harlow is a motherfucking monster (monsterrmash) wrote in immune_ic, @ 2012-05-05 20:23:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | # 2012 [05] may |
WHO: Mort and Harlow
WHAT: An encounter
WHERE: Around Manhattan, NYPL
WHEN: May 4, 2019
RATING: Medium
STATUS: In progress
Harlow didn't believe in safety precautions, but he did believe in discretion. He scaled the side of a building without much forethought, carrying a backpack heavy with supplies strapped to his back. Fumbles and near-falls were par for the course, especially when he was half-drunk as he was. Even when his grip slipped, he invariably kept going as if he'd never made an error at all, treating every misstep as if it was all part of his plan in the first place. He teetered merrily along the edge of billboard scaffolding as he wheat pasted his posters or painted out his murals, never very concerned with the idea that he might fall to his death. Like a cat, Harlow felt perfectly at home at high altitudes, and so far he always seemed to land on his feet.
He only took any sort of care after he had finished his job for the day. He carried with him a change of clothes and a fresh pair of shoes in a sealed plastic bag, not about to return to the safehouse speckled with paint. On that particular night, he completed a rather enormous piece that involved layered stencils he made from a blown up vector created out of a photo he took of one of the guards looming over a young woman in one of the safehouses. The repeated stencil blended with a kaleidoscope of colors along with a message, "A GOOD DEAL OF TYRANNY GOES BY THE NAME OF PROTECTION." He finished with his signature crown and cross before descending, paint-stained and dizzily rambunctious. The entire process of scoping out a location, making the climb and creating a painting always riled him up like nothing else, and simply returning to Madison Square Garden was hardly an option. Instead, Harlow headed in the direction of a ravaged bank, which was a perfect midpoint between most of the safehouses and had come to serve as his stash spot for all his painting supplies. As reckless as he was, he wasn't quite stupid enough to walk into a safehouse with a backpack full of spray paint. He might as well have pinned a bulls eye to his forehead. Harlow messed his fingers through his inky black hair as he made his way through the darkened streets, trying to decide where the urge to stir up trouble would take him that night.