RAQUELLE EVANGELISTA.
“You fuck off, you fucking psycho.” snapped Raquelle back on cue. There was no holding back when it came to these two women, especially when they’re already invested in their banter. From a third person perspective, they would have chosen to be worried, maybe intervened to stop the ladies from taking it further. However, it was a little too late for that, especially when Magdalene was cussing off an elderly woman like it was just another fucking day in the neighbourhood. “You’re asking for too much.” she blatantly said to her as she remained unfazed by the whole scene. “By gratitude, you mean dollar bills—then in this caseI would have allowed you to ask. Look, I love to give to the poor. I try to do one good deed a day, my Little Shakespeare.” She was over exaggerating MJ’s profession of an author, but hey this is what you get when you associate yourself with heiress.
Raquelle tried not to react to the interaction seeing as the general public would just love to see her blow up at some point. She was trying to refrain from damaging her image any further and so she waited in vain for the two to hash things out. “MJ, uptight looks good on you.” she teased as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Like I said, I like to do my good deeds here and there and wow! I didn’t know you were also a doctor.” Sighing, Raquelle ignored the claim and kept walking away, keeping some distance between them just in case her friend had another outburst. “You’re just quite the attention whore today aren’t ya? So fucking loud…”
Of course there’d be excitement. Who wouldn’t want to burnshit with the Raquelle Evangelista? Then again, who would have thought she’d excel in the basics of pyrotechnics…Well, they’re about to find out. Continuing to put the rest of her items in her trunk, she rolled her eyes at MJ’s antics and blurted out, “—Oh shut the fuck up!!!” Watching the other go at a mile per minute by leaving all their stuff on the ground and taking the cart of magazines elsewhere, Raquelle’s jaw dropped as she stood there helpless having to load all of their things into her car. “And people say I’m a fucking pain in the ass.” she muttered while finishing up and shutting the trunk close.
Heels hitting the concrete, Raquelle furrowed her brows as she followed MJ’s trail towards the back alley. This was not her scene. “Are you trying to murder me?” she suddenly blurted out as she caught up to MJ. “Is this some sort of fucking inspo for your next novel? Oh my God, no! WAIT! It just fucking clicked. We’re gonna commit arson aren’t we? You dragged me here to commit fucking arson with my face?!”
“Wow, relax, Peruvian Barbie. If anything, seeing how people are talking about you right now, I just gave you a fucking compliment.” MJ didn’t know why Raquelle decided to sick around. Because, that’s exactly what had happened. They stuck to each other. They weren’t exactly friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. And they bickered like an old married couple, - but worse. They were like old married couple that should have divorced twelve years ago. Or shouldn’t have married in the first place, but they got incredibly hammered in Vegas and deicded on a whim to elope, naivly thinking it was a match made in heaven. “It’s my right as an American to ask for too much.”
The blonde huffs with satire in her voice. Raquelle really did know her very well. Because yes, MJ was talking about money. The woman runs her tongue over her top teeth while rocking into the heels of her feet before asking, “Yeah, so if I asked for money, you’d give it to me? I’m poor, help me, damn it.” Her eyes narrow with offence, which is followed by a loud scoff and the disapproving shake of her head, “Little Shakespeare? - We both know that Shakespeare has got nothing on me, alright? That bitch can roll around in his grave as I say this, I don’t give a shit.”
MJ looks to Raquelle before looking over her own shoulder and down at her butt. “You think so? Does the look make me look skinnier?” She asks flattening out her stomach as a jest. “When you’re an author, you become a master of all, Raquelle, it’s just a fact.” MJ says casually, as if she truly meant her words. “Research, research, research. It’s basically all an author does. Espically when you end up writing a script or two for a television show based on doctors. Oh, hell yeah, I’m that good.” The blonde rolls her eyes and leans her head back to look at the sky as they walk. “And you’re not being an attention whore enough!” She jogs up beside Raquelle, then turns around to walk backwards, “I know you wanna lay low. I realize that you’re already getting burned, but girl, that’s exactly it - you’re already getting burned! You know what I’m saying? -- ” With a hefty sigh, MJ continues with, “People are gonna talk more shit whether you lay low or not. So, while they’re talking shit, you may as well have fun, right? - Let me help you have fun!”
When Raquelle accepted the invintation to burn the load of magazines, MJ let out a whoop of excitment and didn’t waste anytime and getting things ready. She had already started ripping up the papers to the magazine and putting them in a pile. Slowly, MJ looks at Raquelle with features reading both: ‘ are you dumb? ’ and ‘ are you kidding me right now? ’ --- “No, I’m not gonna murder you, God. Here I thought you knew me. If I were going to murder you, I wouldn’t fucking do it here. And I would legit tell you if I was gonna murder you. I’d like to think it would give you a small feeling of anticipation. Fun, right!?”
Then, out of the blue, Raquelle started to panic and MJ had to look on with a bored, placid look upon her face and wait until Raquelle stopped talking. Checking the time on her watch that was not on her wrist, MJ asks, “Are you done? Can I talk now?” MJ didn’t give Raquelle a beat to answer. “Great, thanks. God, rich people are so needy and over-the-top. And Raquelle had the nerve to call me Little Shakespear. Bitch, please.” MJ was one hundred percent talking to herself up untul this poing where she was now fully addressing Raquelle. “It’s not arson when it’s your property,” She sates with the heavy roll of her eyes. Lifting up a magazine cover that shows the heiress’ perfect features. She wiggles it violently. “You paid for this. You get to do whatever the hell you want with it. And I didn’t drag you anywhere, you came with me on your own accord, but, if that’s what you wanna tell the cops if they show up, that’s fine by me. I at least got street smarts to get out of trouble.” Clearly tired with waiting, the author puts one hand on her hip and gestures to the small pile of magazines, then, puts a hand into the pocket of her jean jacket to pull out a lighter and hand it over to Raquelle. "Don't dick-out on me, okay? Just pussy-up and do the fucking honours."














