#this was a bonus item in the black parade cd box i got

[r4tz-v0m]

24$ mcr ticket .. 2007.. oh I need a chair

[angelasscribbles]

Mardi Gras Mayhem (Bonus) Chapter 12: Leo's Phone

Series: Mardi Gras Mayhem (click the link to read each one in order!)

Fandom: TRR                                                                       

Pairings: none, this is a guy’s weekend

Summary: The TRR lads celebrate Maxwell’s 21st birthday in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Synopsis: Leo's phone goes on a wild adventure.

Word Count: 788

Rating: MA

Warning: brief nudity mentioned

This is part of a collaboration written for @choicesprompts March 2023 prompt.

The phone had a custom lion-emblazoned phone case with the words 'Totally Roarsome’ splashed across it. It had been owned by the crown prince for a scant three months. Leo had a bad habit of losing, tossing, or outright destroying his phones.

There was a line item in the royal budget that read “Phone replacement-Leo”.

Its short life as a prince’s phone was over. It left his hand along with the phone encased in a more sensible dark blue Otter box and landed next to it on the floor of a parade float.

Glitter and tiny bits of paper streamers attached themselves to it.

The float lurched to a stop, the blue phone slid further into the middle and the little white one was jostled to the side, holding precariously onto the edge.

Beads poured forth from the float. Hands waved in the air, grabbing for them. Cheap plastic trinkets spewed into the air, some of them dropping to the ground, a few of them landing on the edge of the ostentatious platform. Greedy fingers reached over the edge, scooping the treasures up.

The phone found itself in the grasp of a middle-aged man with a growing midsection and receding hairline. “What the fuck?” He stared down at the phone in his hand. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s phone? With a shrug, he put it in his pocket and continued down the street.

The phone rested in the darkness of a front pocket, loose change, and keys shifting with every step, nicking and scratching the screen.

The footsteps slowed and stopped.

A female voice called out, “Got any beads?”

“Naw, sorry, I tried but-“

“Well, what will you give me if I flash you?”

“Uh….”  A sweaty hand dug around in the pocket and grasped the little white phone, fingers smearing the screen. The phone was brought out into daylight again and held out toward the young college coed, “Cell phone?”

“I’ll take it!” She raised her shirt giving him a ten-second unfettered view of a pair of perky tits that had to be D-cups. Then she lowered her shirt, swiped the phone out of his hand, and ran giggling back to her friends.

Clean hands that smelled like lotion or soap or nail polish passed the phone from hand to hand as the group of girls turned off the parade route and made their way down a side street.

“What are you going to do with that phone?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like I need a second phone. Hmmm….”

The melodious strains of “Proud Mary” floated across the boulevard as the group passed a man leaning against a building, guitar case open at his feet.

The hand clutching the phone tightened as an inspired giggle rang out, “Oh! If you’ll play Sweet Home Alabama, I’ll give you this phone!”

“Okay,” the guy agreed.

The phone in the lion case was tossed into the case as the notes of “Sweet Home Alabama” filled the air.

The phone rested in the black crushed velvet case, bits of glitter and colored paper still sticking to it, the screen smudged from sweaty hands, the case carrying a faint whiff of lotion and nail polish, all remnants of its wild adventure. The song ended and the sound of female voices and laughter faded as the group moved on.

The phone’s new owner counted the money he’d made and put it in his pocket. He then dropped the cell phone into his backpack, put the guitar in its case, and headed home.

The phone slipped downward in the backpack, sliding past notebooks, a water bottle, demo CDs, and headphones to settle at the bottom amongst guitar picks and loose change.

It lodged in the bottom corner where the seam was coming apart, wedging itself into the tear and slipping slowly further out of the bag with every jolt and thud until it dropped out of the hole and landed in the dingy grime outside the backdoor of a gumbo restaurant.

The little white phone skidded to a stop in the back alley. The brightness of its exuberant shine dulled by the rubbish of its surroundings, the previous excitement and noise of its journey now a distant memory.

The phone sat, unmoving.

Suddenly a noise. A crunch of plastic.

“Tarnations! Not the damn turt— Well what do we have here?”

Greasy fingers grasped the white plastic of the phone case, lifting it into the air.

“Well, hullo there! Youse Bubba’s phone now I reckon!” The voice was filled with pleased surprise.

The little phone was happy as the man gently wiped the dirt and grime from it on the underside of his apron and lowered it into his pocket.