Katou (katoustheshit) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2016-06-20 08:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, kenzi malikov, yue katou |
Who: Katou and Kenzi
When: Recently
What: Kenzi comes across a busker
Where: Downtown somewhere
Ratings/Warnings: Fairly low. Some fetish talk.
Status: Complete
Maybe with his sweet new job being Kanan’s errand boy Katou didn’t need to go out and busk anymore. But he liked having the extra money in his pocket, and since he no longer had a band it really was his only chance to go out and play music.
Besides, it was a beautiful day, and Katou couldn’t think of much else he’d rather do than sit around in the sun playing The Dead Milkmen on his acoustic guitar. He sung around a cigarette in his mouth, and as some woman ushered her small children around him with a look of wary distrust, Katou made sure to shoot her a toothy grin which made her quicken her step.
Homeless, random entertainer, or con artist? Endless possibilities, but Kenzi had seen it all in her youth and thensome - she had sympathy buried under a sharp sense of caution when it came to people on the streets. Once upon a time she was actually all of the above, though the kid (she pinned him around high school age, maybe) looked well-fed and didn’t reek of dumpster dives.
“Liiiiiiiittle bit of a morbid song, don’tcha think?” This epitome of a gothic pinup wasn’t the least bit shy, dressed in thigh-high boots with criss-cross lace on the front, a light blazer that appeared like a corset on the back, and a bright red summery dress underneath. It matched the twin extensions in her hair; a nice splash of color among the sleek blackness. “Maybe if you play some sappy Bruno Mars song you’ll get more moolah in your cup.”
Kenzi had been out doing a fair share of unimportant things, like heading towards a little boutique shoe store rumored to have an authentic pair of glass slippers in front - and this dude just happened to be along the way.
“Bruno Mars? Is that that ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ guy?” Katou asked, his eyebrows furrowed. Ask him a question about punk music and Katou probably had an answer; he was even starting to brush up on his metal music. But he was more or less lost when it came to pop. “I think I’d rather set myself on fire. Besides, it ain’t morbid. It’s a love song, dontchaknow?” he asked, grinning cheekily at the girl.
Hahaha. Good thing she wasn’t drinking anything, she would have spat the liquid in his face after laughing so hard. “Pfft, no,” she grinned. “You’re thinking of - oh, nevermind.” Kenzi had to hand it to him, though, he was good at strumming those strings. Fishing into the depths of her purse, she pulled out a couple bucs and slipped it to him.
“You don’t snooze on benches at night and give gross men favors for fifty cents, do you?” Crap on a stick, she hoped not, but when living the life of a gutter rat the options were limited. Hell, she’d done several things she wasn’t proud of for the sake of survival - sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do to get a twinkie from the convenience store the next day for breakfast.
Katou shrugged, an amused glint in his eye as she laughed at him. If it had been for some other reason, he might have been annoyed, but he really couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed about that tidbit. “Ah well, I was close,” he said.
He took the money she offered him and put it into his pocket before he answered her question. “Not no more,” he said. Not that he’d ever given gross men favours, and the only time he ever slept on the beach was when he passed out there. He got the general idea. “I got a real job and place to stay these days. But hey, sometimes a guy misses getting spare cash for singing badly.”
Kenzi wouldn’t judge. Not like she had the room to - the streets had been her home once upon a time after she made the decision to get the hell out of her mother’s. Mama Malikov had chosen her creepy and handsy boyfriend (now husband) over her, believed nothing of what she’d said, and sleeping under newspaper on a sidewalk was a better fate than living under that stupid roof.
It all worked out in the end; she spun shit into gold and like the musician dude here, had a job and a place to stay.
“Good for you,” she complimented. And because she wasn’t in some kind of rush she propped her Russian bum onto the cement next to him, legs crossed over the other because she was a lady and, ew, don’t look at her winking eye of god, peeps. “I never had the talents to sing for cash, but I was reaaaaaal good at having sticky fingers. Worked out alright for awhile. Where are you from, anyhow?”
“Sticky fingers, eh?” Katou asked, and scootched away from her in a teasing manner. “I don’t got the subtly for that. I was more of a ‘punch someone in the face and take their wallet’ kind of guy back in the day. Anyway, you don’t really need no talent to busk. You could sound like two cats fucking and if you look pathetic enough, people’ll still give you money.
“I’m from here,” he said. “Haven’t even left sunny Cali before. What about you? You from around here?”
Kenzi prided herself when it came to her skill of stealth - she was also a charmer, a fantastic (and sometimes cheesy) actress that lured people into a false sense of comfort the moment her paws slipped in and snatched their wallets. Cash, credit cards to skim, any jewelry with enough shine that looked like it’d fetch her a pretty penny somewhere; it was her income for the longest time.
Punching was usually left as a resort of self-defense.
“Waaaaaaaay across the Canadian border. I’ve been in the states for a while though, opened my own website of fetishes until the long-lost brother I found told me to stop selling used panties and peanut butter my toes have been in,” she pouted. “I hate it when people want to make an honest woman out of me. They’re full of all kinds of good intentions I want to smack them for but can’t.”
Katou couldn’t help the look of amused disgust on his face. “Peanut butter?” he asked. “Who the hell buys literal toe jam? The hell do they use it for? They don’t eat it, do they?” Because seriously, eating peanut butter that had someone’s stinking toes in it sounded like some sort of psychological torture, not something that people would get off on.
“Hey, who am I to question what the weirdos use it for? Thing is, they paid half a grand a jar for that stuff - and all I had to do is wiggle my toes in it,” she shrugged. It wasn’t a bad gig, and she missed the money, but nowadays her focus was on helping make sure Killian passed his PI test. And selling less than weird things, like thongs with an octopus jeweled in the center.
Anyway, there was also the part where Kenzi just really didn’t want to know. Ever. Pay up, carry on with life. “And since we’re such buddies that can talk about toe jam, I’m Kenzi. In case you were wondering.”
“Five hundred?!” Katou exclaimed. “No shit? How’s a guy sign up for something like that?” Katou’d stick his whole damn foot in a jar of peanut butter if someone would give him five hundred dollars for it. “Kenzi, huh? I’m Katou. You got any requests, Kenzi?”
“Nice to meet you. I have my own website - it’s where I sold and advertised,” Kenzi snickered. “Bunch of used stuff, too, I used to have all sorts of girls send me their gross things and I’d sell them and give them their cut.” Toenail clippings were some of the merchandise she’d given too, among other things. “That’s how one girl I knew paid off her student loans.” Questionable things in the name of survival was her thing, but she wasn’t desperate for a roof over her head and wondering when the next meal was. Kinda nice, to be comfortable with life. “I have a few competitor sites if you’re interested?”
But as a request, hmmmmmmm. She thought for a minute, then ended up shrugging, clueless. Nothing came to mind unless he could do some acoustic Lady Gaga stuff. “Surprise me.”
“I’ll think on it,” Katou said. He wondered what Kanan would say if he walked into the kitchen one day with Katou cramming his feet into jars of peanut butter. Maybe it’d be worth it just to see the look on Kanan’s face. Then again, Kanan was full of surprises. Maybe he’d talk about how he too had once stuck body parts into jars of crap and then sold them to perverts.
It was probably a good thing that she hadn’t requested Lady Gaga. For one, Katou definitely didn’t know how to play any pop songs on his guitar. Instead, he decided she probably deserved a Katou Original. It wasn’t anything special, really. It was pretty maybe, with a couple of complicated riffs inspired by spanish guitar, though it definitely drew most of it’s style from punk, the strings plucked with his metal-tipped fingers. “You know, in Japan they’ve got vending machines for used panties. Probably a big market for it over there. What’re you doing now that you ain’t selling your delicates to creepy old dudes?”
Vending machines. For used panties. Sweet baby Buddha, that was both gross yet genius and where would they - ? Nevermind. Kenzi would look it up later. “Website’s still up, so I tend to decorate plain lingerie and thrifty shoes and sell ‘em. My target audience are usually dancers of the various sort,” she hinted. Strippers, burlesque, bellydancers, so forth. “And I’m helping my brother start a PI gig. Family business and all.”
Eventually people went on to better, bigger things - it seemed true for the dude here too, considering he didn’t exactly need to do this for income? “And you? What are you stuck doing for earn a living?”
“Private I., eh?” Katou grinned. “Here that’s exciting work, camping out all night to see if someone’s spouse is fooling around on them. Maybe you’ll get a chance to sell used panties again when you’re parked in sleazy motel parking lots. Get double the money.
“Well, I’m graduating high school in a couple weeks, so that mostly,” he said. He tried to sound indifferent about it, though there was a hint of pride in his voice. He hadn’t thought a high school diploma was something he’d ever have to hang on his wall, but he was close enough now he could taste it. “And I got some job as like, a personal assistant. You know, picking up lunch and drycleaning,” killing former business associates, “shit like that.”
“We’re trying to go for respectably, sadly,” she sighed, oh so dramatically. The woes of adulthood. Professionalism and maturity, boooooo. But it wouldn’t hurt to learn for the future, because who knew where’d that take her? The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint Killian, too. It was easier when no one cared, but there was someone around who was invested in her well-being, emotionally, and she didn’t want him worrying for some stupid reason.
High school, though - Kenzi figured he was young but still, damn. She stood from her spot next to him, dusting herself off. “Congraaaaaats, dude, that’s farther than some of us have ever even gotten! Look at you, American success story. Just don’t end up at Trump University.”
“Bummer, man,” Katou said. “Professionalism is the pits.”
Katou didn’t pay much attention to politics, or the oompa loompa known as Trump, but he had heard enough to know that Trump University was some kind of fake, even if he didn’t really know exactly how. “I dunno, I think a fake University would be the only one that’d accept me,” he grinned.
“Ugh, hells to the no, Kitty,” Kenzi scoffed and, yes, she knew his name - but it was also her duty to coin some kind of obnoxious title for all those she’d met. Kitty was more memorable, alright? “You got some hope, don’t follow the crumb trail of a dorito. Anyway, I’ll see you around, maybe? This girl has new kicks to buy.”
Katou practically recoiled, though even as he spoke he knew that anyone who reacted with dread to one of his nicknames would be stuck with it for life. “Kitty Katou? You can do better than that. You better think of something cooler when you’re off buying kicks, Toe Jam.”
Toe Jam. Touche, touche. Kenzi had to give a proper salute to that one. “I’ll come up with something,” she hummed in thought, then winked one pretty blue eye at him. “Assuming I’ll see your face again, Kitty. But congrats on the graduation. Stay out of trouble and out of the car’s of creepy old men.”
Sage advice. She so needed to start her own online advice column, for realsies.