noct
patreon
67. Working the Pole
🕑 Added 2021-06-22 20:01:01 +0000 UTCA whistle caught Twain’s attention. He whirled. The curvy lady gestured from just under the lip of the stage, wiggling her hips and wrapping her hands around an imaginary pole.
Oh, right. I should be dancing. Er, but how? He walked around the pole, one hand on the shiny metal. Maybe… if I imagine the pole as the spear, but throw my body around it instead of throw the spear around my body? He grabbed the pole with both hands and experimentally hefted himself up. His arms strained and his core engaged, and he lifted himself off the ground. Swiveling around the pole, he kicked high, curled a leg around the pole, and landed again.
He gave the pole an appraising look. This is harder than it looks, but… it’s kind of fun.
Up against the stage, girls screamed and cheered. “Work it!” “Go!” “Dance, baby!”
Twain smiled. Alright. Here we go. He grabbed the pole again and ran two steps around it, launching himself into a spin. Tipping his head back, he clasped the pole with one leg and one arm, outstretching the other two. He rotated himself upside down, grabbed the pole with his legs, and stretched both arms to the crowd.
Wild cheers. Excited hollers.
Spar’s got a point. This is a great time. He grinned and swung himself upright.
“Hey, c’mon! Give us something!” a human girl shouted, thumping on the stage. Twain turned to wink at her, but she was frowning at Fell, not at him or Spar.
Fell backed into the stage, limbs clenched to himself nervously.
Twain’s eyes narrowed. He whirled around the pole to face the girl and reached out toward her. He smiled and lowered his lashes. Catching her chin, he directed her eyes toward him. “Eyes only on me.”
The human girl gasped. She stared into Twain’s eyes, enraptured.
He winked and swirled away.
Spar swayed over to him. “Damn, I think I just fell for you a little.”
“Please don’t.”
Fell inched toward Twain. He ducked a flying leg and leaned in as Twain paused. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You can always go backstage if you don’t want to be up here.”
Fell shook his head. He stepped toward the front of the stage, shoulders squared. “I can do it.”
“Joining me?” Spar caught Fell up and spun him around. Somewhere in the motion, Fell’s vest went flying. The crowd cheered.
Fell smiled under the veil and splayed his hands, pressing them outward. Colorful lights like miniature fireworks burst in the background of the stage. “I can put on a show, too.”
The skinny figure who’d been sitting next to them shoved away from the bar. He glared at the stage. Under the deep hood, his eyes shone with brilliant, sickly yellow-green light. Locking onto Fell, he snarled, “You.”
“Friend of yours?” Twain asked on his next pass.
Fell shrugged. Spar gripped his chaps, and with a short pulling gesture, Fell summoned a bolt of lightning to strike the stage at the same moment Spar yanked the chaps off. “Never seen him before.”
“We’ll take care of him,” Spar promised, slinging the chaps into the crowd. They flew over the girls and slammed into the cloaked figure, sweaty leather smacking him directly in the face.
The figure slowly drew the chaps off his face. Infuriated, he tensed his shoulders and shuddered.
“Oops,” Spar said, poorly covering his smile with a hand.
“You—!” The figure hurtled at the stage, throwing the chaps to the ground.
As he crested the edge of the stage, Twain spun around on the pole and snapped his leg out. His heel slammed into the figure’s jaw, and their head flipped back with a sharp sound.
“Keep your hands off our boy,” Twain warned. To the ladies, he smiled. “Remember, girls, look, don’t touch!”
The crowd squealed. Eleda raised her fingers to her mouth and gave a wolf whistle.
A hand clawed into the stage. The hooded figure hauled himself back upright and glared at Fell. “My sworn nemesis…”
Twain swung around and kicked again.
The hooded figure ducked. When Twain passed by, he jumped onto the stage. “I have long yearned for this day! The day when I finally meet you… and defeat you.”
“Are you sure you don’t know this guy?” Twain asked. He aimed a kick at the man’s chest. His leg caught robe, but nothing else. Damn, he’s skinny.
“Never seen him before,” Fell insisted, shaking his head.
“How dare! How dare you. Look upon my visage and remember!” The hooded figure swept off his robe, revealing a slender youth, somewhere between upper teens and lower twenties. Black hair, shot through with a single bolt of white in the middle of his forehead, hung in his eyes and raggedly around his jaw. A tight black sleeveless shirt with a popped collar and a wide-open square neckline tucked into tight leather trousers. Black bracers with fierce spikes gauntleted his arms up to the elbow.
The women below whooped and hollered. Someone grabbed his robe and hoisted it into the crowd. Taken aback, he turned and scowled at the women, confused more than anything. “Imbeciles that step upon the wrath of a god…”
In the corner, the curvy woman shot Twain a wink and a double thumbs up.
Twain winced. No, we didn’t plan this. I’m sorry.
