YO! My name is Lunch and this is, by God, my second thread! Can you believe it?! Before we get started, here's some junk from the old thread that I thought was cool enough to serve as a [re]introduction. Chibi Amazon LeelaLeela on VacationYounger LeelaPregnant KifTeddy ZoidbergMom is Sexy!The Bikini IncidentA White Wedding"And I thought I couldn't be MORE of a lesbian."Kikix's Roxanne.More Roxanne!Family Guy Crossover Doodle.Heheh.Fry and Pitt!Leela as Sadako Yamamura.Hermes as Norman Bates.Entertaining the Businessmen.Ohhhmy! A female Fry!Leela as Utena Tenjou.BeatrixThree Eared Sally.
And of course, the Aqua Teen Hunger Girls Number one in the hood, G.Eating dinner.The Plutonians. [ignore the URL.]'Carla' and a cutout.A foreign ho.Meatwad the pimp.
Okay, so, here's my fanfic in its entirety from the last thread and my art for it. Tell me watcha think! If you haven't already... It still doesn't have a name. So.. call it what you like..Noir?
------------------She looked like a purple haired angel, standing there with that eye all soft and pretty even in the harsh light, God was it bright.. Turn off the fucking lamp..! Oh, sweety, don't go away, I didn't mean to swear, I really didn't.. Come back, no.. Don't frown, God you look like death itself when you're angry, don't look at me like that..!
"I'm disappointed in you," She was sobbing, that eye beetle-black glittering down at once frightening and beautiful. Her words stung the sore young man in more ways than one, making his head and his ego reel. He groaned, hands clutched over his ears, fingertips dragging troughs through rumpled orange strands.
"Christ.." Came that growl, bleary eyes squeezing shut. The woman let out the frustrated sigh so familiar to those of us with mothers, dark violet locks pulled to the nape of her neck in a messy bun. She herself didn't look particularly daisy-fresh; but was still disgusted by the wretch that lay sidelong on the crimson velour couch, jacket stained with vomit, shirt stained with sweat, pants stained with something unmentionable. What was worse, he could remember a time when that eye was filled with only love, despite any stains that it might have beheld.
Philip heaved himself from his sprawled position, flesh sagging in all the wrong places, the area around his mouth dark with hair. Breath heavy with various unpleasant smells came in short gasps as he coughed, fist raised to his lips.
"I can't believe you! How do you expect to face your.. adoring public
, looking like that..?"
"The show isn't until-"
"To Hell with the show, Philip!"
"Stop interrupting me!" He cried, lunging forward half a step, fist sluggishly swinging a foot in front of his face. The trajectory of that closed hand pulled him off balance, sending him thudding to the floor, dragging foot pulling at a cord and bringing the unshaded lamp along with him. Before the lightbulb smashed, the door slammed behind the star's put-upon wife and the room was plunged into every sort of horrible darkness, one might have seen on the otherwise bare wall a display case.. In two pieces an ornate and worn Holophoner, sunk into styrofoam, the glass shielding said instrument split with a single spiderweb crack that grew ever so slightly longer with the impact."I wrote you a song, would you like to hear it?"
"Fry.. I'd love to. But I thought you couldn't-"
"I've practiced. I've practiced for you."
"Well.. The first time I played the Holophoner, it didn't sound.. the way that it does today. You know? The first time you do anything, it's unpolished. It's.. Imperfect." Black eyes hardset barely saw the audience anymore. His popularity had not yet flagged.. At least, not enough to make the first tier talk show hosts eschew him like the third generation mousketeer he would likely one day become. The people in the rows and rows of plush seats leaned forward, hanging on his every word. Might he chance to glance at that dark expanse of glittering eyes, each pair adoring in a hollow way, the sight of one eye.. Downcast, all hope abandoned, would give him pause. Make his tongue slip out to moisten lips frozen for the moment. He would, slowly, resume his sentence after the briefest of beats.
He didn't, however, see that eye. His attention was focused on the host, whose expression intrigued him. His was not a face that was adoring by any means. Cheerlessly jovial, a smile painted on. A weary foreigner, who, like him, might have landed his job with a spark of truthful passion and retained it with a slew of lies. His was a face that longed to close its eyes, and to sleep. It wasn't pretty, but neither was the audience. And, as one more five minute chapter of the artist's life drew to a close, he couldn't bear to look out at that dark expanse any longer.
"You ought to audition, you know? I mean, the pictures that you made were very.. pretty."
When she said that, idly, her hands busied at the hooks of her bra, his eyes were nothing but adoring. This was a picture painted ages before the distaste that filled him when she proved to be anything less than eloquent. Did she deserve a man like him? That was the question that would one day define those nights of his that were sleepless or dream filled. Whenever he hadn't simply blacked out. Did she deserve him?
At the moment.. At that time, he couldn't think that. His eyes were still enraptured by that smooth curve of her hair when it reached her shoulder, untied and uneven and beautifully imperfect. The way she rubbed the corners of her eye. This woman, like a goddess! She scratched gently at the small of her back with the side of one hand, elbow at an odd angle. Legs uncrossed, and she strolled across the room. They were far enough along to feel no shame about their bodies in the harsh light of noon, not quite far enough to be shameless in their treatment of one another.
Fry pulled the blanket up around his shoulders and rolled over, sniffing.
"You think so?" He said, loudly enough to be heard from the adjacent bathroom. He craned his neck to see through the doorway alongside the bureau, and stifled a laugh to see the sink running. She wasn't using it. That was something a teenager might do, a youth afraid of letting its partner hear them carrying out universal functions. Those years.. When one was afraid more than anything else to seem human.
"I.. I know so!" He heard the flutter of paper, the seat creak, the faucet hurriedly turn off. She peered out, hand rubbing at her cheek, beside her lips.
"That was beautiful, Philip. No question! Letting your talent go to waste here, that's what I wonder about.."
His brow furrowed.
"Go to waste? But you liked it, didn't you?"
She didn't seem to be ashamed of her choice of words. "You'll have to pay for the apartment somehow, won't you?" She turned to face the desser, a hair tie picked from the pile in the drawer. Ever practical, pale fingers pulled back unwashed strands to gather them at the back of her head... She paused when she felt fingers upon her shoulder, that familiar smell, his arms around her middle, his hands moving up to clasp one another at her chest. Frozen in one moment, his face buried itself in the whiteness of her neck.
Purple locks were dropped to fall around her shoulders. They remained there for many years.
They had taken the back way, through an alley, to avoid the vultures and paparazzi at the the entrance of the television studio. He raised one hand with the clicker inside to unlock the door remotely. The car was elegant, black as night, its windows tinted to blend in with its doors. Even the hubcaps were laced with black.
She had, over the years, taken on a rather waspy tone. Even she didn't notice it. Prim countenance, soured and dry, fell upon the extraordinarily retro vehicle.
"Well, it must be time for the crisis, I suppose. It always starts with a new car.."
"I can drive it, this time, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not as much of an idiot as you might think."
"You don't know what I think..!" She snapped. "And you've no idea what I worry about."
"Get in, already." A pause. He lurched forward, opened the back seat door. She sat quickly and barely winced when the door slammed shut behind her. Smooth shoulders rolled, and she cracked her neck. The bun at the nape of her neck began to ache.
The first concert was; as most are; cluttered, unpolished and artless.. somehow charmingly so.
There she was, the first row! He couldn't keep his eyes from her, fingers moving practised and methodical along the instrument. The images above were anything but practiced, figures in bright swatches of color dancing wildly in an elegant frenzy of emotion. The audience(though rather sparse for an opening night) cheered with abandon as the boy stood, legs pushing back the chair with a squeak, mouth an ecstatic grin. He bowed low, didn't think to raise his arms or address the audience. He took a few steps forward, leapt from the stage to the carpeted area below, stumbled- Pushed himself up against the armrest of a chair with its seat folded up, dashed headlong into the arms on the woman in the faded crimson dress and the modest pearl earrings. A choker, black velveteen and imitation silver, set off the pale of her skin in the darkness. Shoulders, uncovered by fabric, were draped with the feathery violet of her hair. The drone of the clapping was an odd soundtrack for their kisses, but that is how the night turned out.
There was uncomfortable silence. The streets were nearly empty.. If one opened the sunroof and gazed up, then one might see the gridlock. All the neon and brakelights and headlights and purple fluorescent glow from above threw the lower streets into a sort of bizarre midnight daylight. Despite the lack of others on the road, they had been driving for over two hours without headway. And this, he imagined her saying in that emotionless clip she seemed stuck in, is why digital is better than analog. The silence.. In the ship, they might have been home in a few minutes. He didn't grow up riding in spaceships, however. Here, he was home. As they turned a corner, still far from the cold apartment.. That's when she piped up. One hand, wrapped around the slender neck of a bottle from the wetbar, stretched its fingers.
His eyes snapped up when he heard it, red rimmed irises unreadable in expression.
"Do you know.." came the drawl, "Where I think you went wrong?!"
The concert that took place six months afterwards was lapped up eagerly by the fans, a packed house crying out for more. The occasional glance at the wife(resplendent in silk and gold twisted in her let-down hair), the friendly wave to the crowd, a smile. Then, you would play, and you would watch what you played to see that it matched what was on the recording, and it would be flawless. Perfect. What the fans wanted. And then you would rise, and bow, and they would love you. Those millions of fans would love you and continue to buy your recordings. Rehearse, rehearse! And they will know what to expect, and they will know what is coming, and they will know they will enjoy it. And you cannot disappoint them! Not by any means. For they are a fickle breed and, if disappointed, they will turn upon you in a moment. The most important thing is to please your fans! They are who the music is for, are they not?
And when you rise you exit quickly, at stage right, and whoever wishes to see you can do so in your dressing room.
"It was the day you met me! It's all my fault... Isn't it? Well? You won't admit it. You're too good. Always toooo damn... good. Ohhh.. Philip, Philip. God, I'm sorry. It was me. If it weren't for me, I.. I.. If it weren't for me you wouldn't have auditioned, right? Right? That goddamn show. And now every night, every night you're reciting a poem you wrote so long ago you can barely remember it. Isn't that right? The first night was so beautiful.." Her voice began to shiver and break. "Oh, my God.. It made my heart swell up, it made me weep for joy.. You poured your heart out onto the stage. And last night, what did you do? You tried to do it for the thousandth time and it looked pretty. Pretty as a picture. It was fake, damnit! It's all a lie! Why won't you look at me anymore? Am I so horrible? Am I so flawed?"
The bottle shattered against the back of his seat.
And it was three years after the first concert and what danced on the screen was the romantic fantasy of someone Leela had never met. Philip's new hit single was written in a fit of lust by a man called Fitzgerald Hines, originally for the violin. It was adapted for the Holophoner by several hologram technicians and cinematography experts. The red was intensified in one scene for dramatic effect, a technician had said. She'd overheard this in the recording booth, a few weeks ago. If Philip knew she was there, albeit in another room, he didn't let on. The blue was selected from a very rare and expensive holopalette.. The slides alone in the Holophoner he was using in the booth cost five times as much as your standard model, and it struck her that the model he had used on the night of the first concert, the one he had learned to play on, the one with the faded red coat of paint was in a box somewhere for all she knew.
As he played, he watched his fingers with eyes somewhat bloodshot, lips pursed, muscles tense and jerky. He was accomplished, however. Despite his state, his constant stupor brought on by gin and relieved by absynthe and brought on once more by gin and lack of sleep, he could play with the best of them.
He did not see the woman, a statue in the first row, eye long since dried up, hair pulled into a knot that was pierced with an emerald studded ivory chopstick. An elegant pattern of diamonds patterned her chest, green crushed velvet spilling into foamy lace around her thighs. He couldn't see her at all.
He saw, that night, twitching fingers three inches from his crooked nose.
To him, this was a relief. The shame was too much.
"Don't you say one word.... Philip..."
An obliging silence.
"Well, don't you have anything to say to me?"
Fry paused, eyes downcast, as they turned a corner. He could see the apartment building in the distance.
"You don't love me anymore, do you.."
The car slid to a stop, its gentle bounce as it braked enough to send the woman in the starched white dress, bedecked with platinum and black pearls, onto her side.Blood had stained one glove from the inside. He turned slowly to face her, one arm hugging the back of the passenger seat. Eyes widened somewhat, his cheeks paled.
She raised, slowly, pulling the long glove apart from her slender arm. In the center of a white palm, a piece of translucent glass- spreading out from its entry point, a billowing carpet of red. She regarded it blankly, feeling little pain. A short hiccough.
Philip struggled over the front seat into the spacious second row, one hand darting to hers and pulling out the shard in one swift motion. At this, she winced, that eye filling up with hot tears. Now taking the glove and wrapping it around her palm, now sitting beside her, now unflinching when she fell into his lap, racked with sobs. He was too good for her, she had begun to think.
And yet, at that moment, when he looked down at the woman with her head in his lap, his heart swelled with tenderness, with a horrible guilt at his treatment of her. She had never changed.. She had always been that goddess with soft hair and a kind eye that had loved him the entire time, through good and bad. Was she good enough? How could he have thought that?
One hand stroked the back of her head, undid the ribbon of foamy lace that held the knot of hair in place. It fell around her shoulders in a splash of deep violet.
The sunroof was open, and the traffic had dissipated, a burning violet sky stretching up over them for millions and millions of miles. That moon hung heavily over the dark mantle of stars, scarred and still smiling gently.
"Will you play for me..?" She sighed, after a few long minutes.
"What.. Which song?" Came the reply, hoarse and hushed.
"No. Play.. for me.."
It was to be the final tour, the papers had said. And, every night, the tune.. the show.. Was wildly different. She was there to see every one. The colors that touched every seat, every wall, every inch of the ceiling were bright and lush, the images fantastic and far-reaching..
A halcyon evening in June was depicted, two lovers white against the grass. The flowers were their children of love, reaching to the sky, blossoms tossed in the wind. Petals scattered all around the world, bringing light to the deepest oceans and color to the highest snowcapped mountains. Every creature was touched by this beauty.. Transcended their boundaries, put aside their animalistic tendencies and were, for a few moments, at peace.
And, fiery orange, the living sun plunged ever slowly behind the dark purple hills, its light extinguished as the final note sounded.
This final concert was never recorded in any way aside from in the hearts of those who heard it. And, as the music reached its crescendo, dropped off slowly, slowly.. the house was plunged into blackness and deafening applause. All that made it rather difficult to leap from the stage into the arms of one's lover. But..
Now, some actual new art!
[Oh, Newhook! I was looking through the thread to find those links and I noticed that picture of Arthas. I DID draw something, but I must have lost it and forgotten about it. I felt really bad, especially since you made me that clool MV. So he's coming soon! I swear!]
A few episode cards for once maybe?! [That last one scanned horribly.. But I LOVE that Bender shading..
Zoidberg deserves this, I think.
[EDIT: Bit of a Flashback to The Sting card.. Uh.. Edna is holding Zoidy's hand. Nothing else. o.o]
I know that's not much, but there'll be more tomorrow. Hope you enjoy it!