Post by Dodger on Jan 20, 2020 22:37:37 GMT
(February 4th, midday, open to Dodger, Rita, Oliver, and three additional Gilded Wings who aren’t afraid to risk getting in trouble under Dodge’s risky command, as well as all Cursed Thorns.)
The streets of Paris had a weird, old-timey broadway jangle to them, normally. Rounded cobblestones, no sidewalks to so much as hustle a hot dog on, blurred by under cement gray paws. Today, the Thorns were having a festival. A party for the all stiffs and sharks out there. Apparently the low-lives needed to unwind, too.
One of the main stages, a creaky wooden number that would’ve been a lawsuit waiting to happen back in the Big Apple, was getting crowded. It was supposed to hold up a gang of little creatures Dodger suspected had been carnival animals before they’d been hit by semi trucks. They probably planned on putting on some kind of juggling or jigging or brawling show for their fellow chumps. The Big Apple terrier knew they were minions of the big cheese, Maleficent, because he’d heard them grunting about her stupidly as they got ready in a nearby shabby tent. Right before he and his Wing comrades snapped through the ropes and dropped the whole thing on top of the gremlins in a heap. Bright, they weren’t. He doubted they could find their ways out of a wet paper sack, especially when they’d taken to blaming each other.
But that was no reason to push his luck. The mutt tore around a corner and slid into an alley, where his new crew was waiting. The motley Gilded Wings crazy and lucky enough to go along with New York’s Coolest Quadruped and his latest scheme. ...Even though he hadn’t exactly run this one by any of the Wings’ higher-ups.
”A’right,” huffed the leader through a panting mustache, pausing only to leap onto a crate for better standing. ”That’s only gonna hold ‘em for a few minutes, so we gotta move.” The Dodge nodded at the Wing who’d helped him sabotage the tent as they caught up.
The party-colored canine’s accent was rough and had a steel ring to it. Usually Fagin’s top dog was cool, relaxed. Not when there was a hustle underway. The Dodge was all business. Short his legs might’ve been, but very few mammals ever talked over the smooth terrier when he got like this.
”Now we’re gonna go over this one more time, but before I get into the good stuff, let’s hear it. Who’s feelin’ jittery? Last chance to back out.”
The streets of Paris had a weird, old-timey broadway jangle to them, normally. Rounded cobblestones, no sidewalks to so much as hustle a hot dog on, blurred by under cement gray paws. Today, the Thorns were having a festival. A party for the all stiffs and sharks out there. Apparently the low-lives needed to unwind, too.
One of the main stages, a creaky wooden number that would’ve been a lawsuit waiting to happen back in the Big Apple, was getting crowded. It was supposed to hold up a gang of little creatures Dodger suspected had been carnival animals before they’d been hit by semi trucks. They probably planned on putting on some kind of juggling or jigging or brawling show for their fellow chumps. The Big Apple terrier knew they were minions of the big cheese, Maleficent, because he’d heard them grunting about her stupidly as they got ready in a nearby shabby tent. Right before he and his Wing comrades snapped through the ropes and dropped the whole thing on top of the gremlins in a heap. Bright, they weren’t. He doubted they could find their ways out of a wet paper sack, especially when they’d taken to blaming each other.
But that was no reason to push his luck. The mutt tore around a corner and slid into an alley, where his new crew was waiting. The motley Gilded Wings crazy and lucky enough to go along with New York’s Coolest Quadruped and his latest scheme. ...Even though he hadn’t exactly run this one by any of the Wings’ higher-ups.
”A’right,” huffed the leader through a panting mustache, pausing only to leap onto a crate for better standing. ”That’s only gonna hold ‘em for a few minutes, so we gotta move.” The Dodge nodded at the Wing who’d helped him sabotage the tent as they caught up.
The party-colored canine’s accent was rough and had a steel ring to it. Usually Fagin’s top dog was cool, relaxed. Not when there was a hustle underway. The Dodge was all business. Short his legs might’ve been, but very few mammals ever talked over the smooth terrier when he got like this.
”Now we’re gonna go over this one more time, but before I get into the good stuff, let’s hear it. Who’s feelin’ jittery? Last chance to back out.”
