“Why do you sit there looking like an envelope without any address on it?
- Mark Twain
(#00122)
There were designated busking zones on any station large enough to attract the kind of itinerant population that gathered Minutes by entertaining passersby.
Amalgam had hundreds of them.
Rael knew from long, and partially agonizing experience, that Shayde loved them like nothing else. In the hours not taken up by duty, she would take her ‘axe’ down to one at random, and play for pocket change. Allegedly so she could 'unwind’.
This from a being who entertained herself by winding other people up.
The surprisingly unjust part of it was that she could always afford to feed the both of them after just a few sets.
This time, she’d found a dismal corner calling itself the Slop Shop. It catered to the sort of clientele who knew they couldn’t afford anything better and didn’t want to pretend to try.
Shayde ordered a meat pie floater to start and spotted someone in a booth.
They were having the Impoverished Special, which consisted solely of whatever fruit one could get away with picking from the nearest orchard before security got interested. This pallid and washed-out soul was staring at their lone apple in near suicidal despondency.
“Ey up,” said Shayde. One of her many, many call signs of doom. She left her stool to park herself opposite the truly unlucky one in the booth. “Why d'ye sit there lookin’ like an envelope without any address on it?”
“En-ve-lope?” echoed the sallow saurian. He looked to Rael for translation and fished in his pocket. All he had to offer was Seconds.
“She asks why you are sad and despondent,” said Rael. He not only pushed back the Seconds, but palmed an extra Minute into the man’s sad pile.
“I came to see the universe. I believed I could trade on my talent… but nobody notices me.”
“D'ye get stage fright?”
“I do admit nervousness,” the saurian confessed. “But that shouldn’t alter my performance.”
Shayde handed across a ten Minute coin. “Gi’ us a song, then. Up ye pop like you would in t’ hall.”
The instant he started playing, the poor creature blended in with the walls.
“Scared o’ muckin’ up, aye?”
“Er… yes?”
“I’m gonna give ye an’ old Earth song ye can’t possibly muck up. It’s designed to be played bad.” This time, Shayde took the dias.
It was horrible. The tune was both random and out of key, as for the singing the only creature it could attract was possibly a lovesick cat.
And the words… well… they got to the point.
“OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHH…. Give me some moNEY! Just gIVe me some MOneeeeyyyy! You can drop it right hErE on the groUND! And if you don’t give me enO-OUGH, I’ll foLLow you HOme… and sIng outSIde your winDOw for the rest of your LIIIIIIIIIFFFFE!”
The saurian blinked. His anger colours flushed. “I shall not,” he announced, “need to play that song.”
“Think of it when ye play the good stuff, then. You omnivorous?”
“Er… yes?”
“Than I can shout ye another floater. You look like you need feedin’.”
The young saurian again looked to Rael.
“Shayde has a habit of feeding strays,” he announced. “She thinks it will count for her in her afterlife.”
[Muse food remaining: 17. Submit a prompt! Ask a question!]