#don't make me tap the sign Vox

[voxiiferous]

"I'd be surprised if it was," From an outside perspective, Vox is certain he will never be able to articulate exactly what sort of relationship he shares with Alastor and Astor. He hates him, he loves him, they will kill each other and be the only people left as Hell burns around them. There are rules to their engagements, unspoken between them, and Astor had been an alteration to them after decades. At first, he'd been annoyed, and now he's come to appreciate the shadow for what he is, tonight even more so.

Vox rests a hand on his chest, faux offended. "Remind me to never let you meet my PA's wife. Dia would love you." And then he'd never hear the end of it, though her meat was, at the very least, usually cooked. Vox lifts an eye, a subtle annoyance at the reminder that he has, mostly, made his peace with. "Yeah, yeah, but that's old news. You didn't live through the 1950s dinner parties, you might be grateful to never have to eat another canapes if you saw some of the monstrosities that were made."

He grimaces, actually letting the expression project rather than the imperfect stutter of trying to hold the smile in place. There's not really any defence of the situation. "There's... a lot of work to do." It's a weak excuse, even to him, and that's a crying shame for a man who's job was propaganda. He might not be as good with words as Alastor but it's not like he's bad with them either! "I literally can't do that. Sinners can't die, beside, it's fine, just a little bored with it all." When was the last time he'd just... not worried and actually relaxed? Too long ago if he can't place it.

He can just imagine what sort of chaos aerial silks and a cat, shark or otherwise, would cause. Vark at least, has nothing quite like that for him to be able to pull down, and Vox is certain that may be a hobby he passes on, unless he fancies a broken screen. He laughs, "Pretty. I'm sure you're graceful." The city keeps building higher and higher, he's sure that Astor could see plenty from the rooves. "'Fly me to the moon / Let me play among the stars / And let me see what spring is like / On a-Jupiter and Mars," he hums, even if the top of the tower isn't quite Jupiter.

"Ah, now there you have me." It's not untrue by any means, the hostile takeover acquisitions speak for themselves. His empire was big, but was, by no means, made from the ground up in all areas. "I'm not sure that makes Vark a shark then-- he's less... patient."

"I'm glad," Vox says, pulling his hand back as Astor does. It's true, he's right. It's safer this way. No chance of anything, nothing... his fans whirl, and he nods, the smile firmly affixed once again. "Right, yes. Sleep, work. No rest for the wicked." If there were still blood to rush he thinks he might be lightheaded from that alone.

Vox laughs, forced and mechanical in a way that it isn't when it's genuine. "I'll be hearing from you then. I'd walk you out but..." he gestures around the penthouse. "Not really an out to walk to."

[infrequent-creator]

A Little Assistance ~

Summary - Vox needs a little help so he calls his assistant up to take care of his need.

A/N: I don't believe vox's assistant has a name so I'm gonna have Vox call him the name "Sharkbait" 🤭((Also Cutie, Baby boy & various other teasy nicknames))

<3

"Ah- fucking shit! Owowowow!" Vox cursed under his breath. He has spilled coffee on the floor around his chair on the wiring that surrounded his seats.

While they weren't parts of his body, he still was connected to them, like the roots on a tree. So when things happened to them like being stepped on or burned with hot coffee, it does hurt him a bit. He sighed looking around somewhat urgently for something to wipe up the now cooled sticky liquid off his attachment cords.

Nothing... damnit.

He signed, pinching the bridge of where his nose would be. He looked down at his wrist, pressing a button.

Ring...Ring...Ri-

"H-Hello.. Mr. Vox, S-Sir, do you need me?" The face of his personal assistant Sharkbait popping up on the small screen. Stammering like always. Always looking a little flustered in a way that Vox couldn't help but find adorable. He cleared his throat from the distracting thought.

"Yes of course. Why else would I call you?"

"O-Oh I'm sorry S-Sir I didn't mean--" the shark stammered out an apology before Vox cut him off.

"Stop, I don't have all day. Bring some papertowels and warm water to my production room. A cup of coffee spilled on my wiring." He brushed off the lad's apology, trying to get this icky feeling off his wiring fast.

"R-Right! Yes sir!" With that, Vox hung up. He sighed again.

~

A minute or so passes before there's a knock at Vox's door. He waves his hand, an electric current hitting the door 's button panel, causing it to slide open for his guest. There he was. Sharkbait carrying a cloth & a small bucket with water. His feet moving quickly as his king tail swished behind him.

"Bout time you showed up, I'm sticky as hell over here." The overlord groaned as the annoying feeling on his cables. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"R-Right, yes Sir, I'm so sorry." He nodded quickly, kneeling beside Vox's chair. He dipped the cloth in the water a little, squeezing it to get the extra water out, then began making quick work of the dark brown coffee stains.

Vox could feel his touches just a little, they felt faint but it almost felt good. Like getting a head massage almost. Vox leaned back in a sigh, his back resting completely against the chair as he relaxed. His light blue claws tapping, gently and rhythmically as the cleaning continued.

After a moment, Vox noticed something thumping gently against his leg. Also some quiet mumbling from Sharkbait. The TV man opened his eyes to see Sharkbait's tail was the thing gently hitting Vox's leg like a happy dog. The sharkboy's were locked on the floor as he mumbled to himself.

"Now, tell me Sharkbait, what are you mumbling about? Are you perhaps embarrassed that you have to clean up my mess?" Vox's hand slowly reaches down toward's his assistant's tail. The young man turned, opening his mouth to deny his boss's words but a gasp was ripped from his chest before he got the chance.

"Or are you embarrassed that this cute little tail is giving you away?~" Vox's hand quickly took the tail in his hand before it could wiggle away with his assistant's movement. The TV's voice purred as he gently held the tail on his lap, petting it slowly. He could still feel the muscle wanting to still wag even now.

"M-Misteheher V-Vohox! Please be c-cahahreful!" The shark demon quickly broke into anxious bubbly giggles, dropping the cloth to reach for his tail slowly.

"Careful? I am being careful. You think I'd hurt my cute little assistant's tail? What do you take me for, a monster?" Vox looked down at him with an eyebrow arched, a wicked grin spread across his screen.

"N-Nohohohoho! S-Sihihir my tail ihihis sensa-AHAha!" The adorable creature now on his side, curled up like a cat, kicking his feet in laughter.

"Aw is this tail sensitive, little pup? How cute~" Vox's claws now raking gently downward towards the end of his tail.

Sharkbait's face explodes into bright blue blush as he hid his face behind his hands, squealing and gently tugging on his tail. Vox decided his poor little tail had had enough, but the rest of him? Not a chance~

While Sharkbait wasn't looking, the overlord grabbed his little pup around the waist , guiding him onto his lap. The older demon's fingers touching from the slenderness of his assistant's waist.

The tv man snapped his fingers , making a wire slither to life, wrapping around his assistant's wrists holding them above his head, causing him to yelp. He was truly helpless and exposed right now.

"Cute little giggles you got there, pup. Let's see what happens when I use my claws here~" Vox's bright blue claws gently scratched at Sharkbait's sides and tummy at the same time.

The media demon's fingers leaving no spot on his middle untickled , making the little shark squeal, snort, and laugh. The little shark holding nothing back. He couldn't see it, but Vox was smiling at him.

"So cute~" Vox thought, letting his gentle tickles continue. He's always grateful for his little assistant.

END !

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, November 18th, 1975 - Queen Story!

Bristol, UK, Colston Hall (two night)

'A Night At The Opera Tour'

This article chronicles the second show in Bristol.

🔸Sounds, November 29, 1975

Queen triumphant

Report by Jonh Ingham, pictures by Kate Simon

QUEEN ARE the type of group that make a man want to abandon rock writing. They pose questions and never provide answers. They exist in their own space-time continuum, visible and audible but keeping their secrets to themselves.

On the surface they couldn't be a nicer bunch of people, but they carry English reticence to an epitome. It isn't, as Geoff Barton said two weeks ago, that they're boring, it's just that they're reserved. Or in writer parlance, they don't automatically provide colourful copy. All my instincts as a writer tell me that there is a great story in that band, but after two nights with them I'm hardly any the wiser.

Skin tight

That their insularity has a lot to do with them being one of the most amazing heavy-metal and/or rock bands in Britain - with all the signs that they'll end up monsters on the order of Zep - is fairly obvious, but just how much bearing it has on the matter is hard to say. The enigmas they might pose mightn't even have answers.

Is there any logical reason why they present an image and persona straight out of the Beatles school of interlocking chemistry?

John is reserved, almost nonchalant on stage, as if it's all in a small, personal joke. When asked how he saw himself within the framework of the band he replied, with a small smile, "I'm the bassist".

Roger is his opposite, the cheeky sidekick in a Clint Eastwood movie, and attracting a lot of cheesecake attention in America and Japan.

Freddie is an original - one of the most dynamic singers to tread the boards in quite a few years. His attraction is obvious.

Brian is perhaps the biggest enigma of all. What is this seemingly frail, gaunt astronomer doing on that stage, striding purposefully and blasting diamond-hard rock? They're all equally strong personalities - like the Beatles there's no one major focal point. Ask four fans who their dream Queen is and you'll get four different answers.

Queen have been busy lads these past few months. Having disassociated themselves from their former management and joined with John Reid, the fourth album was seen to. Reid decided that a tight schedule wouldn't cause them undue harm, and figured on two months to record before embarking on this current tour.

Only Queen are driven to better each previous album - which at this stage of the game is obviously producing some excellent results - and 'A Night At The Opera' turned into a saga - culminating in 36-hour mixing sessions in an effort to allow at least a few days for rehearsal. In the end they managed three and a half days at Elstree with four hours off to videotape the promotional film for 'Bohemian Rhapsody'.

Their first few dates had not been without errors and the quartet were still not feeling totally comfortable their second night in Bristol, fourth night of the tour. You'd never know it, though.

Like all other aspects of the group, the stage is sophisticated. A black scrim provides a backdrop bounded by a proscenium of lights both front and rear. At each side the p.a. rises like a mutant marriage of Mammon and Robby the Robot. Amp power is readily evident but the most extraordinary is Brian May's subtle set up: nine Vox boxes stepping back in rows of three. The only packing crate visible is holding a tray of drinks, and you may rest assured that no roadie will rush, crawl or lurk across the stage while the show is in progress unless it's to rescue Freddie's mike from the clawing crowd.

As the auditorium darkens the sound of an orchestra tuning up is heard over the p.a. The conductor taps his baton on the music stand and a slightly effete voice welcomes the audience to A Night At The Opera. The Gilbert & Sullivan portion of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' follows, a brief glimpse of Freddie is allowed, and then in a blast of flares and white smoke the blitzkrieg begins.

Roger is barely visible behind his kit, just his eyes and tousled locks. John is wearing a white suit and playing the-man-who-must-stand-still-or-it-will-all-blow-away. Brian is slightly medieval in his green and white Zandra Rhodes top, while Freddie is...

Around his ankles his satin white pants flare like wings - fleet footed Hermes. Everything north of the knee is skin tight - tighter than skin tight - with a zip-up front open to AA rating. But further south, definitely in X territory, lurks a bulge not unlike the Sunday Telegraph.

There have been sex objects and sex bombs, superstar potency and the arrogant presentation of this all-important area, but never has a man's weaponry been so flagrantly showcased. Fred could jump up on the drum stand and shake his cute arse, leap about and perform all manner of amazing acrobatics, but there it was, this rope in repose, barely leashed tumescence, the Queen's sceptre. Oh to be that hot costume, writhing across the mighty Fred!

Phallic

Freddie is not pretty in the conventional sense of the word; like Mick Jagger of '64, he is his own convention. Also like the Jagger of the time, his stage persona and action is unlike anything else. Although it borrows - like most of the group's plagiarisms - slightly from Zeppelin, in tandem with Freddie's supreme assurance and belief in himself - he always refers to himself as a star - it explodes into something that is a constant delight to watch.

He reacts to his audience almost like an over-emotional actress - Gloria Swanson, say, or perhaps Holly Woodlawn playing Bette Davis. At the climax of the second night in Bristol he paused at the top of the drum stand, looked back over the crowd and with complete, heartfelt emotion placed his delicate fingers to lips and blew a kiss. Any person who can consume themselves so completely in such a clichéd showbiz contrivance deserves to be called a star.

Freddie's real talent, though, is with his mike stand. No Rod Stewart mike stand callisthenics here, just a shortee stick that doubles as a cock, machine gun, ambiguous phallic symbol, and for a fleeting moment an imaginary guitar. He has a neat trick of standing quite still in particularly frantic moments and holding the stand vertically from his crotch up, draw a fragile finger along its length, ever closer to the taunting eyes that survey his audience.

Their show contains lots of bombs and smoke, lots of lights, lots of noise. They fulfil the function of supremely good heavy metal - i.e. you don't get a second to think about what's going on. When they do let up for a few minutes, it's only so you can focus in on the bright blue electric charge crackling between your ears.

Bulldozer

Dominating the sound is Roger's drumming, a bulldozer echo that bounces like an elastic membrane, meshing with your solar plexus so that your body pulses in synch with the thunder. Tuned into that, everything else is just supremely nice icing.

For three days rehearsal, after eight months off the road Bristol was extremely impressive. In speculative mood I quizzed people on how long they thought it would take to headline Madison Square Garden. I was thought a radical at a year and a half. John Reid smilingly assured me it would take a year.

That Queen should end up with John Reid is an entirely logical proceeding. Everything about Queen demands that the world eventually kowtows at their feet in complete acquiescence - so big that bodyguards have to accompany them at every step. Well, no - they found that an annoyance in Japan, but, you know, huge.

Such status demands a Reid or a Peter Grant, and whatever the causes for their leaving Jack Nelson and Trident, an elegant group like Queen is going to look for a man with class. Reid found the idea of managing a group interesting, and having to deal with four strong personalities a challenge. He only concerns himself with their business and ensuring that the year ahead is mapped out. In January they begin a jaunt through the Orient, Australia and America, by which time it's March and they begin preparations for the next album.

Reid's prediction of a year was proven highly credible the next evening in Cardiff. The band had still not paused from the rush up to the tour and spent most of the day relaxing and sleeping - no doubt a factor in their near recumbent profile. Also, unlike most groups, they were keeping their dissatisfaction with the show to themselves.

They stopped off at Harlech TV on the way to see a cassette of the video for 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. The general consensus was quite good for four hours, with much laughter during the operetta. Brian finds film of the group educational - the first time he saw himself was a Mike Mansfield opus for 'Keep Yourself Alive' - "It was 'All right fellows, give it everything you've got but don't move off that spot.' It was terrible." You don't like Mansfield, eh? "Oh, I hate him - we all do... I was horrified when I saw it - I couldn't believe we looked that bad. I looked very static - seeing myself has taught me a lot about stage movement. Some of the things I do are planned for effect, but it's mostly just feeling the audience and communicating that back to them."

Arriving at the motel - several miles out of town - Freddie immediately fell asleep, John held court of a sort, joined later by Brian, while Roger went jogging, a daily event when touring. Tuning in to rock via Bill Haley and Tommy Steele, he became a drummer because he was better at it than guitar. All through school he was in bands; he only went to dental school out of "middle class conditioning, and it was a good way to stay in London without having to work". His mother thought it a bit strange when he opted for a career as a rock star, but she doesn't worry too much now.

The concert starts in much the same manner as the previous night, but there are signs that tonight is work, with posing an afterthought. The endings to most of their songs are magnificent and majestic, especially 'Flick Of The Wrist' and the rapid harmonies of 'Bad Boy Leroy Brown'

➡️ keep reading on http://jonh-ingham.blogspot.com/2007/02/queen-riot-at-opera.html?m=1

[crucifiedramblings]

²⁷⁾ “we need to get in there; how remains to be seen.” + Alastor x Reader

WAAHHH my pookiebear!!

contains: swearing, fluff at the end, gender neutral reader, crack/comedy kinda thingy idk, alastor and reader being long-term best friends in the afterlife (they are so fucking old), reader and alastor being the most iconic duo ever

you and alastor had always found yourselves in some kind of trouble, usually caused by ideas that sprung to life whenever you (constantly) kept one another company. billions of years of companionship - and yet, not a single time did either of you think to break into the vee tower. until now, that is.

alastor lets out an exaggerated sigh as he leans on the bar, occasionally dipping one of his sable claws down to swivel the cherries around in the depths of his amber-hued cocktail.

you quirk a brow at his dramatic display, turning to face him.

"what the fuck is going on with you?" your voice comes out with more laughter than your words suggest as you playfully shove him.

alastor feigns hurt and betrayal before abruptly stiffening his posture with an impossibly larger grin than before he threw his short-lived tantrum.

"would you ever consider doing something more exciting?" his tone is sinister, as though he's struck by some kind of villainous epiphany.

"babes, i don't know how many times i've been over this with you- i don't have a soul to sign over-" you start to reply before alastor quickly interrupts.

"oh no, silly!" his crackling, bubbly voice chirps. he stands from his seat on the stool, gesturing to the bar's exit with a flick of his fluffy ears, "follow my lead."

as you take alastor's extened arm, it feels like you are pulled into a whirpool; your entire body is plunging into a dizzy web, your nerve endings set ablaze before you land on your feet - unscathed.

"i'll never get used to that," you mutter quietly before taking in your surroundings, approaching an elevator at the end of the mysteriously unknown corridor. marble floors reflect the light from above as your gaze peels along the sapphire walls, fingertips reaching out to feel the glossy finish.

"can you guess where we're headed yet?" alastor's question is dipped in an excitable tone as he practically bounces up and down on his hooves. realization finally sets in as you slowly turn to lock your gaze on his, eyes wide.

"we are not in the fucking tower right now, alastor- pookie- tell me i'm mistaken or i will lose my goddamn mind." you lower your voice instinctively, finally giving him a genuine punch to the arm. he barely shifts his stance at the impact, which makes you feel worse than not hitting him at all.

"we are!" alastor exclaims, his radio tone reverberating loudly as if he has no decorum. his yellowed grin spread wider, fluorescent stitches at the corners of his mouth tugging briefly taut before relaxing. you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose firmly until a pale cast lingers on your skin.

"i'm gonna kill you once i figure out what i can use to get the job done." you glare, entering the elevator with a sigh. the space is clean, the chrome surfaces practically sparkling in the dim light. you press a small button, the elevator whirring to life before starting its grueling climb to the thirteenth floor - vox's office.

alastor darts you a side-eyed glance, tapping his foot rhythmically to the sound of nothing but mechanical clanks.

you start to exit the elevator in silence before the doors slam shut in your face. a smooth, artificial voice comes to life from above.

"access denied - security cameras compromised." you groan and turn to alastor, knowing his entire ordeal with being recorded was the culprit for this mishap.

"we're getting in there; how... remains to be seen." alastor's grin falls somewhat flat, although it confused you in the realm of possibility.

"very helpful, dumbass." you roll your eyes and press the button for the ground floor, refusing to say anything else for the entire descent.

"why are you so wound up about such a thing? you can simply go in there alone if you want to see it so badly." alastor drops his head to one side like a curious puppy. his tone is slightly skeptical, prodding.

"be so for real." you stop, eyes glaring in disbelief. you cross your arms over your chest and chuckle dryly, "millenias of being my best friend and you think i am doing anything without you? shut up. let's go home."

[mraprilfools]

Word Count: 8.5k

Rating: M Pairing: GEN

CW/TW: Graphic Depiction of Suicide

Summary: Before Vox died, he was a cult leader. In the final days leading up to his death he makes one last friend. Part of a collection of One-shots, you don't need to read the rest for context. Preview under the cut.

“Where did all this blood come from?”

When you live with seven full-grown women on a farm, you expect to find blood sometimes. Either when they were butchering the chickens or had their little time of the month staining the sheets and clothing. That was normal, and Vincent was used to it! But it was something else entirely to come home from a monthly trip to find your living room looking like a murder scene! Which is exactly what it was! Vincent was careful about his visits outside the farm, isolation kept his Cult pliable and stupid. Obedient. And he masked it as keeping them pure so they only heard the word of the Lord. So when one of those trips ended up with a bloody mess?

It started to fill you with some… regrets.

There were signs that there was some attempt to clean it. Women knew how to clean blood, but they would have to throw out and burn the whole carpet at this point. All they accomplished was making it even more conspicuous. Vincent’s foot tapped at the carpet, mismatched eyes locked with the first man or woman who would meet his. They all shrank back, with one man looking particularly guilty. Allan, one of his most…. Devoted admirers.

Contrary to many cult leaders, Vincent was equally inclined to men and women and happily sampled from both sexes to exert his control.

Right now, Allan was being far too obvious with the way he was poking his fingers together and staring at the floor. The only thing was, he was so… pathetic most times he hardly could believe he would cause this much blood. The closer Vincent got, the more Allan’s body started to stiffen. A single digit was put beneath the chin and he had become putty in his hands; like always. Vincent pushed his head up to meet his eyes, speaking to him gently as he did whenever he lavished him with praise.

“Allan, look at me.”

Those chocolate brown eyes sheepishly met with his sapphire blue and brown. A smile spread across Vincent’s face, his palm brushing affectionately over his lost lamb telling him it would all be O.K.

“Now… tell me. What happened?”

Allan swallowed hard, nervously darting his eyes to meet with the mismatched pair of their beloved leader. Devilishly handsome, charming, and far too easy on the eyes. A gentle smile was all it took and he was spilling out his guts, figuratively. But he would do so literally if he so much as asked. “Keith was spreading doubt among the others once you left. He said that you’re t-trying to keep us isolated because you believe it will lead us away from you. And not because it would keep us p-pure.”

Vincent nodded, nudging him forward with a gentle yank. “Go on.” He cooed encouragement to the other. Warm fingers tickled at his chin, and his throat, cupped his cheeks holding him like he was something precious. Something that him melt into the touch fluttering his eyes intoxicated by the promise. Of what Vincent could offer.

“So I grabbed an ice pick and impaled him through the ears. If he should be deaf to your words, Savior… then he does not need them.” Devotional words of supplication, but all Vincent heard were words that had his blood freezing in his veins. There was a lot police would ignore. A bunch of consenting adults living on a farm in bumfuck nowhere? Fine. Several married couples living under one roof? Sure! The massive amount of drugs being smuggled in? That he could pin on other people. But murder?

Murder changed everything.

“I see! I see. So Keith was speaking blasphemy and you silenced him for it.” No big deal! They could hide the body and pretend he simply went...missing! Vincent yanked his hand back, pacing around the room. Blood tracked over his nice new shoes, creating bloody imprints on the carpet. Nervous laughter bubbled from the manic cult leader. A man who was doing everything he could to keep it all together. Cleaning other's messes was his specialty!

“Um, Vincent… sir?” Allan sheepishly tried to call out, reaching a hand for his shoulder. A touch that he instantly denied with a roll of his shoulder. Touch happened only on Vincent’s prerogative.

“It’ll be fine--! We can fix this! Allan! Where is Mary?” Keith had a wife and child. It would suck to have to silence the wife, but one of the other women could raise the child. Keep her in the basement for reconditioning. If both of them disappeared leaving the child behind, he could weave a sympathetic story about how their coven stepped up to become her new family. A found family! Saps loved those kinds of tales. Heels continued to click, splattering blood from his incessant pacing. A million different scenarios playing out in his head trying to find the ideal.

“We haven’t seen Mary all day...” One of the women spoke.

“She ran out of the house when Allan attacked Keith, remember!” Another followed up.

Vincent whipped his head around, wheeling around to push his face into the last speaker. Her name was… Amanda. This one was Amanda. His hands clapped on her shoulders, fingers digging into her shoulders. A manic smile spread across his face. “You don’t say. And you didn’t think to stop her WHY?”

Amanda squeaked in shock, turning her head away. Her hands tugged and picked each other, knees knocking together obnoxiously together. A homely woman, but one who was exceptionally devotional after a single fuck. And he kept her waiting for years for that fated one more night to show he truly did love her!

But Vincent loved nobody. He was never capable, he’d been raised in a loveless household and only wanted one thing. For people to notice him. To look at him. And he lapped at their love, never returning it because the void was never filled.

“Well, you said that everyone is here because they want to be Vincent. I figured Mary was having a hysterical fit but… she’d return. The True God’s gospel can only be found here after all.” Vincent’s nails bit into her shoulders. He slowly inhaled and exhaled to calm the rising anger in his belly. It was fine! They could handle this! They simply had to find Mary!

“Call all the able-bodied men. We need to find Mary and bring her back ASAP. No harm to the child. You’ll do this for me, won’t you Amanda?” Vincent leaned in, whispering into her ear. He could see the rising color to her face and he relished the power he had over her. Even when all he ever gave her anymore was a hint of a promise.

“Yes, Vincent! Anything you say.” So eager to please. He rewarded her with a chaste kiss against her cheek, and even that much was enough to bring a feverish color to her face and a sparkle in her eye.

“That’s my good girl. We meet at the meeting grounds in fifteen minutes. Wear a good pair of shoes, Amanda, I would hate for you to get hurt.”

Because it’d be a pain in the ass you carry you back.

The speed at which she zipped out of the room would have brushed pleasantly against his ego if he wasn’t dealing with a crisis right now. Today, all Vincent could think about was the little rat who slipped free and could potentially throw everything he worked for under the bus.

Follow the link for the full story!

[originemesis]

@voxistem from xxx

TV TROPES DOT ORG, GIVE ME THE RUN DOWN. UH OH, LOOKS LIKE A CLASSIC CASE OF IMMORTAL IMMATURITY. but never you mind, dear audience! your host lives with velvette and valentino, he can handle a tantrum or two. this one comes with the added bonus of a holy, angelic soul. well, not so holy anymore but angelic nonetheless. you don't just throw away this kind of opportunity. angel souls are a hefty sum of power, like a briefcase stuffed with wads of cash, requiring transfers in intervals. a little wining and dining, some added expenses — boom, contract signed. and hey, the feathered menace is steadily growing on him. if nothing else, vox has always been fond of rock. ( not necessarily when it's blasting through the tower at three in the morning, but he's adjusting. ) vox makes a show of looking him up and down appreciatively, LED grin flashing across his display as he taps a claw against adam's mask, a static-laced chuckle sounding from his speakers. the fuckboy look suits him. ❝ the prettiest. ❞ the overlord drawls, snaking a clawed grip around the fallen angel's waist, mostly just to hold him in place and steer him down the corridor, in the direction of the elevator, with no more fuss. they have reservations after all. ❝ purple's a good colour on you, birdy. might have to get you more of this. what'dya think, huh? i'm sure vel would love to have you model for her. ❞ out front, there's a limo awaiting them.

Well, it wasn't like he could say this was his preferential placement and all, but it did beat lying in a puddle of blood and used condoms that weren't even his outside of that fucking Lucifer's place...even with cunt^3'd over there vamping on his soul. If it looked like a leech, latched like a leech, and smiled like a leech- it was probably just a TV. In this case, one with legs and enough influence in hell to keep him from getting bulldozed by all the sinners he'd tortured over the years- or worse yet: bored. That was one thing he didn't do very well at all with that attention span of his.

Neck craned down fairly far as if to acknowledge his company, but eyes swiveled elsewhere in a non-committal toss and subsequent roll, he would have his attention brought back to the center of his mask jarringly with the tapping of a claw and the surge of static that came with it and scrambled his face display a brief moment. Oh...? Equalizer bars slanted diagonally shot up and down a quavering moment across the bridge of his visor in the regular golden shade of his features mimicking the stain that was likely dusted across his face underneath at the relenting of a confirmation he didn't expect, but nonetheless packed onto the pile of his steadily stacking Jenga tower of an ego. He'd opened his mouth to pitch whatever saucy thought scuttled out from the knocked over leaf hiding his inner lizard of a mindset, but a side of squawk only emerges once he's yanked over by the hip and ushered towards the doors with a firm, but final say. They were late, and the walking microwave wasn't going to stand for it...or leave him to his Fortnite quests.

"Ehh- mid on most normies. I can elevate it though. Not sure Pinkie-Pie would appreciate the extra work with that hate boner she's got for me." He mused while fussing with a golden stud at the end of his horn, tugging like one might an earring when their hands had little else to do. The 'birdy' doesn't fly under his radar, but he merely huffs a challenge of sorts at the branding.

Challenge accepted.

"Y'know, TV-Din-Dins ~ " The angel mused once he'd been bolstered over to the opening of the ride, talons digging in to the top of the vehicle and scratching his mark in with a firm screech. A sly grin slipped over his shoulder at the one looking to boot him in. "You keep playing the right channel, and I just might let you Netflix and chill a little more soul out of me later." Not that he would. Sometimes it was just cathartic to be simped over for no damned reason other than personal profit. Maybe women did have a cheat code.

[helluvasinsxhazbinoverlords]

Beelzebub's Honey Pot

"Aw yeah, this place is it. I can just feel the tasty vibes I can get from opening up a nightclub here," Beelzebub said as she looked over the nearly run down two story building in front of her. That fact it was still standing would be a complete surprise to most sinners and demons.

"With all due respect ma'am, are you sure? Maybe some place not as... run down would be better," a small female hellhound said while looking at the building. Run down was putting it nicely to be honest.

"Fuck yeah I am. You just gotta have a little imagination and good vibes little drop." Beelzebub would stretch a bit, followed by bouncing up and down a little bit. "Alright, let's get this shit going." The Sin would snap her fingers, honey colored lights rising up around her before flowing into the building.

As the light went throughout the building it began to instantly repair itself, looking like it was brand new in a matter of minutes. The color then changes to be white with yellow accents.

"Boom, bitching new nightclub ready to be set up. Be a dear and call up the pack to set shit up little drop. I got a bitchin announcement to make," Beelzebub said while summoning a drink, downing it all in a single gulp.

"Yes ma'am," the hellhound said, pulling out a whistle and blowing into it. A portal would open up in an instant and hellhounds and imps alike began coming out while carrying tables, lights, dj equipment, and all kinds of drinks.

"Alright, let's see here," Beelzebub said while teleporting to the top of her newly bought building. "I'll just hijack Vox's shit for a second. He'll be pissed, though I'll make it up to him." The Sin would snap her fingers as a camera appearing in front of her. In an instant the foxhound was on every single TV in the Pride Ring.

"Sup you fucking party sinners. It's your Queen Bee here with a bitchin announcement. Opening up a totally vibing night club called Beelzebub's Honey Drop. Lots of drinks, food, music, and tasty good vibes. It'll also house direct access to the Gluttony Ring if your a lucky sinner who gets approved a pass. So come join one of the most bitching Sin's for a bitching party!" Beelzebub would then howl as her symbol appears in the sky for a moment. The Sin was about to cut the feed when she felt a tap on her thigh. "What's up little drop?"

"Don't forget King Lucifer's order ma'am," the hellhound said before heading back into the building.

"Shit, I knew I forgot something. Didn't help Lucifer was so fucking boring at the meeting." Beelzebub then looked at the camera once more.

"So Lucifer want's me to pick someone to, like, be my eyes and ears up here. Satan would say a second in command, though I vibe way more with a title like party house. Yeah, Beelzebub's Party Host. You'll get some of my Sin energy and more power in Hell, so, anyone who wants just come to my club and show me what you got." With that the Sin would cut the feed for real this time.

"Alright, back to the fun shit." Beelzebub would snap her fingers and a sign reading Beelzebub's Honey Pot would appear and attach itself to the building.

[natromanxoff]

Queen live at Colston Hall in Bristol, UK - November 18, 1975

x

The photos could be from either night.

This article from the November 29 issue of Sounds chronicles the second night in Bristol.

Queen triumphant

QUEEN ARE the type of group that make a man want to abandon rock writing. They pose questions and never provide answers. They exist in their own space-time continuum, visible and audible but keeping their secrets to themselves.

On the surface they couldn't be a nicer bunch of people, but they carry English reticence to an epitome. It isn't, as Geoff Barton said two weeks ago, that they're boring, it's just that they're reserved. Or in writer parlance, they don't automatically provide colourful copy. All my instincts as a writer tell me that there is a great story in that band, but after two nights with them I'm hardly any the wiser.

Skin tight

That their insularity has a lot to do with them being one of the most amazing heavy-metal and/or rock bands in Britain - with all the signs that they'll end up monsters on the order of Zep - is fairly obvious, but just how much bearing it has on the matter is hard to say. The enigmas they might pose mightn't even have answers.

Is there any logical reason why they present an image and persona straight out of the Beatles school of interlocking chemistry?

John is reserved, almost nonchalant on stage, as if it's all in a small, personal joke. When asked how he saw himself within the framework of the band he replied, with a small smile, "I'm the bassist".

Roger is his opposite, the cheeky sidekick in a Clint Eastwood movie, and attracting a lot of cheesecake attention in America and Japan.

Freddie is an original - one of the most dynamic singers to tread the boards in quite a few years. His attraction is obvious.

Brian is perhaps the biggest enigma of all. What is this seemingly frail, gaunt astronomer doing on that stage, striding purposefully and blasting diamond-hard rock? They're all equally strong personalities - like the Beatles there's no one major focal point. Ask four fans who their dream Queen is and you'll get four different answers.

Queen have been busy lads these past few months. Having disassociated themselves from their former management and joined with John Reid, the fourth album was seen to. Reid decided that a tight schedule wouldn't cause them undue harm, and figured on two months to record before embarking on this current tour.

Only Queen are driven to better each previous album - which at this stage of the game is obviously producing some excellent results - and 'A Night At The Opera' turned into a saga - culminating in 36-hour mixing sessions in an effort to allow at least a few days for rehearsal. In the end they managed three and a half days at Elstree with four hours off to videotape the promotional film for 'Bohemian Rhapsody'.

Their first few dates had not been without errors and the quartet were still not feeling totally comfortable their second night in Bristol, fourth night of the tour. You'd never know it, though.

Like all other aspects of the group, the stage is sophisticated. A black scrim provides a backdrop bounded by a proscenium of lights both front and rear. At each side the p.a. rises like a mutant marriage of Mammon and Robby the Robot. Amp power is readily evident but the most extraordinary is Brian May's subtle set up: nine Vox boxes stepping back in rows of three. The only packing crate visible is holding a tray of drinks, and you may rest assured that no roadie will rush, crawl or lurk across the stage while the show is in progress unless it's to rescue Freddie's mike from the clawing crowd.

As the auditorium darkens the sound of an orchestra tuning up is heard over the p.a. The conductor taps his baton on the music stand and a slightly effete voice welcomes the audience to A Night At The Opera. The Gilbert & Sullivan portion of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' follows, a brief glimpse of Freddie is allowed, and then in a blast of flares and white smoke the blitzkrieg begins.

Roger is barely visible behind his kit, just his eyes and tousled locks. John is wearing a white suit and playing the-man-who-must-stand-still-or-it-will-all-blow-away. Brian is slightly medieval in his green and white Zandra Rhodes top, while Freddie is...

Around his ankles his satin white pants flare like wings - fleet footed Hermes. Everything north of the knee is skin tight - tighter than skin tight - with a zip-up front open to AA rating. But further south, definitely in X territory, lurks a bulge not unlike the Sunday Telegraph.

There have been sex objects and sex bombs, superstar potency and the arrogant presentation of this all-important area, but never has a man's weaponry been so flagrantly showcased. Fred could jump up on the drum stand and shake his cute arse, leap about and perform all manner of amazing acrobatics, but there it was, this rope in repose, barely leashed tumescence, the Queen's sceptre. Oh to be that hot costume, writhing across the mighty Fred!

Phallic

Freddie is not pretty in the conventional sense of the word; like Mick Jagger of '64, he is his own convention. Also like the Jagger of the time, his stage persona and action is unlike anything else. Although it borrows - like most of the group's plagiarisms - slightly from Zeppelin, in tandem with Freddie's supreme assurance and belief in himself - he always refers to himself as a star - it explodes into something that is a constant delight to watch.

He reacts to his audience almost like an over-emotional actress - Gloria Swanson, say, or perhaps Holly Woodlawn playing Bette Davis. At the climax of the second night in Bristol he paused at the top of the drum stand, looked back over the crowd and with complete, heartfelt emotion placed his delicate fingers to lips and blew a kiss. Any person who can consume themselves so completely in such a clichéd showbiz contrivance deserves to be called a star.

Freddie's real talent, though, is with his mike stand. No Rod Stewart mike stand callisthenics here, just a shortee stick that doubles as a cock, machine gun, ambiguous phallic symbol, and for a fleeting moment an imaginary guitar. He has a neat trick of standing quite still in particularly frantic moments and holding the stand vertically from his crotch up, draw a fragile finger along its length, ever closer to the taunting eyes that survey his audience.

Their show contains lots of bombs and smoke, lots of lights, lots of noise. They fulfil the function of supremely good heavy metal - i.e. you don't get a second to think about what's going on. When they do let up for a few minutes, it's only so you can focus in on the bright blue electric charge crackling between your ears.

Bulldozer

Dominating the sound is Roger's drumming, a bulldozer echo that bounces like an elastic membrane, meshing with your solar plexus so that your body pulses in synch with the thunder. Tuned into that, everything else is just supremely nice icing.

For three days rehearsal, after eight months off the road Bristol was extremely impressive. In speculative mood I quizzed people on how long they thought it would take to headline Madison Square Garden. I was thought a radical at a year and a half. John Reid smilingly assured me it would take a year.

That Queen should end up with John Reid is an entirely logical proceeding. Everything about Queen demands that the world eventually kowtows at their feet in complete acquiescence - so big that bodyguards have to accompany them at every step. Well, no - they found that an annoyance in Japan, but, you know, huge.

Such status demands a Reid or a Peter Grant, and whatever the causes for their leaving Jack Nelson and Trident, an elegant group like Queen is going to look for a man with class. Reid found the idea of managing a group interesting, and having to deal with four strong personalities a challenge. He only concerns himself with their business and ensuring that the year ahead is mapped out. In January they begin a jaunt through the Orient, Australia and America, by which time it's March and they begin preparations for the next album.

Reid's prediction of a year was proven highly credible the next evening in Cardiff. The band had still not paused from the rush up to the tour and spent most of the day relaxing and sleeping - no doubt a factor in their near recumbent profile. Also, unlike most groups, they were keeping their dissatisfaction with the show to themselves.

They stopped off at Harlech TV on the way to see a cassette of the video for 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. The general consensus was quite good for four hours, with much laughter during the operetta. Brian finds film of the group educational - the first time he saw himself was a Mike Mansfield opus for 'Keep Yourself Alive' - "It was 'All right fellows, give it everything you've got but don't move off that spot.' It was terrible." You don't like Mansfield, eh? "Oh, I hate him - we all do... I was horrified when I saw it - I couldn't believe we looked that bad. I looked very static - seeing myself has taught me a lot about stage movement. Some of the things I do are planned for effect, but it's mostly just feeling the audience and communicating that back to them."

Arriving at the motel - several miles out of town - Freddie immediately fell asleep, John held court of a sort, joined later by Brian, while Roger went jogging, a daily event when touring. Tuning in to rock via Bill Haley and Tommy Steele, he became a drummer because he was better at it than guitar. All through school he was in bands; he only went to dental school out of "middle class conditioning, and it was a good way to stay in London without having to work". His mother thought it a bit strange when he opted for a career as a rock star, but she doesn't worry too much now.

The concert starts in much the same manner as the previous night, but there are signs that tonight is work, with posing an afterthought. The endings to most of their songs are magnificent and majestic, especially 'Flick Of The Wrist' and the rapid harmonies of 'Bad Boy Leroy Brown'.

Maniacal

The audience, seeing their faces in town for the first time, are vociferous in their appreciation. Guys know all the words to every song, yelling enthusiastically at every effect and solo. The band picks up, Freddie receiving the crowd beneficently, telling them they’re beautiful.

As the show builds it is obvious that things are gelling more. The previous night Brian had seemed totally out of place, not moving too much, taking solos with the weirdest half blank half possessed stare, talking to himself; cocking ear towards guitar. He was the proverbial stranger in a strange land, one step removed from the plane inhabited by you and me.

Tonight he moves fluidly, the gonzo lead guitarist of a gonzo band. His expressions are just as maniacal, but it only makes him look more demonic. His solo in 'Brighton Rock', an exposition in riffing and echo, is a treat because of his physical response to both music and audience, complete with ham acting. Freddie gets into the same game on 'The Prophet's Song', where he conducts an acapella madrigal with himself. It's a pretty commanding moment.

It’s soon after this that Madison Square seems reasonable. About a minute into 'Stone Cold Crazy' it becomes very obvious that Queen have suddenly Plugged In. Found the metal music machine and Connected. Freddie's movements explode in perfect unison with the music, the lights and surroundings go crazy, and the audience goes berserk.

Freddie asks for requests and receives a roar out of which one can vaguely make 'Liar'. Fred walks along the stage, nodding, agreeing he will do this one and that one while the kids roar on. "I'll tell you what - we'll do them all!"

'Doing Alright' opens slow and portentously. Queen's variation of light and shade is one of the major factors in their popularity, but even so the quiet sections frequently find the audience's mind wandering. One kid starts getting a joint together, totally forgetting it when everything blasts off again; guys talk among themselves, only to instantly leap to their feet, fists flying to the beat.

'Doing Alright' changes into a cha-cha beat, Freddie snapping his fingers, the coolest hipster in town, and then instantly drops into faster-than-light drive - the whole row next to me leaps to their feet as a man, rocking back and forth as Brian roars into a blinding solo.

Two songs later, in 'Seven Seas of Rye', the kids break - very fast - and in five seconds half the audience is a seething mass in front of the stage, climbing on each other in pyramids, sudden openings appearing as a splintering seat sends a few bodies to the floor.

The rest of the show is equally intense, especially for a couple of minutes during 'Liar; where Fred and Brian merge into a tight little triangle with Roger while John stands in front of the bass drum, staring out with his small smile.

Freddie has treated his encores - 'Big Spender' and 'Jailhouse Rock' - differently on successive nights, once appearing in a kimono and in Bristol with rather rude tight white shorts, giving the song title new emphasis. In Cardiff, though, he doesn't bother to change at all. Later it transpired that Brian had twisted his ankle during 'Liar'. While he’s attended to, kids out front pick up chair slivers to keep as mementos.

On the bus back to the hotel Brian sits quietly at the back, chatting with two girls. John sits at the front, as always. Freddie stares out of the window, lost in his own world. Roger bounces around, starts a pillow fight with Brian - which stops as soon as Brian scores a direct hit to the face - then discovers an eight track of 'Sheer Heart Attack', punching it through the channels as he conducts the group. The two hours towards which they have channelled the day's energies are spent.

Ambition

That Queen have become a top attraction through a fair degree of plagiarism is amusing. Stealing is nothing new in rock (or any art for that matter) and mostly Queen use the borrowed material better than the originals. That they would be big I don't think anybody really doubted. All four have immense desire to be successful, and that kind of ambition will keep them slogging until they achieve it.

But there are popular heavy metal bands and there are popular h-m bands. From watching Queen's audience it is apparent that Queen speak for them in a way that bands such as the Who and the Stones and the Beatles spoke (and continue to speak) to their audience. Uriah Heep may be great at what they do, but five years after their demise who'll remember them? Creedence Clearwater Revival demonstrate the same thing - who remembers them? And yet five years ago they were the largest band in the world.

Queen will probably always be remembered, because as their tour is beginning to demonstrate, they have the ability to actualise and encompass the outer limits of their sense of self-importance. Queen and their music, presentation, production - everything about them says that they are more important than any other band you've every heard, and who has there been, so far, who has objected? Certainly not the 150,000 people (plus 20,000 a day) who bought 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in the first 20 days of its release. Certainly not me.

See you at Madison Square Garden.

[text © J. Ingham 2007; photos © Kate Simon]

~ You can see the photos which was mentioned on the article, from the link on the title. ~