Post by Shinpei Minamoto on Dec 31, 2015 2:34:42 GMT -5
What's a park good for?
Well, you might think that it's good for grass and trees and all manner of flowers. If you knew Karakura town well you might know that that particular municipal park was awfully good for a fountain and a couple wooded paths and whole crowds of people--tourists, old married couples, giggling schoolgirls, and a man called Shinpei. He especially, with the careless smile and the clever eyes, was sure the park was good for him. Hell, he was even good for the park sometimes: he'd weeded his share of flower beds, made his share of happy memories, treaded down his fair share of grass and napped his fair share in the shade.
But wait! You're missing the point. See, a park is good for what Ferlinghetti called making the love scene and making the sad scene and even walking around looking at everything. A park is generally a fun place to be, and that was half because fun things tended to happen there. Why, Shinpei had met all sorts of interesting characters just by hanging around it. He didn't bother hiding who he was: by letting his Reiatsu freely flow like a big, red sign shouting "here I am!" he had already wandered into more than one entertaining encounter. He had nothing to be fearful of, and besides it was easier to live without lying too much about himself. That kind of habit eats you away from the inside out, trust me--trust him.
But I was saying why he was here. And indeed tonight was one of those nights when something drew people from far and wide to gather in the Karakura park. There was always some reason, and tonight the reason was that someone was going to sing. A couple someones, in fact. He never quite caught their name (names?) but he was sure it was something quite witty. Something very Japanese, although it was hard to miss the Western influence. Times really had changed since the last time he'd come here, but then that information is on a need-to-know basis. Which is to say, if you look like you might be interested (or interesting) he might just tell it to you.
It was electric, more than usual, with a barely-concealed spark buzzing through the air like everyone was just watching the stage with their collective breath held, waiting to start screaming. For some, that was exactly true, but for the rest the feeling remained.
Shinpei ducked and wove to get a good view of the stage, brushing people aside or placing a clever hand here or there to gently part the mass. He favored a look here or there when a slim face turned back to see just who dared to touch their shoulder or their arm. He savored each reaction: sure it was fun to see a blush here or there from his focused, heated gaze but it was just as entertaining to find an ice-cold huff or a look of disinterest or a flash of anger. He didn't discriminate: it was hard to say he had a "type" besides "cute." Tall ones, short ones, frail ones, strong ones, top-heavy ones, bottom-heavy ones, girls as thin as a rail and girls as curved as an Amazonian river. Stone-cold ice princesses and fiery fighters who rivaled even his passion. The girliest girls and the mannish ones. The ones saying "I am a girl!" And the ones saying "I am not!" The ones--well, there was a popular phrase in some circles that went "cute is justice." He figured he knew the feeling.
But he often waited until the moment felt "right," if that makes sense. It wasn't so much that he felt the kind of connection some folks talk about, but he'd been around long enough to be able to discern something like a "spark" between him and someone else. If he went searching for that spark with everyone here (at least the cute ones), he figured he'd eventually find it, but that might take a long time. Better to wait for it to happen naturally.
There was a hell of a crowd, too, which he supposed might speak to how popular this group was among those "in the know." He wasn't that good at estimating, but he figured there must have been at least a hundred thousand bouncing and jostling bodies. And then the music started. Then there must have been a hundred million at least. And for once, he wasn't quite so much a sore thumb as you might suppose, with that kimono (half falling off) all in silk (smooth and fine) with all the flowers stamped right on it. He was a simple enough man and he knew what he liked: he liked long walks on the beach, he liked singing in the rain, he liked when no petals had fallen off the stem just yet, he liked long legs and a long, long jacket.
And right now he liked the loud music, the thrumming crowd, and the flush on pale skin. He was here for the music, true, but the pretty girls were a fringe benefit. After all, who can say they hate a little curve there, a little soft there, and a little round there? No one, that's who. Unless they're lying. And lying is bad.
And we'd never do anything bad, would we?
Well, you might think that it's good for grass and trees and all manner of flowers. If you knew Karakura town well you might know that that particular municipal park was awfully good for a fountain and a couple wooded paths and whole crowds of people--tourists, old married couples, giggling schoolgirls, and a man called Shinpei. He especially, with the careless smile and the clever eyes, was sure the park was good for him. Hell, he was even good for the park sometimes: he'd weeded his share of flower beds, made his share of happy memories, treaded down his fair share of grass and napped his fair share in the shade.
But wait! You're missing the point. See, a park is good for what Ferlinghetti called making the love scene and making the sad scene and even walking around looking at everything. A park is generally a fun place to be, and that was half because fun things tended to happen there. Why, Shinpei had met all sorts of interesting characters just by hanging around it. He didn't bother hiding who he was: by letting his Reiatsu freely flow like a big, red sign shouting "here I am!" he had already wandered into more than one entertaining encounter. He had nothing to be fearful of, and besides it was easier to live without lying too much about himself. That kind of habit eats you away from the inside out, trust me--trust him.
But I was saying why he was here. And indeed tonight was one of those nights when something drew people from far and wide to gather in the Karakura park. There was always some reason, and tonight the reason was that someone was going to sing. A couple someones, in fact. He never quite caught their name (names?) but he was sure it was something quite witty. Something very Japanese, although it was hard to miss the Western influence. Times really had changed since the last time he'd come here, but then that information is on a need-to-know basis. Which is to say, if you look like you might be interested (or interesting) he might just tell it to you.
It was electric, more than usual, with a barely-concealed spark buzzing through the air like everyone was just watching the stage with their collective breath held, waiting to start screaming. For some, that was exactly true, but for the rest the feeling remained.
Shinpei ducked and wove to get a good view of the stage, brushing people aside or placing a clever hand here or there to gently part the mass. He favored a look here or there when a slim face turned back to see just who dared to touch their shoulder or their arm. He savored each reaction: sure it was fun to see a blush here or there from his focused, heated gaze but it was just as entertaining to find an ice-cold huff or a look of disinterest or a flash of anger. He didn't discriminate: it was hard to say he had a "type" besides "cute." Tall ones, short ones, frail ones, strong ones, top-heavy ones, bottom-heavy ones, girls as thin as a rail and girls as curved as an Amazonian river. Stone-cold ice princesses and fiery fighters who rivaled even his passion. The girliest girls and the mannish ones. The ones saying "I am a girl!" And the ones saying "I am not!" The ones--well, there was a popular phrase in some circles that went "cute is justice." He figured he knew the feeling.
But he often waited until the moment felt "right," if that makes sense. It wasn't so much that he felt the kind of connection some folks talk about, but he'd been around long enough to be able to discern something like a "spark" between him and someone else. If he went searching for that spark with everyone here (at least the cute ones), he figured he'd eventually find it, but that might take a long time. Better to wait for it to happen naturally.
There was a hell of a crowd, too, which he supposed might speak to how popular this group was among those "in the know." He wasn't that good at estimating, but he figured there must have been at least a hundred thousand bouncing and jostling bodies. And then the music started. Then there must have been a hundred million at least. And for once, he wasn't quite so much a sore thumb as you might suppose, with that kimono (half falling off) all in silk (smooth and fine) with all the flowers stamped right on it. He was a simple enough man and he knew what he liked: he liked long walks on the beach, he liked singing in the rain, he liked when no petals had fallen off the stem just yet, he liked long legs and a long, long jacket.
And right now he liked the loud music, the thrumming crowd, and the flush on pale skin. He was here for the music, true, but the pretty girls were a fringe benefit. After all, who can say they hate a little curve there, a little soft there, and a little round there? No one, that's who. Unless they're lying. And lying is bad.
And we'd never do anything bad, would we?