Banter

"Who say's you can never go home again, eh?"

"No less than 3 restraining orders do."

"A minor detail!"

"You're also under house arrest."

"Who says it has to be this house, eh?"

"You're also manacled to the wall."

"Let's not bring our sex life into this, dear."

Johnny Was a Rock Star

Johnny was a music man born in good ol' New Orleans;
Had himself a saxophone an' a fancy Jazz routine.

Back home he was a hero making music night an' day,
But he yearned to be a rock star, an' he threw it all away.

He went out to the city an' he showed the lads his stuff;
They laughed him off an' tuned him out, he wasn't good enough.

So Johnny signed up with the devil an' he learned to rock and roll,
An' he showed 'em a bit o' music that struck 'em to the soul.

They signed him to a label and put his picture on the screens:
A fancy kid, a leather jacket, a nice guitar an' some new blue jeans.

Johnny was a rock star, rockin' out in shiny new L.A.;
Had himself a sweet guitar an' thought he was there to stay.

But the devil came a knockin', came to take his due;
Took the soul right out o' his songs, an' left him black an' blue.

Johnny ditched his sweet guitar, Johnny picked up his sax,
Johnny wandered back to New Orleans an' back into his past.

Now Johnny's just a music man, with not much claim to fame -
But go on down to the riverfront, an' there you'll hear his name.

Johnny Black an' Blue they call him, met the devil, paid the price;
He's got a saxophone an' a jazz routine, and damn if it ain't nice!

Customer Feedback

The building looks like any other modern, industrial business complex - too many stories, covered in shiny reflective windows that mirrored the outside world, but showed nothing within.

On the sixty sixth floor of the building lay the offices of Andre and Damien, trauma psychologists. Their service advertised itself as counseling for those plagued by the ills and irritations of the world, both great and small. Devastated by a failed marriage, lifeless job, and structurally unsound house? They will be glad to listen. Distrought over the driver who cut in front of you no less than three times on your way to work? Their ears are open, free of charge.

Today's client is in for his daily session. Horton Frisby, whose name alone would be enough of a burden to break most men.

Behind the closed, sealed doors labelled "A & D Counseling," he tells his tale...


"Squeeze-it mayonaisse! I can't stand it! It's infuriating!"

Horton, a diminutive 4'7", shook his pudgy little hands in the air as he paced about the room, occasionally squinting at the two tall and devilishly handsome psychologists listening patiently to his rants. His turtleneck - an atrocious shade of green - was a bit too tight on his frame, and his glasses obviously due for a new prescription to go by his squinting. He looked like a turtle trying to burst out of his shell - and judging by the rosy red rage in his cheeks, neither of his benefactors would be surprised if he did, indeed, simply explode.

"How so, Horton?" asked Andre as he leaned forward in his comfortable black leather chair. He had a notepad in hand, and though he occasionally seemed to jot something down upon it, no writing was visible.

Horton managed to lower his fists, if only to give a seething glare to the one who dared question him. "It squeezes the mayo out in thick chunks! I have to get a knife out to spread it over the bread anyway, which defeats the entire point of changing the design. It is even more inconvenient than normal mayo!"

Damien smiled as though at a child. "Ah, but why not simply remove this little frustration from your life? Surely you can find the old style of your condiment available, yes?"

A snort of contempt was Horton's reply. "Ohh, heh, thats what they'd like you to think, isn't it? But no! Every can and canister, bottle and jar of mayonaisse, every single one is the same! Out with the old, in with the new - even if the new is complete shit! SHIT SHIT SHIT!"

Horton's screams echoed through the room for a few moments, and then he let out a deep breath. "Sorry bout that guys. Damn, I gotta go. Thanks for listening, you guys are great."

The two psychologists smiled in unison, and Andre said, "The pleasure is ours, Horton. We hope to see you tomorrow at the usual time, then."

Horton nodded, then looked at his watch, shook it for a minute, cursed, and then ran out the door.

As they watched him go, Andre looked down at his notes. "Squeeze-it mayonaisse. Ingenious. Who came up with that one?"

"Hmm." Damien closed his eyes and remained still for several moments, before eventually replying, "That appears to be Viscous the Maggotborn. In Beelzebub's division."

"Ah." Andre's nose wrinkled in distaste, but he began jotting something else down on his pad, covered in infernal script. "We'll give his work a mention in the weekly newsletter. A raise is too much for them."

As he finished his writing, a bell rang from outside the room. Damien opened his eyes, and smiled.

"Our next customer. Excellent."

The Love Life of Tommy Acre

"It's just not fair," Tommy wailed, while his best friend Troy MacRoad looked on with a sour frown.

"I thought she was the one," he continued, choking back another sob.

Troy shrugged. "Sorry, Tommy boy. Sometimes life just don't work out the way we want it to."

Tommy looked up forlornly. "I... I know. But having a party in honor of... of dumping me... and inviting all my fr-fr-friends to it was just so... so..."

His words degenerated into nothing but sniffles, and Troy sighed and rolled his eyes.

After a moment, Tommy managed to speak again. "It's just... I keep getting my hopes up, everytime a girl likes me, and then... then it all falls apart. Its like their just toying with me, building up my hopes so they can shatter them. I know it sounds crazy, but... I just think I need to find someone who likes me for real. Who isn't just out to ruin my life."

"Grow up, Tommy." Troy shook his head in despair. "Ya know, you're damn lucky you have even a little time with such fine women. A guy like you... maybe their just isn't anyone out there for ya? Ya ever think o' that? Maybe its time to face facts, kid."

Tommy looked up, the tears shimmering in the corners of his eyes glistening in the fading sunlight. "Wh-what? That's... that's really mean, Troy. You don't really mean that, do you?"

"Look, the sooner you accept it, the sooner you'll start having your heart broken, ok?"

Tommy paused for a moment, and then abruptly dashed the tears from his eyes. His tone turned from petulance... to anger. "You're part of it, aren't you? The conspiracy. You've been in on it from the start. Have all my friends??"

Throwing his hands into the air, Troy turned to walk away. "I'm not here to put up with this crap. Call me when you're willing to deal with the truth, and move on, kid."

Tommy watched him go, his eyes still smoldering with rage. As Troy vanished from sight, he spun around and stalked off himself.

-----Moments Later------

Out of sight, Troy let out a deep breath he was holding in, and gave himself a moment to breath. It was a few minutes before his hands stopped shaking and he was able to take out his cell phone and make a call.

"Mrs. Acre? It's me. He's on to us. He knows about the conspiracy."

The dry, rasping voice on the other end said softly, "Damn. We'll have to move our timeframe up, and finish this now."

A pause for a wheezing cough, then the voice continues.

"Call in Penny Heartbreak."

Tales of True Stories: Hair Horror

In my younger days, when learning the fine art of writing and literature, it was a policy in the classroom environment to review and critique the stories of other aspiring young authors. Most of the works I read were absolute drivel. Most of what I wrote was uninspired trash.

But every so often, something came along that had the hint of greatness... a glimmer of the power of the written word.

I know this, because one story touched me to my very core.

It was a short piece. It was about hair. It was disturbing, and out of courtesy for my audience I shall not burden you with the horrors that it unveiled to my waking mind.

But suffice to say, years later, every so often, a short recollection of that story will float back through the haze of my memory and freeze me in my tracks. I will shudder at that momentary remembrance of the horror, and then struggle to find a way to put it aside - to find my happy place! - and to move on.

I leave you now with your imaginations, to ponder how one could turn mere hair into such a thing of one's darkest dreamings. But rest assured, whatever vileness your minds can conjure, they are incapable of truly understanding the depths to which that piece of untested literature descended, and the abiding scars it forever etched upon my psyche.

The List: Number 63

Hamilton Saul pull his parka's hood back, letting the frigid wind whip his hair about. He smiled despite the chill, and kneeled down to run a hand through the pure-white snow at his feet.

He laughed as he felt it in his hand, at the perfect heft of it, the ideal combination of soft and heavy snow. "Have ya ever seen snow like this before?" he asked out loud.

"Only most of my life since I was born, Mr. Saul," replied his guide in these wintry lands, a young woman with blond hair and a cool disposition, who had, despite his attempts to the contrary, managed to lead him deep into the heart of the mountains without any lethal falls or other assorted catastrophes.

Hamilton, a middle-aged man who had some years ago inherited more wealth than some countries make in a year, shook his head sadly. "Ah, but that must mean ya take it for granted. You'd understand if you've ever seen snow in the Big Apple. It soaks up the city's filth the second it drops from the sky."

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Saul," said Hanna Laaksonen, "I've seen snow in your cities. There are a lot of dirty things about the place, and one of the reasons I came back home after college."

Hamilton looked up at her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. "You've been to college?"

"Harvard, sir."

"Ah."

He stood up, having spent the last few minutes occupied with the snow in some fashion, and then spun around, one arm thrust out in a sudden motion.

-Spak!-

Hanna reached up with one arm, and brushed the remnants of the snowball from her shoulder. She opened her mouth, as if to ask a question, then seemed to think better of it.

Hamilton has his arms crossed over his chest, wearing a smug little smile. "Item number 63, complet. The world's most perfect snowball, crafted and hurled!"

He nodded in satisfaction, and then lifted his arms out to stretch. "Alrighty then, time to head on back!"

Hanna finally was able to make her mouth work again. "That... that was it? You came out here to make... a snowball? Why would you do that?"

A shrug was his first response. Then, "Well, its on the list, you see."

She shook her head, then started pushing through the snow after him, as he quickly moved away. "What list?"

"Why, the one I made when the doctor told me I was a gonna die."

If she wasn't so far behind him already, she would have stopped. Instead, she quickened her pace. "Oh... I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know. This is one of those... 'do all you can with the time you have left' things, then, is it?"

"Pretty much."

"If you don't mind me asking... how long do you have, Mr. Saul?"

"Oh, assuming no medical breakthroughs... forty, maybe fifty years."

This time she did stop in her tracks. "What? Wait... what?"

She couldn't see his fast, and he didn't stop his descent, but she knew he was silently smirking in response. Hanna gritted her teeth, then hurried after him.

"I don't understand. You've got as much time with anyone - why waste it chasing after dreams?"

He finally stopped, and turned around, and there was a bit of knowing insight in his eyes. "Well, little miss... why not? In the end... it's a very long list"

Missing Story

The writer lost his story everytime it began to snow.

The snow had been falling on and off for... ages now. He couldn't remember the last time there had been a clear sky.

The writing seemed to come smoother when the sky was clear - so smoothly that he would sit down, and write, and write, and write. Some times he would put hundreds of pages out in a single sitting... other times, he couldn't get through more than a single sentence. He went into almost a trance, the words coming out of their own accord, driven by some... outside influence.

It was the same story, every time. And every time the snow began to fall... he lost it.

He couldn't find his writings, after. He couldn't even remember what he wrote. All he knew is that he hadn't finished it, and it was gone.

But he knew that he would have the chance to start again... and that one day, it would last long enough to be complete. And he knew, somehow, that once finished, it would be his forever. It would be whole... and so would he.

The snow, outside, was dying down. Little flurries, nothing more. And as the last one fell...

His mind went clear, like the sky. No thought... only action.

He took pen to paper:

"The writer lost his story everytime it began to snow."

Game Called On Account of Snow

-The Tuesday Tale has been cancelled in recognition of Snow Week here at Myth Writings-

(The author is not, despite rumors to the contrary, busy sledding, shaping snowmen, shoveling sidewalks, or any other things of that ilk.)

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow

The snow will fall tonight, even though it hasn't come in two long years of dusty heat. Many sources have been blamed for the lack - scientists blamed global warming, cultists blamed the groundhog, televangelists blamed pretty much everyone. But no one has truly known why, and now?

Now no one even cares.

It will be a bad snow. Hard and wet and deep, covering the earth in pure white. Shutting down the roads. In some places, the electrity. The phones.

School will be cancelled, of course. Most jobs. But for once people will be celebrating the snow itself, rather than its effects.

And despite the bitter cold, and all the little inconveniences, and the wet slush and ice that follows for another week - this day of snow, people will rejoice at. It will be something special, and at the same time... a relief, at a sense of normalcy.

('The world isn't ending,' the private relief shared by so many, spoken by so few.)

It will be satisfying to salt the roads and shovel the walk and build the snowmen and ride the sleds.

And once it is past, things will be normal again. Winter will come and go as it always does, and life will continue to go on, day by day, month by month, season by season.

But for tonight - tonight, people will cry out in celebration. The children have been doing the rain dance for two long years, and now at last they can finally smile once again.

On Sale Now!

Location: An ordinary everyday bar, filled with all manner of ruffians and ne'er-do-wells.

Action: A young man with a big, full beard swaggers into the room. He takes a seat at the most crowded table, and then breaks out a shot glass and a large silver flask. He pours a strange fizzing substance into the glass, and then downs it in one quick gulp.

"Ah," he belches, "That hits the spot!"

One of the brutes at the table, a massive hulking figure with the brow of a neanderthal watches him take several more shots, and then growls, "Whatcha drinking, pup?"

The bearded man laughs. "Something you can't handle, son."

"Try me."

The man shrugs. "Suit yourself." He cocks open the flask again with a lightning-fast flick of his wrist, and tops off the shot glass again, before sliding it across the table to the brute.

His opponent looks at it carefully, then takes a quick gulp of it. A second passes, and then the man's eyes grow wide, and he opens his mouth once, twice, as though gasping for air, before collapsing under the table.

The rest of the scofflaws chortle, and kick his prone body away while slapping their new pal on the back.

-Pause-

All other action in the room stops. The man turns to stare at the screen, and points one rugged finger towards the audience.

"You too can soon be the envy of every man, woman and child in town! The new Drinking Flask-o-Matic works wonders! Open one nozzel, and a tame but fierce looking drink flows out. Tastes like root beer! Open the other, and the hardest liquor known to man is manifested! Knock out your enemies! Surprise your friends! Win the hearts of women everywhere with your hardcore drinking skills!"

--NOW ONLY $279.84, PAYABLE IN 53 PAYMENTS OF $5.28! REFILLS NOT INCLUDED--

(Disclaimer: Not responsible for being reknowned as "The King of Drinkers", and subjected to greater and greater challenges as word of your super-drinking prowess spreads. OmniCorp assumes no responsibilities should you be challenged to a drinking duel by Baron von Jaeger, and must defeat him at a drink of his choosing or watch him execute your loved ones before your eyes. This notice required by law.)

Kids These Days

Jimmy and Samantha sat in the back of the car as it tore across the highway at nearly double the speed limit. The road was clear and dark, and the 96 Sedan's headlights splashed limply across the road before them. The plains spread out for miles around, barren and listless.

Sitting would not be a truly accurate description, though, for it implies some level of passivity. There was none between the two of them - instead, they pinched and poked at each other's weak spots, while at the same time fiercely fighting over the loaded gun between the two of them.

The sounds of their voices wailed like sirens in the night.

"Daaad! He's hitting me, make him stop!"

"Well she won't leave me alone, she keeps come over to my side, and trying to take my stuff."

"It's not yours, it's mine!"

"No, mine!"

Murphy Giovanni, often called 'Murphy the Tooth' - their father - felt his teeth continue to grind together, and a sharp pain lance through his jaw. "Enough! Be quiet! So help me god, if you two don't shut your mouths, I will turn this car right around!"

After the explosion, a moment of deafening silence fell upon the dirty beige interior of the car. It lasted for approximately three and a half seconds.

"Moooom! Dad's yelling at us!"

"He's probably just mad we're better thieves than him."

"She's not a better thief, I'm a better thief! I'm the one that stole the cop's gun when he wasn't looking."

"Well I'm the one who shot him, so there, dummy. Thbbbt!" Samantha stuck her tongue out at Jimmy, who scrunched up his face and growled at her.

Another anguished shout came from the front of the car. "Yes, Sam! Yes, you shot him, and that's bad! That's very bad! Thats why we are out here in the middle of the freaking night, hoping he doesn't wake up until we're in the next state. Jesus!"

Samantha let go of the gun, which rocketed back into Jimmy's lap and made him yelp. She burrowed down into her seat corner, her lower limp prominently thrust out. "You're always saying we should act like our role models, but as soon as we do, noooooo, you just yell at us!"

"I never said act like me! And I'm a thief, not a killer! I don't want my freaking kids shooting people!"

"Well maybe we don't wanna be like you, dad," his daughter sneered at him. "Maybe we wanna be like mom! She's the best hitman in the state, thats what you always said!"

Quietly, from the front seat, came a sigh. "Murphy, dear, will you please tell your children that we prefer the term 'hitwoman.' And would you please tell them that winging a cop in the arm hardly qualifies them as cold-blooded killers?"

"My children!?" Murphy's hand's clenched bone white around the steering wheel. "How come as soon as they do something bad, they're my children, huh? Sam just said it herself, they were using you as a role model!"

Jimmy's voice rose out from the back seat again. "Daaaad!"

"For the love of Christ, what is it now?"

"I hafta go to the bathroom."

As the car screeched off to the side of the highway and to a jarring halt, Murphy muttered under his breath. "I said it was a bad idea to visit your mother. Every freaking year, its the same damn thing!"

Monsters!

Everyone in town warned the stranger away from Old Man Henkle's mansion, but he went there anyway.

"Oh, there's treasure there," they told him, "But it ain't worth the risk, boy! That place is haunted, and ain't been no one who went inside what came out again. Just turn around and drive on out of town!"

But the young man, dressed in casual jeans and a t-shirt and a nice-looking leather jacket, just shook his head. He needed the cash, and there was supposed to be a fortune in gems buried around the place. When you're trying to escape the shadow of your old man, it didn't help to have a fortune on your side to make a name for yourself. And the place was supposed to be haunted? Ha! He laughed dismissively when they warned him about the ghosts, and went towards the mansion anyway.

It was dark out when he got there, and there was no denying it was a spooky place - open, rusty gate a-creaking, broken shutters a-flapping in the wind, floor-boards a-groaning as he stepped inside.

He flipped a light switch, and to his surprise, the place lit up without protest. Inside the mansion... it was perfectly ordinary. Rooms with bland, peach-colored furniture, old wooden desks that had seen little use, garishly stylish paintings on the wall. He searched one room after another, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

No monsters... and no treasure.

The young man sighed, ready to give up and leave, when the lights cut out.

He was in the living room at the time, digging under a rather normal green plush sofa, but hadn't found anything more than 73 cents in loose change.

As darkness swallowed the room, he stood up to note the silhouette of a figure standing in the doorway. Moonlight strayed in through the window, revealing withered bones and pale white flesh, and sharply shining fangs.

"They always think there is treasure, don't they?" the figure cackled out loud. "Poor me, bound to my household, all my treasure lost years ago. But at least fresh meals keep wandering in, ready for the taking... Hahahahaha-"

The vampire's cackle cut off as the young man reached out, inhumanly fast, and grabbed the monster by the neck.

"No treasure? Are you serious?" he asked, shaking his head in frustration.

"What? Argh!" The undead beast fought with all its might, with the strength of ten strong men, but couldn't break his grasp. The young man sighed, and then his eyes suddenly sparked with fire, and the vampire crumbled into ashes.

"Man, this sucks. Stupid vampire. Why couldn't you have some treasure in your mansion, huh? I spent a goddamn week to get here, and for nothing! And whats with this place? This is a freaking yuppy mansion! Aren't vampires supposed to have something gothic? Jesus!"

The son of the devil tossed himself down on the cough, and spent a good five minutes sulking to himself before eventually getting up and heading out of town, never to be seen again.

Heavy Object That Falls From The Sky

"On the Seventh Day of the Second Month, you shall meet your end. Your doom shall fall upon you. Doooom!"

Average Ted didn't know why she hadn't just said "tommorow," but figured it was a gypsy thing. Darn gypsy fortune tellers, causing all this trouble what with their... fortune telling, and whatnot.

It wasn't a very good day for Ted. He hadn't expected to be told that today was the date of his death. It had really put a downer on attending the county fair the night before. Looked like it would be ruining the rest of the week too - or what he had left of it, in any case.

Ted resolved to be vigilant. He'd show this 'doom' that he wouldn't go easily, no sir! He'd look both ways before crossing the street. He'd wash his hands and brush his teeth after every meal. Time to play things safe, today!

"Expect the unexpected!" Ted said boldly, as he boldly strolled out of his apartment complex, drawing the bewildered gazes of several old ladies playing Mahjong in the lounge. "Fate will have to think twice if it wants to make a fool out of me!"

Poor Ted. He never saw it coming. No one did, really. I mean, it seemed to make sense, after the fact, but it really isn't everyday you see an anvil fall out of the sky and flatten someone into the ground. And then catch on fire. And explode.

It really wasn't a very good day for Ted. Not one bit.

All Too Normal A Life

Sheriam Mays sat behind the counter at the Bright Haven Motel, as she did every day from 6 PM till 2 AM. She watched the occasional hotel guest move about the lobby, as she did every day during her shift. She occasionally helped one of them when they came to her in need of getting a room or checking out... just the same as every day.

And just like every day, as she watched the passerby, she daydreamed of the lives they led.

That one - the man in the faded blue coat, with overgrown sideburns and dirty glasses and a baseball cap too big for him - he was a brilliant scientist despite his looks, on the run from his former employers for developing a food flavoring so good as to render those who tasted it comatose from sheer, visceral pleasure. He'd seen what had come of his life's work, and learned all too quickly that they planned to sell his product to the military. He'd burned his notes and samples and fled, and would be dead in less than a month by his own hand (tastebuds), taking his genius with him to the grave.

See the couple shyly making out behind the fake geraniums? They had started going out just as payback, when they caught their previous loved ones together, cheating on them with each other. But their love was blossoming into something genuine, and they'd be married within a year, and have two sets of twins within three.

And what about the lady who came down to use the vending machine at precisely 8:07 every evening? The one who always wore a long scarf, mis-matched gloves, heels, jeans and a fancy blouse? An alien, of course. Surveying our puny earth culture in anticipation of an invasion that would never actually come.

Sheriam sat behind the counter and dreamed, and wished, just like she did every day, to have an exciting life of her own. She wanted to be someone special, someone with a life like that she imagined for all the hotel guests who passed by her as they carried on with their lives.

She was special, of course. She didn't know that she was psychic, gifted with the ability to instantly know the life story of complete strangers. She thought all she had was an active imagination, but it was so much more than that.

But it would be ten long years at the same mindless desk-job before she would find out.

Before the day would come when a handsome, dark-haired man would walk into the lobby of the Bright Haven Motel. A man with a dark past, who had hunted down witches, monsters, and all manner of 'deviants' that had threatened the public good. This time, though, he'd come in search of a very special woman, never guessing that he himself would fall in love, and the two of them would vanish away on a grand adventure...

Harriet the One-Eyed Coney

Harriet the One-Eyed Coney ran away from home.

She ran away not out of planning, but out of instinct. An instinct that might well save the world.

Harriet did not know that she was a test subject for a scientific experiment to create the deadliest living weapons known to man.

Harriet did not know the names of the men who had performed testing on her, even while providing her a warm, safe shelter.

Harriet did not know why she had felt the urge to flee, only that it had arisen, and must be obeyed.

And Harriet did not know that in the grim dark days of the future there lived a man - Ripper McDougall - who lived only for the sheer visceral pleasure of hunting and killing any type of long-eared, short-tailed, burrowing mammal.

Harriet did not know that her creators had hired this man to bring back their experiment, or remove it from the picture entirely.

Harriet did not know these things because Harriet was a rabbit.

So run, little bunny! Run far and run fast!

Because what you don't know can definitely hurt you.

Tales of True Stories: The Shower Conspiracy

Well, it's definite. There's a conspiracy out to get me.

I'd always figured (hoped) that if a conspiracy was after me it would be due to my secret ninja training being unleashed, or perhaps some hidden dark agenda out to quiet me before I could save the planet from their evil schemes.

But no.

No, this conspiracy seems to have one goal - to make my shower time less enjoyable. The impertinence!

All I ask for is the chance to use conditioner in peace. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet every single time I go to cleanse myself beneath the purifying water, such a luxury is denied to me. The second I lather that conditioner in - really get, you know, some good suds going - BAM! The water drops from nicely warm to icy cold. Deeply, darkly, perniciously cold.

It doesn't matter when I take my shower. It doesn't matter how long it is - five minutes or fifty, the cold water comes as soon as the conditioning begins. It has been weeks now, and still this pattern continues.

Oh, at first I dismissed it as idle coincidence. But a man cannot ignore the truth forever! Some malevolent force is out to ruin my shower, and I shall not stand for it!

One more chance I'll give, one more time to see if - just once - I can be cleansed in peace.

After that... it means war!

The Dancer

"He's gorgeous," whispered Secret Agent Number 1. She couldn't take her eyes off of him, and barely paid attention to the crowd they were stuck in the middle of.

Secret Agent Number 2 stared with barely concealed contempt at the masses surrounding them, and then turned his gaze on his companion. "You might want to lower your awestruck gaze, Agent 1. You're looking awfully like the rest of these dreamers."

The object of their attention paid no heed to their presence, nor the presence of the many fans that crowded the arcade. His attention was entirely focused on the screen in front of him, and the pad beneath his feet.

Perched upon the dance pad, the pose he struck as the music began was met with a wave of sighs from the crowd. Long-legged, clad in tight-fitting jeans, and a stylishly torn t-shirt, with a wave of spiky blond hair and a pair of suave black shades, he was the very essence of cool. The music churned out from the Dance Dance Revolution machine, loud enough to overtop the noise of his fans, and he spun to its rhythm amidst flashing lights and a cheering crowd.

Agent 2 gave an exclamation of disgust. "Look at him! By the namesake, he didn't even Double A that song!"

Agent 1 laughed. "It isn't just about how good one is. There is more to being the Dancer than points alone."

Her counterpart lowered his raybans and stared at her. "So you think he's it? He's the one we're looking for?"

"I'm sure of it."

Agent 2 sighed, and pushed his sunglasses back up with one delicate finger. He briefly dusted his suit off - a motion that jostled several bystanders who were standing a bit too close - and then he began forging his way towards the dance machine.

"Guess that's it, then. Time to have a talk with our boy here, and show him what dancing is really all about."