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65. Dressing Room
🕑 Added 2021-06-19 20:55:53 +0000 UTC“Anything we can do. Just ask,” Spar answered immediately.
Twain elbowed him. We have to get away, not stick around!
The lady nodded. She lit a match, touched it to the cigar, and shook it out. With a sigh, she expelled a thick cloud of smoke. “Damn. Needed that. Now, listen. I need a stripper. Someone to take off their clothes.”
Spar raised his hand.
“You… what?” Twain gawked, confused and lost.
Beside him, Fell glanced at him and shook his head emphatically.
She gestured with the cigar. “Could use some dancers, too. Either of you know your way around a pole?”
“I… I’m proficient with pole arms,” Twain offered. What does that have to do with dancing, though?
“Excellent. And you, the little one.”
Fell twitched nervously.
The lady twisted her lips, then waved her hand. “Ah, what does it matter. They just want to see skin. Put on something skimpy and dance in the corner. You can help the big one by collecting his costume, or something.”
Hesitant, Fell glanced at Twain, then nodded.
“Well… that’s settled, then. You’ll get two silvers for the night, plus tips. Wear whatever you can find, costumes oughta be…” she reached out, grabbed a top, and sniffed it. Her nose wrinkled. “…eh, usable.”
With that, the woman hefted herself up and waddled out of the room. At the door, she leaned back. “See you backstage in ten.”
“Got it.” Twain waved her away.
She hesitated one last second, then shrugged and left.
Twain beelined for the back door. Time to get the hell out!
Spar grabbed his arm. “Where’re you going?”
“Escaping! We can’t stick around here. If the princesses recognize me, it’s all over!” Twain hissed back, glancing at Fell.
The man wandered out of range of hearing and plucked at a strange leather garment.
Furious, Spar glared. “Are you suggesting we leave a roomful of beautiful women lonely, sad, and unfulfilled? I refuse. Never.”
“Spar, the goddess-damned princesses are going to have my fucking head if I go out there,” Twain snapped.
“Where are your manly instincts? Come on. All they want is some beautiful men to make them feel good, and we’re right here. Who are we to turn them down?”
“They know what I look like!”
Spar reached over and picked up a black full-face leather mask. “So? Take a leaf out of our friend Fell’s book. No one will know a thing.”
“If they find out it’s me, I’ll be killed!”
“What’s life without a little risk.” Spar took his shirt off and cast around for a costume that fit.
“They—”
Spar clasped Twain by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Are you going to run away from these lovely women? Or are you going to go out there and blow them away?”
Twain glanced back at the bar, then at Spar. He took a deep breath. “I…”
“Are you going to live your life and have fun, or sit around in a stuffy castle and play it safe?”
Twain’s eyes flashed.
Spar nodded. “Then let’s get out on that stage and give them a show they’ll never forget.”
“Right.” Twain grabbed a fistful of gauzy fabric. He stared at the wall, beyond it, to the princesses and anxious audience. This is just another Arena. All we have to do is put up a fight and entertain them.
--
“Spar, do you see any good shirts?” Twain asked.
“Define ‘good,’” Spar replied, half-tangled in a mysterious strappy outfit. He pulled his head out of a crook of two straps, paused, then started to pull it back over his head.
Twain grabbed the straps, adjusted them both to his right, and settled the shirt onto Spar. “There.”
Spar looked down at himself, then at Twain. “Well?”
Black chaps layered over a pair of short trousers so short Twain could see the hems through the gap in the chaps. His shirt had some cloth to it, but was comprised mostly of black leather straps that crisscrossed his body like a harness. As a final touch, Spar pulled on a bandit’s mask—a single strip of black cotton with two small holes for the eyes, and added a wide-brimmed hat.
He tipped his head and frowned. “Are you the horse, or the rider?”
“Oh, shut up. What’ve you found, anyways?”
“Nothing good, that’s the problem.” Twain sighed. All the clothes he’d encountered were too big, too small, or too mysterious. He wore a pair of tight leggings with weird cutouts along the legs, and while not comfortable, they at least did their job, but the shirts were a harder question. Too gauzy, too big, too small, too much leather, they either didn’t fit or were so strange he outright refused to wear them. The harlequin mask he’d found would disguise him, but in case anyone saw through it, he didn’t want to completely humiliate himself.
Fell tapped his shoulder and offered a shirt… if that’s what you could call it, Twain thought, taking the small piece of black fabric in hand. The shirt only reached a centimeter or so below his pecs. Despite the high collar, a triangle cutout revealed most of his chest anyways. The back, done racingback style, revealed all of his shoulder blades and left no room for sleeves.
He glanced at Fell, who’d opted for a long sleeve, gauzy shirt, a frilly necktie, a short vest, and boy shorts and garters, and sighed. “Fell found all the good stuff and didn’t tell us.”
Fell shook his head adamantly and pointed at the shirt.
“It’s a nice shirt, Fell, thank you,” Twain sighed. He turned his back to the room and swapped out his loose undershirt for the tight garment.
“Hot damn, we look good,” Spar said, looking around the room. He frowned at the sight of Fell’s pillowcase and cast around for something else.
“What about this?” He offered a busboy cap and a thick veil that covered everything but Fell’s eyes.
Fell hesitated, then nodded and took it. He ducked away from the room and quickly swapped into the two, quickly folding a head full of golden-brown curls into the cap.
Twain frowned. I feel like I’ve seen hair that color before.
“Are you ready, boys?” the curvy lady asked, peeking into the room.
