IT'S CALLED CLICHE FOR A REASON (BURGH,VENEMA)

[ARTI GREENBURGH]

[atrb=style,background:url(http://www.amazingpaper.com.au/persistent/catalogue_images/products/CHIYOCHISAI.jpg);opacity: .80; width: 430px; padding: 6px, bTable]

[atrb=width,450,true] [style=text-indent: 10px; text-align: right; font-family: pristina; font-style: bold; font-size: 30px; background: #668014; height: 10px; line-height: 0; color: #A4DCD1; padding-bottom: 5px; text-transform: lowercase]i'm the queen of the world[/style] [style=text-align: right; background: #668014; opacity: .75px; height: 10px; font-style: italic; font-family: courier new; text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: all-caps; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -10px; color:#A4DCD1]i bump into things[/style][style=background:#668014; padding: 5px; margin-left: 2px; line-height: 0.1; margin-top: 2px; -moz-border-radius: 100px 100px 100px 100px; border-radius: 2px 2px 2px 2px; float: center; margin-left: 50px; margin-right: 1px; width: 300px; line-width: 3px;] [/style] [style=color:white; background:#668014; width,300px; border: red 0px solid; opacity: .8; padding:12px; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; font-family: arial narrow; height: 390px; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: auto;text-align: justify; padding: 8px; font-size: 13px; margin-right: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: -15px; font-family: Times New Roman; color: #A4DCD1;] Wrestling an enormous canvas into a building sans assistance did not exactly make a man feel fresh. Hanging the darn thing all by himself wasn't much fun, either. A voice over his shoulder, a gross gravelly grumble full of phlegm and high expectations, muttering, "What is this crap?" just made him soften and rot like an organic peach long forgotten at the bottom of a crisper drawer. "It's an abstract piece!" Said Arti (BURGH, ack ack ack) Greenburgh, feeling his BS metre quaver at his own claim.Ten-foot high and fifteen wide, it was all greens and browns and whites- colors selected for their concordance with the clean-cut, no-nonsense hues of the SilphCo lobby. He came all the way from Unova to present it and payed right through his little pink upturned nose to have it shipped. That was a cool six-hundred plus Kanto conversion rates. "It looks like a head of lettuce," said the voice, which belonged to a severe, sharp-featured gent in a dark gray Brooks Brothers suit. He had a platinum blonde crewcut and a nose like a braviary's beak. The guy might have looked more at home shouting commands in a POW camp than standing there criticizing modern art. "You said you didn't want a bug or a mouth or anything!" Arti turned around and pulled at the fabric of his Yo Gabba Gabba tshirt (professional attire? you betcha). It was clinging in places and tugging on his armpit hair. "Bugs are weak and mouths are disgusting, BURGH," said Mr. Business with disdain and a tangible spray of saliva. "We don't want to project either of those things. I don't know what lettuce says, but I doubt we want to project that, either." "What if I told you it wasn't lettuce?" Arti spat back at him. "What is it then?" The braviary-man's forehead wrinkled. "It's cabbage." Arti departed from the SilphCo headquarters with a check in his pocket, as promised. Granted, the check was for half as much as he was quoted, but with proper budgeting, it'd take care of two monthly car payments and his water bill. He reviewed the obnoxious discourse in his head as he trudged back to his hotel, his bright purple chuck taylors slapping the pavement indignantly. It was not the most intense critical smackdown of Arti's short, sweet career, but reasoning with suits was always so frustrating. A brand new orange prescription bottle rattled at the bottom of his messenger bag as if to say, "Don't let the bastards get you down!" [/style] [style=text-indent: 10px; text-align: left; font-family: pristina; font-style: bold; font-size: 30px; background: #668014; height: 10px; line-height: 0; color: #A4DCD1; padding-bottom: 2px; text-transform: lowercase]i spin around in circles[/style] [style=text-align: left; background: #668014; opacity: .75px; height: 10px; font-style: italic; font-family: courier new; text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: all-caps; letter-spacing: 2px; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -12px; color:#A4DCD1; text-indent: 10px;]and i'm singing[/style] [style=text-align: left; opacity: .75px; height: 30px; font-style: italic; font-family: georgia; text-transform: lowercase; font-variant: all-caps; letter-spacing: 0px; font-size: 12px; padding-bottom: 5px; margin-top: -12px; color:white; text-indent: 0px;] WORDS... 446 ; TAG... BURGH, VENEMA ; NOTES... I'll leave it up to you to figure out why! ; MUSIC... "Valleys" - TGL ; CREDIT... gan nello trancy-ness [/style]

[venema]

Venema was wandering. Again. It seemed that that was all he did inside the city, despite his resentment towards crowds. He kept his eyes to the ground, watching the lines of the sidewalk panels come in a seemingly endless stream, and yet seeing nothing. His thoughts were somewhere else, submerged in fantasies of quiet nights alone with only Bael and the stream down by his old cottage. He knew he could never go back to that place, but he still dreamed that the forest was completely in tact, and he could sit by the river and stare at the full moon. In fact, he wished his life would have stayed frozen in that scene, never moving forward, and never going back. Just staying in that one moment would keep him happy for the rest of his life.

But time, Venema soon came to accept, goes on. As does life. That was something that no one could change.

Bael padded along beside Venema, shepherding the boy away from oncoming passers-by, and glaring at anyone who came too close. Bael had not only accepted his guardianship, he had embraced it as much as possible. The boy had been kind to Bael for all the years he had known him. In truth Bael was the only one Venema would ever trust. Such trust came at a price, but the boy refused to ever mention the incident again.

Still, Bael knew that being isolated was taking its toll on the boy's mind. He had been with the boy from the start, and he had noticed certain subtle changes in the boy's behaviour lately. He had stopped being his polite self, and was becoming less and less concerned with the feelings of others, aside from Bael. Bael was worried. He thought that his trainer should meet new people, and so as the crowd passed by Bael he began scanning it for suitable subjects.

Suddenly he saw a young man coming who seemed endearing enough. Instead of shoving Venema as he had originally imagined he would, he simply stopped herding the boy, and for a moment had to wrestle with himself, convincing the nagging part of him that this was for Venema's own good. This person would turn out to be charismatic. He would not attack Venema when they...

The collision was nothing violent, but Venema had walked headlong into the young man, and they both toppled to the ground. The contents of the young man's bag spilled out all over the sidewalk. Bael rushed over in partially mock concern, and helped him up. Usually, Venema would turn, apologize, and help the young man pick up his things, but it was just as Bael had suspected.

Venema turned, looked at the young main with an emotion Bael couldn't identify, and then without another word, continued walking, kicking an unopened bottle of pills as he did so. Bael felt it was now his responsibility to apologize. He went to the bottle of pills, picked it up in his mouth, and returned it to the young man. Then he turned, and rushed after Venema. Something was very wrong with him, and whatever it was, it needed to be fixed, and quick.