Author: Cap'nHoozits PM
Lust is out of a job. How's a homunculus to make a living with such a dubious resume? Straight out of the This-Would-Never-Happen-Crackverse. LustxScarxKimbleexetc.Rated: Fiction T - English - Parody - Scar & Lust - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,956 - Reviews: 16 - Favs: 11 - Follows: 10 - Updated: 05-07-11 - Published: 05-04-11 - id: 6965645
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
This is a sequel (for lack of a better term) to Mmm…Coffee…It was suggested to me (sort of) by Aurora-Borealis Coyote, who may or may not remember writing, "Poor Lust is unwelcome XD Maybe she'd find friends at Dunkin Donuts. Write that plz."
One of the cardinal rules of starting a small business, one of many listed in Cardinal Rules For Starting A Small Business by Messrs. Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe, was "Thou Shalt Not Eat The Profits!"
"Eff that," Lust muttered, stuffing the last piece of her fourth maple cruller into her mouth and tossing the book in the trash.
Business had been slow, despite, or perhaps because of the garish red neon sign above the front of the shop that immodestly proclaimed LUSTY-KREME. It originally had neon silhouettes of little naked people draped over and around the lettering, but this part of Central City wasn't zoned for little naked people. It would have cost a lot more to move the whole shop to the Little Naked People Zone than to fix the sign, so Lust sliced them off and decorated her boudoir with them. Stupid City people.
Lust glared morosely out the front window as she extracted crumbs of maple glaze from her cleavage. The doughnut shop across the street had been doing brisk business since early that morning. The sign was a non-threatening shade of pastel pink with darker pink rosebuds surrounding the words GARFIEL'S NUTS. Several weeks previously, Lust had been offered a partnership in that particular enterprise, but she was not a team player. She had since been ruminating over the continued snide implications that her present misfortune had arisen by the sad lack of a sassy gay friend.
The owner of the rival establishment, decked out in black leggings, a sunny yellow camisole with spaghetti straps, and a frilled gingham apron, stepped out of his door to give a departing customer a farewell wave. He caught sight of Lust standing by her front window and blew her a kiss before going back inside.
"Bitch!" Lust snarled under her breath. She turned to peruse the display case for a Bavarian cream bismark in which to drown her misery. While she was debating over the chocolate or cherry icing, the bell over the door tinkled. Startled, she spun around and was about to shriek "Whaddya want?" when she was stilled into silence.
Standing just inside the shop was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dusky skin and scarlet eyes. He was dressed in the loose clothing and stripey thing of the people of Ishval, that quaint desert resort area that had fallen on hard times. His shirt rippled in the hot desert breeze and clung to his bulging pectoral muscles. Then he moved out from under the ceiling fan and approached the counter.
"Excuse me," he said in a deep, brooding, I-have-a-tortured-past voice.
"Why? What have you done?" Lust asked, trying to keep her eyes from crossing as she gazed at the pale X-shaped scar on the man's face.
"I have done much," the Ishvalan replied heavily. "Much that I regret."
"Oh," Lust replied with a shrug. "You'll get over it. I always do."
"But I am trying to atone for what I've done," the Ishvalan went on. From a leather satchel he was carrying he produced a stack of brochures. He handed one to her. Across the front in bold lettering was printed Ishvala for Dummies. "I am trying to teach the ways of God to the filthy godless heathen rabble of Amestris. May I leave these on your counter?"
"Uh…" Lust's attention was divided between the brochure, in which she had very little interest, to the smooth, tawny golden skin of the man's chest that was visible above the opening of his shirt, in which she was very interested, indeed.
To further pitch his product, the Ishvalan said, "I went into the store across the street with the same request, but the proprietor asked me to leave. He said my brochures were too much of a downer." The Ishvalan frowned. "They're supposed to be. How are people expected to repent if they don't feel miserable about themselves?"
Lust perked up. "So Girlie-fiel kicked you out?"
"We—he—hell!" Lust exclaimed brightly. "You've come to the right place, Mr. Brochure Man!" She extended a black-gloved hand, which the Ishvalan enveloped in his. "My name's Lust! What's yours?"
"I have no name," the Ishvalan replied gravely. "I cast it away."
"Oh." Lust gave an unconcerned shrug. "Suit yourself. Names just get in the way." She moved closer to him. "Can I interest you in a French twist?"
The Ishvalan glanced at the case of doughnuts with mild disdain. "No thank you. I don't eat that stuff. My body is a temple."
"It looks pretty sturdy to me," Lust observed, her violet eyes raking over his pillars and flying buttresses. "How about a buttermilk bar?" She trotted around the counter on her high heels. "That won't crack your arches, will it?"
"Well…" The Ishvalan grudgingly weakened. "One won't hurt, I suppose."
Lust seductively held out a crispy brown buttermilk bar. "Of course it wouldn't!" she purred.
TBC...there's more? o.O