when: october 4th - 06:12pm
where: roswell mall
who: open ( @roswellstarters )
Skeletons, bats, pumpkins and ghosts dangle and cackle from every corner of the Roswell mall. Motorised ghouls screech when their sensors go haywire, jerking the odd scream and laugh out of unsuspecting shoppers on their way to snatch up Halloween goods.
In the spirit of yearly spooks, the mall has suggested ( read: mandated ) that the staff of all partaking establishments embrace the festivities a little early on. Some have jumped on such a chance, enthusiastic in their guises of Myers, Krueger, Frankenstein’s monster and many more. Others scrape by with a pair of contacts and dark clothes.
Birdie stands somewhere in the middle.
Clad in his beloved baggy jumpsuit, he mops at puddles of sticky sauce and fizzing soda with an ever-twisting stomach bubbling with embarrassment. His jaw’s tense around a surprisingly convincing pair of fangs that Rudy, from the upstairs sandwich place, had shoved into place over the course of a wasted smoke break. He’d split a fake blood pellet over Birdie’s neck, too, staining the jumpsuit and earning himself a frosty glare— one Rudy had ended up cackling at.
What? You look hot, man!
A pair of careless feet turn a blind eye to the CAUTION: WET FLOOR sign Birdie uses to barricade his chosen spot. They slip and drag muck over strips of sparkling epoxy flooring. Stilled by the disregard, Birdie fixes them with the very same cold ire he’d shot at Rudy post forced dress-up.
................................................................................................................
Shiloh has never been particularly scared of Birdie. Admittedly, they likely should tread around the other with a bit more caution given his rap sheet, one that seems to grow lengthier on each occasion they cross paths. But, given it seems to be filled primarily with petty theft, loitering, and maybe a few minor cases of breaking and entering, Shiloh feels more inclined to give him a high-five for, “sticking it to the pigs,” than to run and cower.
Though the look Birdie flashes them, like he’s practicing posing for his damn mugshot, might make them reconsider. Might, if they weren’t so busy trying to decipher why they’re earning it in the first place. They stare back with pinched brows until their eyes finally drop to their Timberlands, dirt on the soles mixing with the water to leave a trail of grime in their wake.
“Al-right,” Shiloh says with the same tone a mildly offended person might say, ‘I get it.’ Their face scrunches into one of lighthearted indignation, one they often wear when being told off by their siblings.
“In my defense, nine times out of ten you put that thing up when the floors aren’t even wet, so consider this your ‘Boy Who Cried Wolf’ lesson learned... Now, fix your face. That is no way to be lookin’ at the person who rode their bike all the way here just to buy you a coffee.” They didn’t; they’d wanted a soft pretzel, but what Birdie doesn’t know won’t hurt him.