[identity profile] jeshala.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] shinrayear25

"S'there I was, dressed in nothin' but a bunch of gysahl greens and a smile, dancing for the head of Shinra..."

It was not conversation, but it worked. And as always countless of Midgard's most beautiful creatures of the evening hunt on his every word, despite having heard the story at least 100 times a piece.


The Don can feel all of them on every side, huffing rank breath down the rolls of his neck and shoulders -- the rich meaty smell of the well fed among those that subsided on scraps from the sewers. Their every motion ripples through his body and an instinctive shudder twitches his flesh. His hands cradle one of many increasingly-pale drinks and he downs it in a single graceful gulp.

As recent events have proven, one cannot change the past. Only the future. Some mistakes cannot be rewritten in order to pave a brighter path. A wise man once told Corneo that our past mistakes are irrevokable in order to further the learning process.

Oh, how he wants to learn. There are times when he wakes up in the morning, cringing from the wan light of the sun through smog and promises that that was the last night, that waking up next to a stranger (male, female, it doesn't matter) and wondering if this time is his last morning isn't how he wants to spend his twilight years. He could settle down, find a nice girl like that flower seller. Have kids. Not wake up screaming at night to shamble around the town like a ghost looking for something to take away the hallucinations.

His golden years were wasted on trying to find something to dull the screams. He was a successful musician, graceful and handsome -- no, beautiful -- in the way that attracts stares from both sexes (oh the stares creeping into his skin and under like a thousand spiders biting and crawling and dessicating him from the inside out). At first it was the attention he craved. The notoriety. Then came the insidious, foreign poisons that coated his nose and his lungs and left tell-tale marks on his arms.

There was, of course, sex. Thrusting, licking, hot panting more more more then push them away and move on because The Don needs no souvenirs.

Later it was food and alcohol. His voice had long since turned gruff from the same vices which kept him alive and slowly killed him. So it was steak and drinks and for awhile he could sleep at night. And ever so slowly, he lost the beauty and slender stature (never the grace that accompanied every gesture). But they kept coming, and the voices only died down when the soothing liquid balm poured on them. It was something, at least, to temporarily be able to fake another day.

The Honeybee inn is a temple to himself. Temple and mausoleum to his former glory. The irony of it isn't lost on Corneo -- wasting young lives to complete hedonism as he sees himself and his life copied over and over again, smiling like a benevolent king on the outside and screaming jackal-laughter on the inside. They throw themselves at his fat paddle-feet for adulation not knowing that it's a mere shadow of the real man that once lay inside or the struggle not to shoot them all in their empty staring cow-faces.

Someday there will be no survivors, not even himself. This will all be dust. What comes from the lifestream returns to the lifestream, even pollutant wastes of human flesh such as himself. And then he'll get his first bit of peace in the quiet embrace of total oblivion. Until then...

".. an' that's when he grabbed me yarbles and said 'You're gonna be a star.' If he wasn't right, eh? Eh?"
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Shinra Year Twenty-Five

July 2006

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