genessia | [video]

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W-what the hell?!

[the camera is somewhat buried in some dark space but is fished out and a startled Thatch appears, pompadour a mess-- shoulder deep in underwear, head pressed against the high ceiling] How do you stop the damned thing?!

[turning the camera outward shows an apartment being quietly flooded in underwear of all kinds. Women's, men's, lingerie, wide fronts, boxers and in all sizes too from about normal to could use for a sail in windsurfing to banana hammock that could seat eighty seven]

If I drown in this I'm going to kick someone's ass.

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I might. [but he'll double check with Namur first.]

Just that? They haven't done much previously?

Eheh, that's all the use I've gotten out of them. But then I'm not really their target market. Too pedestrian.

[That and it's all a front for a Scooby-style mystery-solving group, which he hasn't figured.]

I should hope so! Alas, I'm not much for keeping up with any corporation's activities. Come to think of it, I've not known any business body to make any indelible marks. People do, and, much as laws would like to make out a business to be a person, I could never take the concept very seriously. And as persons go, I'm the only one I know whose pat--aheh, actually I don't think any money changed hands, either. All pro bono.

[Not the happiest blather. What were the upsides...]

...But it likely staves off idleness, eh? Suppose it all depends on how you look at it.

[Triumphantly he plucks the last article from the grass.]

And with that, the mess has been addressed. Were you going to take me out drinking for a reward, or enjoy your restored apartment?

[he talks a lot without really saying much at all, but Thatch gets the gist]

It's something to do, aye. And thanks for the help. Wouldn't've been able to do it without you. [not easily at any rate.]

I think you've earned a drink or three. Where'd you like to go?

You're very welcome. We're on the cusp of dusk; how about Jack's?

[I.e. Jack's Karaoke Club, where the hardest drinking he'd do is exotic juices. He might get to enjoy Thatch's singing voice there too, if he's feeling adventurous enough.]

Sure thing. Haven't been there. [but he hopes it's got strong liquor and friendly women. Or at least a pool table] Lead on, Teddy.

Then you're in for a treat.

[He likes the moniker better than "Theodore"; it makes him blush less. A few minutes' walk takes them to the wonderful establishment, made known by the mild dance music and gaudy lights surrounding the place. For a nightclub, it's very G-rated, and only more so once Thatch discovers Ted's complete lack of shame in ordering only non-alcoholic drinks. The waiters and waitresses are handsome and polite, one addressing them as a "couple of cuties". Once they've had a few minutes to settle in, Ted pops the question.]

How is your affinity for song, Thatch? Were you often called upon to provide sea shanties? Or was that pleasure left to Namur's talents, haha?

[a treat. Well, it's interesting anyway. Not Thatch's kind of place at all but he can enjoy it. Especially as the waitresses aren't bad to look at and one of them flushed when he winked at her. For himself he orders the hardest drink they have and sips it. It's not bad]

Most pirates sing, mate. Sea shanties I can do. Ballads. Raunchy songs. [this gets him a glare from a manager type person and he has to continue] There's one about this pirate queen with a huge pair of--

[the manager clears his throat]

--cannons. [he grins getting another withering look from the man before he stalks off]

[The music changes, signifying one slightly intoxicated girl overcoming shyness and belting out a pop song for everyone's questionable enjoyment. Ted's smile curls.]

I'm not contemptible in the practice either. Can you read a tune well enough?

I could out sing your mother in three pounds of makeup and a corset tighter than a Marine's arse. [which is to say, yes]

What makeup has to do with singing I don't know, but have at it!

[With a perhaps too-forceful, if encouraging, slap on the back, Ted eggs him on to the karaoke machine. "Walking in Memphis" is just beginning.]

Break a leg!

It's drag, mate. [saying as if he should have known. He grunts a bit at the slap]] You'd look great in a pinny and a half pound of rose blush. Just saying. [and he starts to sing. He's fairly decent. Not enough to win any awards but he can keep a tune and follow along, more or less]

Less daydreaming about my looks, more performance!

[Which he does enjoy, sometimes unconsciously mouthing the lyrics himself. Does Thatch really feel the way he feels? If nothing else, Ted's impressed with Thatch's adaptability. If these machines existed in the world of the Grand Line, he's fairly sure Marc Cohn didn't.

The crowd gives moderate applause, with Ted adding a few flattering shrill whistles. He approached the stage, motioning for Thatch to stay.]

Not bad, not bad. Please, allow me to assist with the next.

[As if by instinct, the following track would be a duet: "Under Pressure" by Queen and Bowie.]

With you? Sounds like a good time. [he's glowing from the positive attention. This is his kind of night. Wimpy drinks aside.

That is indeed the next song but he pushes a button and this one comes up instead. Well, it sounds like fun]

[He should've known, Thatch. Nonetheless, he's not one to shy from a prank, and, aside from trying to suppress how awful it is, gives an above average performance. He is, surprisingly, professionally trained.

"Love will be the gift you give yourself?" That and the lyrics that are little more than impassioned, schoolgirl sighs just about do him in. Lord, let his time be near.]

[he laughs, amused and impressed]

You've got a good set of pipes, Teddy. Didn't think you'd be able to hit a few of those notes. [he hadn't but he never expected to]

[The crowd goes wild, though it's hard to say whether they found the performance masterfully done or hilariously awful. Probably a little of each. Ted returns the microphone to its rightful place, hoping, perhaps in vain, that in the future, the sexes and songs would always be alike.]

Thank you, Thatch. You're not bad either, if a complete ass.

[Ted's content to spend a little while drinking featherweight drinks and making conversation. But eventually curfew calls, and unless Thatch has aught else to say, he bids good night.]

Thank you for an interesting evening. Perhaps we'll enjoy others, some time.

Ha? [he's a bit shocked by that. He could be a complete ass but that had just been making friends. Afterwards he hangs around because Ted is Namur's mate, but is happy to go and get away from the tedious conversation]

Aye, perhaps so. See you around. Thanks again.

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