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> THROWBACK THURSDAY - Nicolas Blair, Exodus
Christian Underwood
Posted: February 27, 2014 10:41 am

TAFKATPF aka The Artist Formerly Known As The Pink Flamingo
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A conversation has just taken place.

Neither party is terribly happy about the outcome.

But neither has the power to defy what has been ordained.



Nicolas L. Blair, a man of wealth and taste.

Supposedly. If one were to inspect the man closely, certainly some answers about him could be derived.

If he lets you get that close. A close look would allow one to inspect his physical presence quite intently. The hair is actually black, with red streaks in it. It's open to debate which color is artificial and which one is his natural.

Both are. But that's a secret. one could almost swear that they are in fact, a flame-like orange.

And then there's the mark.

If you get close enough...

All in all an intimidating physical specimen. Which is why it's so surprising to see him helpless in a situation...but everyone must answer, in some way, to someone...


And this, is the main floor of the 'Brimstone Bistro.' You will probably notice, as time goes on, some changes in the decor or theme. Alas but that I am of many tastes and interests, and have found that I am most happy when the Bistro changes to suit my tastes.

Nicolas stands at a pair of gilded doors at the bottom of a set of steps covered in red velvet. He throws the doors open for the guest he is talking to, with something of a theatrical flourish.

I see.

Rather like a forties-style nightclub, smoke fills the atmosphere of the Brimstone Bistro, as few daytime patrons sip martinis and conduct various business of a dubious manner. Nicolas, clad in an appropriate black suit with red pinstripes, takes the hand of his companion, and steps into the smoke-filled, dimly lit club.

I surely hope that you aren't offended by smoke, my dear. Nor by the staff I employ, who I am sure are not the types that you are accustomed to dealing with.

I am not bothered by it, Morningstar.

She stands next to him, a cool smile on her face. Lithe and graceful, she takes his hand as he leads her to a seat, and, in most gentlemanly of manner, pushes it in for her to sit down. She looks out of place in the Bistro, dressed all in white, with her pale blonde hair coifed up, surrounding her face with soft curls.

She is very beautiful, in an old-fashioned sort of way.

Tsk, Madam. I may have to deal with your presence for the time being, but I will not stand for an improper title. Nicolas Blair is the name I've given, and it is the name you will take. Or would you prefer that I introduce you to everyone as Gab-

The point is taken, Nicolas. If you please, the name is Angel?que DuBois. Although I would prefer not to be introduced to the likes that you associate with.

Seated himself, he clasps his hands in front of him, elbows on the table, and graces her with a broad, furtive smile.

Ah, French it is, then. Angel?que? My dear, is that not a bit...obvious?

I am not as concerned with being obvious or mysterious as you are, Nicolas. I am simply here to observe, impartially.

The smile vanishes, and instead he leans back in his chair, staring down at her as she coolly sips from the water glass placed in front of her by a small waiter.

As you have told me. Sent by...shall we FORMER employer to observe exactly what I'm up to with my most recent venture? A proxy for The Boss who simply can't conceive as to why I've suddenly gained an interest in becoming something so base and blas? as a professional wrestler?

As you wish, yes.

Do not presume to be coy with me...Angel?que. You certainly know that I am smarter then that.

Another waiter places a small glass of red wine in front of Nicolas and offers a light and a cigarette. He takes both without even glancing at the waiter, and inhales deeply of the smoke. He pauses for a moment, and continues speaking.

I don't want you here, Angel?que. As you can very well guess, I perform my ventures on my own, and answer to no one. I have severed all ties with any 'higher forces,' and any interest such forces have in my business is little more then meddling, which I believe is a violation of the current agreement we both have.

Like it or not, Nicolas, you are not the one who controls the agreement...or really, anything else, as much as you would like people to believe otherwise. I am here, as I said, to be an impartial observer. I will not interfere in any of your 'arrangements.' As far as your personal may continue to act as if I were not even here.

A waiter comes to the table, awaiting an order.

The house special.

Nothing for me. Thank you very much.

She smiles at the waiter, who blushes under her affections, until Nicolas clears his throat loudly and the man skips away to fill the order.

And please to keep your sickening kindness away from my staff. They belong sssolely to me and I would prefer that you refrain from-

Nicolas, when you are upset, do you know that your eyes-

I know, woman, I KNOW. Whether you believe it or not...I adhere to rulesss...Which is why there should be no cause for consssern about my newest venture. I will obey my rulesss.

And still, when you get upset, your speech becomes positively serpentine.

She smiles at him, her face full of a quiet, superior grace, as he glowers...but, quickly, Nicolas catches himself, and regains his composure.

Angel?que, do you even comprehend anything about the art form of grappling? I know that whasisname...Michael? Was it him? Who engaged in a bit of mat play with a man once?

Yes, but I am aware of the sport and it's happenings.

And surely you do not approve of it.

I don't approve or disapprove. I observe only, Morningstar.

Ah. What a perfect answer from a perfect lady. You have the part down pat, my dear. Well, let me enlighten you as to the intricacies of the sport. My services have officially been purchased by the federation, Generation X Wrestling. Yes, I am aware that the name is a bit...'pat'...but, I digress. Now in their employ, one Mister Nicolas L. Blair.

He pauses to sip his drink.

You are practically glowing in enjoyment of the irony of YOU being in someone else's employ, Nicolas.

Indeed. I've already been assigned a first match. Nicolas L. Blair, a man bereft of morals but greatly gifted with dignity and taste, is facing off against...Spike.

Your tone of voice doesn't exactly indicate you're in awe of him.

Don't be ridiculous. I quiver in fear in my patent leather boots at the mere mention of the name of...Spike. My courage pools out of my sweat glands and drips into a puddle at the mere sight of his extensive shadow. My ability to perform simple motor tasks diminishes simply out of fear of the man.

He takes a slow drag off his cigarette.

And he most certainly has nothing to fear from me.

Oh really. So he's not going to get an 'offer' from you?

Miss DuBois, really now. My days of offering every Tom, Dick, and Spike the chance to have everything they ever wished for with only a minor deferred payment tacked on are long past. These days I am more discerning in whose wishes I choose to make come true. I'm all for the challenge.

So you've stopped giving yourself a quota? I had heard as much, after you were humiliated in that one bargain down in Georgia-

How rude of a guessst, to bring up the host's passst mistakes.

Ah, Nicolas.

The sport of wrestling. Yes, I can picture my first time in the ring...The dread monster Spike towering over me, punishing me with his veritable plethora of moves. Alas but that I shall fall victim to his deadly arsenal. Best that I turn away from the ring and run, a yellow streak up my back.

Morningstar...don't hurt him.

Whatever would give you that indication? I am about four seconds away from a full-fledged panic attack at the mere mention of the thought of contemplating locking up with the gentleman known only as...Spike.

Another long drag off his cigarette.

I may have to be carted off to the hospital for my anxiety attack.

Nicolas blows a smoke ring, and looks through it at Angel?que.

And just what do you think about that?

I think that your attitude hasn't changed much over the years, even if you have become more subtle in the ways that you attack people, Morningstar.

He smiles, and taps out his cigarette on the table.

Feel free to wander around the Bistro a bit, Angel?que. I really should depart, as I have other business to attend to. Be assured, though, that my upcoming no-doubt-epic battle with the unstoppable monstrous force known only as Spike shall haunt me every time I close my eyes from now until we finally meet in the ring. Or somesuch like that.

He gives her a bit of a cerimonious bow, and steps off. Angel?que watches him depart, as he fades into the blackness at the far side of the club, and then rises herself.

Morningstar...why are you doing this?

And she too, exits.

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~The Rest is Yet To Come...Won't You Join Us?~

A beautifully mysterious thing...

“To err is human - but it feels divine.”
? Mae West
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