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@emceepls
... so, throughout rp-able decades & verses, it's forever safe to assume Em owns and performs in a seedy lil club at the corner of Nowhere and Shouldn't Go There, and he loves socializing / thrives on the lawless debauchery he allows / demands all the attention / has a heavy german accent; thank you.
lil psa no one asked for just stating; i’ll never pic a FC for Em, it’s a grab bag of theatrical Master of Ceremonies FUN over here sry for the indecisiveness & YOU’RE WELCOME.
!! @wiltpetals ring ting’a linged for a starter !! ( ... just something small for Sally )
“Of your terrible ideas, my most precious dove: I must say--”
Did she really need his condescension, or the huff of cigar smoke that’d been sent to cloud about her face? Of course not. But, she was in his room, after having interrupted his pleasant evening with the bottle, and he hardly sees a reason to put a shirt on, let alone stub his cigar out.
But he does laugh-- maniacally, even-- before aiming a knowing point across at his dear friend as she prepared to, he assumes, better explain... or at least try to save face... but not before he gets a final little BITE in...
“You’ve certainly outdone yourself.”
wiltpetals
slowly but surely, little helga had gotten accustomed to the klub, finding it homely compared to her bare, damp and cold little shambles of a room. and also, in comparison to her day job where the bosses overworked her, underpaid her and treated her like rubbish. at least here, she was somewhat exotic, rouged up by one of the older women and wearing a pastel pink slip, silk! her little heels click as she makes her way along, hoping to go and get cleaned up before slipping out to go home; maybe, if she was lucky, her landlady had a loaf of bread from which she could steal a few slices as the woman slept. her bra is padded with notes, ones given to her by men who may have held her waist tight, but who expected little else from her and also spoke a language she barely understood, leaving her brain free to wander and enjoy her lemonade. but now, she’s escaping quietly andalas, she’s caught! by a friend. her eyes travel to the group of men as she sips his gin (tryinghard not to spit it out; it’s foul), “ i don’t know. “ she answers, in english - clever little bird. sally bowles was an intimidating woman, but one that had recently instilled a piece of advice in helga: never tell anyone who tips you. share that knowledge with nobody other than your diary. and that was what she was living by. faltering back to german, helga shrugs and hands back his drink, hoping to soothe him with a cuddle – mainly because she needed the cuddle, “ i don’t remember. i don’t even think i’ve been given any tips. “
... her chirping only leaves our Master Of Ceremonies covering his heart upon releasing her... OFFENDED! Not only-- or, really, at all-- that she’d decided to keep it a secret: but more so that she really thinks he’s blind enough to not know what’s going on in HIS KIT KAT KLUB... while he’s still in the vicinity, even! THE NERVE, THE AUDACITY, his little Helga is learning... !!!
Fine. Fine. “Trust me, liebling, if I wanted your tips, I’d have gotten them before those boys even got ‘hold’of you.” this is business. Em doesn’t want her cuddles or her lies, and he’s more than aware both are all she’s currently willing to give. Of course he could explain: the more generous patrons get better tables, they get waited on first, they get the girls directed their way post-show... but Helga, as adorable and lovely as she is, certainly wouldn’t concoct the thought to LIE to him all on her own... at least, she better not have... he’s so proud of her!
“What’s your rush, the night’s still young.” No. No it’s not, but the powder he’s already sniffed absolutely overruns any ticking of the clock, and he’s not so willing to let her wander away if she’s not even willing to play the game properly...
“-- not going to be a party pooper, now are you?” asked with a substantial hike of both brows, as he takes a heavy drink of his gin.
Stylist Andrew Richardson caressed by a Russian circus performer, photographed by Steven Meisel as part of the Madonna photo essay ‘Flesh + Fantasy’ for Rolling Stone magazine, 1991.
!! @wiltpetals ring ting’a linged for a starter !! ( HELGA !? )
Expert. He’s an expert at this, with her, at least-- not that it takes much effort in the least. As soon as poor little Helga turns a corner; she’s got an ivory limb reaching out, curling about her waist, reeling her right on in to his web much like a spider would with a catch.
But it’s only Em. Compared to all the other fellows who’ve bothered her most the evening, he’s assuming he’s a breath of fresh air. After all, even if he is deciding when she’s due for a coddle: Em’s happy to deliver, politely, after she’s settled near enough so he can perch chin atop blonde tresses.
“Meine liebe--” his precious little darling, isn’t she? Lovely little baby Helga. Em tosses an arm over her shoulder, the other hand offering his gin and tonic for her to have a taste, and points at the little crowd of men in much nicer suits than he could ever afford. “Helga, dearest; which one of those fellows gave you the biggest banknote?” one of those silly men has far too much money and Em is entirely interested in getting his hands on at least some of it.
“I’ve got a darling ensemble to exchange for your troubles... almost as Darling as you are...”
!! @goldensqueeze ring ting’a linged for a starter !!
"Oh, hooo! They said we’d have a VIP, but I must say, you nearly ruined my second act--”
the typical crowd had begun to dwindle; but Em wasted not even a moment after curtain call to flounce on off stage. A bouquet of roses was bundled in the crook of his arm, stolen from their resident diva by The Ultimate Diva himself, and he made quite a show of swatting at Robert’s table with the dozen...
glasses rattled! bottles clinked! rose petals blossomed- scattered- rained down upon them. better than a fuckin’ drum roll, indeed, and perfect for an entrance such as his..
Once satisfied by their petal-commotion, Em flung himself into the nearest chair, abandoning the now-ruined flowers to the floor. “Giving my girls weak knees, how dare you, Sir!” His smile certainly doesn’t match the tone, and if there were any sincere frustration within him; it’s getting buried right back down with anything else genuine trying to bubble a way to his surface. “I had to drag my youngest off with a cane, a HOOK: she’d gone all peeking and poking through the curtain, it was devastating, embarrassing.”
Em wanted the chance to meet him first, after all.
“The show, my good Man! MIIIISTER PLANT: the SHOW-- how entirely did you love it?”
RING TING’A LING FOR’A STARTER WITH EM !?
Willkommen! And Bienvenue! Welcome!
“There was a Cabaret, & there was a Master of Ceremonies. & there was a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany. & it was the end of the world.”
“Mes dames et messieurs; Ladies and gentlemen !! We are here to serve YOU !!” Independent & Musical / Headcanon Based ‘Master of Ceremonies’ from ‘Cabaret’
Je suis enchanté: Happy to see YOU– bleibe, reste, stay!!
look’it me remembering my password!!
You should never run with bagpipes cause you could put an aye out - or worse: get kilt.
HEAD OVER HEELS INDEED, and perhaps it hadn’t been in love, but with how Em roared with laughter after his noggin’ hit the floor– well: obviously: he’s fallen into something much better! even brought his chair with him!
“That’s good,” our Master of Ceremonies offers a pit, pat, pit of a clap via hand against newly bared knee, as the other goes diligently to work, re-situating his cigarette that’d burned out due to negligence long ago… like that’d really be enough to convince him to give it up.
“I got ooooone,” oh, yet EM’S ALREADY LAUGHING, still lying on the floor: chirpy, childish giggles meant more for a wind chime than a grown man– but look how excited he is for his turn, as he crosses ankles, letting them dangle over the edge of the seat that really should be righted: NOTHING WRONG WITH LOOKIN’ AT THE WORLD FROM A NEW ANGLE, THOUGH! even if that’s only because he’s much too lazy to actually sit up– “After ‘nouncin’ his upcomin’ marriage: boy tells his pal he’ll be wearin’ a kilt. So his friend, yes, he asks: what’s the tartan?!”
FINALLY WE’VE CONVINCED HIM TO SIT ON UP, ASS ON THE STICKY FLOOR OF HIS CLUB, ALL SO HE CAN JUST PRECISELY PERCH CHIN ATOP THE TABLE’S EDGE-
“He said; Oh, she’ll be wearin’ ze white dress…”
mcneyhoney
on any other night she might worry that he’s on to her! a few sniffs here, a few snorts there, who’s to know what keeps her jetting around the stage like a wind up car?? but see she has been good tonight — or at least, any badness she may have done will have worn off by now and this time it’s pure excitement ( and a little bit of booze ) to finally have her ideas listened to and met with as much gusto as they were created with.
from her spot behind the pillar she hides all but a leg, poking out with her dressing gown falling up to her thigh. like an old feather headed show girl it moves enticingly before her grinning face follows suit, beaming at him like the spotlight has been turned back on.
“ oh my darling you don’t want to know the hours of work that go into this mind. all the cups of coffee, all the kisses my skin simply must receive before feeling rejuvenated and ready for the awful day ahead. “
and here’s the cue to swan out from behind the post, her hips swaying with each step as she comes to steal a seat on his lap. an arm over thin shoulders, she pulls a cigarette from the pack on their table and waits for him to light it.
“ see, creating the act is one problem. convincing nori to let me put it on is another. she wants to take the club in a “” newer “” direction. no old gags, no tried and tested show stoppers. all originality and forward thinking acts. but — she doesn’t seem to understand that paying homage to those that came before us can be needed sometimes, y’know?! glamour and comedy and theater they all come from this place, they all go hand in hand! i’m inspired by this so why can’t it be in my work?! “
oh and she’s pouting now — that rush of alcohol has made it to her poor, wounded little heart and even the sight of it is enough to kill a buzz. she deflates in a way against him, puffing on her cigarette like a scolded child sucking on a lollipop, not the big, colourful one they wanted.
“ maybe they should find someone to replace me! let them see how long they can last without me and my talent and my face and my ideas! god, em, why’s life gotta be so hard? “
Em’s obedient, a good little lad, as he follows each cue as solidly as a script: she wants a seat, he shifts until she’s comfortable... she wants a light, he obliges her sinfully, still making her close the gap and lean towards the open flame post-SPARK!
... those wheels in his head are turning, during his notable silence, listening along to her woes (kinda), even indulging and pressing kisses along the skin he can reach: since she so direly neeeeeeds them to get through.... temple rests on to the warmth of her arm... oh, poor poor STEFANI, his own little, pretty ICARUS, trying to fly too close to the spotlight-- who knows what could happen if someone doesn’t properly let her shine before she pushes the envelope too far, if that light gets too hot and all of her bedazzlements melt at the glue and fall right off-- OH HE CAN’T STAND THE THOUGHT! WHAT A WASTE! HOW TRAGIC! HOW EMBARRASSING!
“You should show ‘em what they’ll lose... but that’d be what they want you to do, think you’ll come crawling on back--” tisk, tisk, tisk, not Stef! He drapes an arm over her lap, uses a subtle hold on her opposite thigh to scoot her nearer, so he can take place of that Devil and prop chin atop her shoulder, can whisper: “You should leave this place in the dust, Darling, imagine SPROUTING FROM THEIR ASHES and being more than any NORI could ever fathom...”
He smiles now, a purely devious grin, but Em’s sure of himself: having turned rightly into a caricature of the serpent from Eden, but instead of an apple, he’s prepared to offer much more... “You should come along to my club, just imagine: I’d let you have a whole act on your own, you could even give the girls steps,” they do everything he tells them to, EmCee Says, and if EmCee Says: YOU DANCE STEFANI’S STEPS, then he’s only got to worry about a few getting too mouthy about it... but the name of THIS game will need to be a quid pro quo, a give for what he’s hoping to take.
Stefani has fans. Plenty. They’d follow her, he bets. He’d have his boys go out to all the bars and ramble on about The Kit Kat Klub’s Newest Dancer. If this place won’t scratch her itch for ARTISTIC CREATIVITY, then he’d roll her over and rub her belly ‘till she’s KICKING. For now, he’ll curl a fingertip beneath her chin, raise her face UP and reciprocate her previous pout with a good, crimsoned, plumped lip. LOOK AT THEM: IN IT TOGETHER: DROWNING IN MELANCHOLY OVER HER PLIGHT: he’s getting close, he hopes, imagine all those boys that’ll squirm in their seats when she pulls those moves on his stage...
“It’s the normals that don’t appreciate the classics, and when life gets hard you just gotta find your own way to get off... why waste your sparkle when I can guarantee your SHINE?!”
@mcneyhoney
“ no but – but darling listen to me! “ maybe it was a bad idea to have so many drinks, or maybe it was the best idea they’ll ever have. as they sit there giggling at each other stefani is trying oh so hard to tell him about her wondrous plans, the sketches and numbers and so carefully thought out routines she’d like to add to her show, only no one will listen.
“ i wanna — i wanna tell you because you know about these things! just – just tell me if it’s a good idea, okay?? okay?? “ she giggles as she pushes her chair out, standing on it now in the middle of the empty cabaret. he’s one of the few that don’t work this hall she’d ever let stay back after closing, the artists must stick together.
on her chair with a drink in one hand, trying hard to stop the laughter, she calmly swipes a hand from forehead to chin, her expression dropping to one more stage worthy beneath it.
“ picture me, a blonde wig, pearls and furs and everything ridiculously decadent. i’ll start with sophie tucker – “ her voice changes now, the hoarse tone staying but with a swinging accent. “ i’ll never forget it! she’ll tell a story, one of those dirty old jokes and in the background i’ll have a beautiful girl, blonde to play soph and one of the men, it doesn’t matter which yet. they act out the joke as i tell it and just before the punchline i turn around — “ a startled jump, she turns on the chair and the voice returns. “ why you rotten little — if you’re gonna mock me you better do it right! “
now she hops from the chair, marching around it, glancing back to him at times. “ so i go back and i kick the beautiful blonde off stage and the crowd will laugh and i’ll start the joke again, only side of stage – “ she runs across the bar to hide behind a pillar, poking out from behind it with wide eyes. “ we see the beautiful blonde trying to creep her way back on —- “
WHEN EM ORDERED COFFEE; HE ALWAYS ASKED FOR PLENTY OF SUGAR. Not that he didn’t like coffee– he loved it, but a spoonful (or four) of sugar helps the medicine go on down, so they say. In fact: he’d come to look forward to the sugar as much as the coffee, at this point… which brings us to–
In the blackness of a post-patron cabaret club: Stef was the precise measure of sugar to keep away the bitterness those shadows cast. She prattled on about ideas and set ups, Em would nod UP down UP down UP down as if he were listening to a child discuss their favorite colors; actually, he didn’t see much different in that than this. The only anything overflowing more than his friend was his glass, until he fixed that right up with a swift siiiiiiiiiip…
“I’m LISTENING!” Fingertips flicked at the tips of his own PERKED ears– He WAS! More so than he likely listened to anyone today! How could he not with how she was going on… yet hesmiled, still, happy to reassure her: YES, THE ARTISTS WERE DISCUSSING IMPORTANT! MATTERS!
aaaand UP SHE WENT: Em worried, just a tad, not enough to interrupt… they had been drinking quite a bit, and what good would she be if she went and broke her ankle, but she’d managed to jump on that chair with all the grace of a drunken kitten- he’d even LAUGHED when she was up in place on a proper pedestal, but her SHOW face was put on behind her palm; he followed suit, calm down Em she’s about to START!
Her gag was splendid: the glamour appealed to the eye, the joke appealed to the humor, the narrator break appealed to an audience, the DRAMA had him LOSING HIS COMPOSURE IN A FIT OF SNIFFLING GIGGLES.
BUT, yet again, SHE’S ON THE MOVE! Em stretched out a lanky limb to claim the chair she’d ditched for the pole.
“I’d do decadently devastating things for just a bottled ounce of your energy, Liebling–” MOSTLY, TO SELL IT! Those girls of his sniffing coke off his vanity had nothing on HER. They jittered, she VIBRATED, and he loved every bit of it. He puts on plenty of shows: but when he’s with her, he gets to be an audience, and she never disappoints.
“You simply MUUUUUST let me know when you get along to putting it in your show, I’d tramplebrutes to see it all played out-” perhaps the drinks had made him rusty, but his voice came along as tinny as wind chimes: HE’S PICTURING IT NOW! HE’LL SIT RIGHT NEAR THE STAGE! LIKE A REAL VIP, at least in his own mind…
“and not’a soul could find a lil’ blonde bunny who could upstage you: IT’S’A PERFECT PLAN!”priorities, after all; HE KNEW WELL ENOUGH- SPOTLIGHT ON STEFANI OR BUST!
Fashion and Surrealism opening at The Fashion Institute of Technology(1987), photo by Seiji Kakizaki for High Fashion Magazine February 1988
“How do you even stand that?” / from helga!
Most anyone would know NOT to glare OBVIOUSLY at someone.Em KNEW of course…
But as told by how the grand Master of Ceremonies actually lolled his head back over his shoulder to visibly scowl at Frenchie when she trotted on off after their rather public row… he just didn’t care.
“Delicately,” was the only answer he really had for Helga. How does one stand being shouted at, argued with, and at the mercy of a woman’s RAGE as he had just endured? How does one stand the disrespect, the repetitious attempts to fluster him, and the ever-present knowledge that it’s absolutely likely to HAPPEN AGAIN!?
A repeat: “Delicately,” in the same fashion as he draped an arm over his little darling’s shoulders, and furled that limb in to bring her much closer. Once snuggled in all tight and close, he began walking the opposite direction Frenchie had, happily leading her along to join him OFF STAGE. “And, by knowing who’s gonna be in the chimp suit for the next maaaaanyyyy shows…”
MAYBE HE CAN’T AFFORD TO KICK HER OUT OF THE CLUB!BUT HE CAN SURE MAKE HER LIFE IN IT A LIVING HELL IF HE WANTED TO!
“Are you hungry, Helga?” His previous hysterics, all the red-faced shouting and the flailing arms and accusatory points that had RATTLED their club to the FOUNDATION had dissipated. That pendulum had swung, leaving our Master of Ceremonies exhausted from the fight, and all that condemnation had been sapped from his bones– but thankfully, he knew he could be sweet to her, and she would likely only serve it on back– IT’S ALL ABOUT BALANCE!
“Why don’t we go grab a bite, ja?” a kindly kiss was pecked to the top of her hair; something soft, DELICATE; “My treat, liebling.”
