didn't cancel out) "yo" that was just thrown her way.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License