ErsatzGentleman
He never figured out his own reasons for the way he acted. Leave that to the shrinks and the doctors; they at least have the medicines to send you on the mother of all trips, the kind where you watch yourself unravel atom by atom. Particle by particle. He did everything he did just because. He made his art just because. Wealth was a secondary objective. He gave everything he had to the poor while he lived in a shelter.
But you see, it's not him, not really. It's all just in his head and the world was only an illusion someone swabbed over his eyes.
He wasn't an attractive man, despite all of the finery he clothed himself in: a thousand dollar pair of Italian leather shoes, several rings of varying worth, each topped with a precious stone or other, a thousand dollar suit.... He was fat and unattractive and looked a little too much like a fish. Or perhaps a great white shark, which was still a fish. His grin was wicked and sharp, each pointed fang hiding an agenda that frightened and intrigued her.
"Whatever you do," advised Mr. Culotte, a faint whisper underneath the thunder of the music. The bass threatened to level the building. "Don't take or drink anything they offer."
"Why not?" asked Keira.
"Because," Mr. Culotte looked around. His face was green in the neon light. It didn't hide the fear. "Everything here is spiked, I'm sure, and I can't protect us here. Not completely. Not the both of us."
The drink was spiked; she knew this. She laughed and drank it anyway. The music of the club and the ecstasy filled her as if she were a sieve. The others, like marionettes, whirled and danced to the rhythm of the beat.
The prince was a tall and aristocratic looking young man, blessed with beauty and sharp wit. However, like most of his bloodline, he was cursed with melancholy and was prone to black moods that alienated him from those around him, be they compatriots, advisers or the closest of friends. He was a difficult sort to get along with and lord father was secretly grateful that this fiercely intelligent and fiercely vindictive young man wasn't the first in the line of succession.
All the writer really needs, it is said, concentration, inspiration and big cup of tea. So why couldn't he write? No worlds unfurled from the ink of his pen. No princesses needed rescuing, nor were there courteous or manipulative princes or kings. It would've been funny if his livelihood hadn't depended on it. His mind was empty.
He wanted to be her boyfriend so bad, just like that song by The Ramones. He liked her, sure. He liked her a hell of a lot. But he was nothing and so was she.
He made a career out of being an eligible bachelor. A lifetime, really. No, wait, it was a lifestyle choice. He never got with anyone. He never lost his virginity, even though he was well into his twenties. It would go on thirty, or forty. He didn't mind it at all. He did mind the questions, the puzzled looks, the so called "envy" that people had because of his.... "condition", his choice.
He didn't date or have sex or get into relationships. It was just how he was.
"We have pressing matters to discuss," she said.
And so she spoke. On and on, unending. Her words sluiced out of his head just as they came in. He cared little for it it all, especially her. Everything felt so trivial, so miniscule, so.... pointless.
".... pressing matters," she said again.
He wished she would shut up.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Elizabeth was woken by the sound. It was a pounding, like a clock in rhythm, battering against the old wooden planks of the house. Then there came a particularly bodily thud and a wail. The sound made her blood chill. It was the man who rented the room upstairs, screaming in the night.