Maybe I don't wanna be picked.

After considering the options within another washroom break.

No thanks, I work enough hours, gymtwentyfour.

To follow such a schedule that lies and lets others off the hook on fulfilling their physical needs is that. Ricky with, they're industrialized leftovers. I'd rather wear the many hats of a small business, face to music if it fails. Then follow along with a plan that leads its clients down the dangerous path.

It's an opportunity, a one in a million, and I don't want it. I have the body, and they want it. They want my intuition of auto-regulating other people. That fire I have of pushing others to be their best, ways of pushing forward.

Am I the hack here, though, by opening my services up towards the internet and starting my own garage gym? With my own business that's around the corner?

Who knows? He who laughs lasts, I'll keep it as polite as possible. Yet it's all bubbling inside me.

Bubbling hatred

I need a break. Promoted into fire, no thanks.

Yet all these moments of staring at myself with this decision with all the force of mechanized bottom-barrel that they lick, somebody has to have the standard.

Asheal signs the contract

Asheal, from his hospital bed, has recovered not fully. Paralysis from the leg, tail untouched. The bang to his spine still echoing. It halted, as was the were-rat with a bakers boy hat enters in. A guy who looked like he came smart, half-so. Loose shirt and with a mischievous grin.

“Daxton?” Asheal said. Mother has had his way with him.

“We left you a gift. We the royal family give our sincere condolences for causing this accident. We wanted to merely provide refreshment for your gym practice, not break it. Sorry mate.” The rat said.

“What Dax? This ain't another one of your fancy schemes.” Frig, another headache. I should intervene.

Asheal noted through the fogginess of his brain. There was a box of chocolates. Before he could raise up from the amount of morphine he had taken. He tried to muster off the actions of anger, but pitifully they came with submission of all the events that have happened.

Asheal had to go through the pause, then continue.

“Don't worry! Accidents happen! Ha ha!” Flowers, Can't feel my f***ing legs still!

“So yeah, that's the bad news. The good news is you're going to be promoted. Not in a showy-offy job of talent, yet an actual talent agent. For a nice workplace at a sweet manor within the property of the royal family and management of Glitz Hub. You're on a path to sweet recovery. Heck, with the right direction, you may get your legs back-”

Asheal pushed forward from his seat, his arms less numb from all those drugs.

“How long?” Asheal said Tell me you naughty pin-stripped t-

“Years! Three? Four? Give or take, doctors estimate.”

“Thanks.” Whatever.

He fell back within his ward bed.

“Tell me the rest.” Asheal said.

“Oversee our talent's operation, get protected, get a nice living, and I'll be your mentor.” Daxton Said.

“You serious?” What's this punk's agenda? I'm not taking any higher responsibility!

“Yes I am, your family are going to need to support our funding allows. Or stay, you're call.” The rat said with a grin.

“Let me think about it." No, I can't do it right now, I'm not ready. I've yet to take it up and deal with my own family problems. As if he knows what happened on that fateful day he disappeared.

The rat had information beforehand, after Asheal's thought. What came seemed easy, yet he knew a dog like him will snatch a bone if it's dangled in front of him.

"Go on, Asheal, you have full access to all our records and room. Castelle has arranged for you to be a part of our family, all the records." 

For another pause, Ash stops. Gasps, Then his expression moved into approval with another cut-off.

"Okay, sounds good." He knows where my father was?? I'd like to know! Yes! Sure!

"Smashing, then, you can sign the paperwork, and we can get in business with your path to recovery. You may even get a caretaker and free gym time to make sure you're fit and able. We'll do it mate."

"Sure, I'd like that a lot." Asheal said.

Asheals tea.

It happens

Trying out a new format, a comic script. More for acting.

Asheals phones rang, during his curation.

M “My darling! Your-”

Ash is indifferent

A “Eye?”

The voice of the smartphone is more worried.

M “Yeah, you're now even more disabled! Ash! My darling! The money wasn't worth it. Seeing you like this. The compensation from your nanny can't fill this hole. She's a queen of mean!”

Ash flutters, dismissive.

A “Don't worry about it! Mother! Fell right into my lap, can't complain. Got a servant with his body to protect me.”

His mother is the most cynical now.

M “There you go again, just another body. You're willing to give your body, it's always about the physical!”

A “Treating me as a trophy son with my losses already, I figured why not?”

M “Didn't mean it like that, Asheal! You're a walking decaying tragedy I can't bear to look at, the family name can't handle it.”

A “What's done is done Mother, I won't sacrifice myself again. I only did it at such short notice. Ky needed the emergency treatment, i gave it. The connection had to be made!”

Mother slumps onto her seat, dejected. The long term business relationship. With the familal relationship stretched by distance.

M “Okay Asheal, I honour your word. Don't put your neck out, alright?”

A “Sure mother, sure.”

The call ends, Asheal puts it away, so he could enjoy the view of Glitter park once more. Business is tough.

Dannys Big commission - The Letter

New flat, new seating arrangement, and a new gig.

Danny had to advertise his custom wood crafting with his skill, certain quality woods from a lumberyard and tools left from the old company.

“Dear Dan

Your work that i saw at the theatre fair struck a cord. Custom-made furniture, with the wooden carvings like that, it reminds me of the old times of what they did to worship the wisps.

My precious husband-”

He did a dry croak, yet continued.

“My precious husband, Hunter, is going down with Alzheimer's disease that he's going down. Barely remembering himself. Put all his favourite things, carved, on a wooden bench. A remembrance bench, he wrote it on his will that when he wants to be remembered by providing an important comfort.

Could you come to this address? I'll show you around his room, his nurses and I will do their best. His passing will be graceful if you accept, and I'll greatly appreciate it. Distant petals in his past, his memory.

Yours, Belle.”

This commission was a big one, an old wife around the age of eighty had commissioned a bench to be specially made in remembrance of his dying husband. So, he had promised to deliver, and overdeliver with all his soul.

Kyros refusal to strip

Kyro's Looks in the suit in disgust.

(Suggestive themes CW)

The dance was smooth, the courtship was smooth, yet The casting couch could not care, she owned this arranged marriage. A meeting had to be made in Asheals office.

“So, am i to have this apron on, no clothes? Showing meal prep to a bunch of hungry gawkers?”

Ky said, a costume skimpier than his casual sleepwear being held in confusion. He began to question the romance. It's a strings costume, done live during meal prep.

“Yes, the board of investors, hungry as they are.” 

“Only in front of Asheal!” Ky said.

“Yeah, this part of the contract of your reanimation” Asheal said in response, trying to mediate.

Ky could not contain his anger as he refused 

“Really? Could you argue for what we stand for? Blurring the synapses and making the rot, this bigorexia of your veiled under some nebulous placebo? I don't know what sex positivity this is if it's so degrading.”

“It's a bit of a rom com escalation with all the a-b testing. The wisp board attention flows all the crowding there. They want it.” Castile said.

Ky squeezed his brow.

“They can shove that wisp testing right up there-”

“Will you do it, do it for me?” Asheal interrupted, Castelle noted, a smile going up.

“No. You perfected me as it is. Made this sexualized monster made for money shots and comedy.”

Castelle brought up her trump card the best one.

“You'll be out of your examination pod, you'll be able to sleep with Asheal.”

“No! Shove it you dirty seater! Not in the mood.”

Ky exited, Asheal shouted.

“Kyros!!”

He was gone.

“Well well Ash, could you clean up this mess?” Castelle said. "Or I'll deal with it."

Aheal is worried.

Trist's Fall

He jumped, skipped and did the ollie. The jump was about a meter, and the Hedge hog had captured it on his smartphone. Something that was practised.

Then, all the magic and practice came to him as he went to the canopy. He gasped, trying to attach the base of the board with the edge.

It all snapped, and he fell like a rock through tissue paper. Bruises appearing on contact as his neck hit the cd-rack. Breaking several used tracks. Along with a pop start clay figure.

He was going to get into trouble for this.

Trist's Bet

Both the two group dare him on.

( Races decided, Golem/Techno, Human/neko and Anthro kind. Not too many. Other than that.)

A disorganized group of Misfits, a group that resided within. A hedgehog and a mix bread of rat ears and human. Tristan is going to get a challenge. From the college he was going to drop out.

"Ey, Set up an ollie over the charity shop. Then twirl onto a grind down on the floor if you're a maverick. A lynchpin. The canopy of the antique salesman will do the work."

"I'm too tired." he said.

"You said you hated college, it's time to show what you're made of." The rat-young adult said. 

"Alright! F***** fine!"

He took a breath, and took a run-up towards to trick. It was all on him.

Kyros suicide note

Dry air of the moment.

Warning suicide, depression, and homophobia viewer discretion advised.

"I finally did it Casto!

I trained your mindless tailpipe players to kill themselves beyond exhaustion!

Even as i write this tossed out of mind, vomit down my chin. The broken bones and misery you urged me to ignore to build this madhouse. I ain't worth it.

All to make a living, that's your rationale. You ain't no beautiful starving poet. Tell your worthless public relations rep that the sucking up ain't it.

Yet it's all driving the humanity out. No escape from my bull****.

Tell my divorced wife and dog that I love them very much. The address is on the back. Send this to them if you have any decency

Ps- heres a list of what you encouraged me to kill, for the money. "

He wrote down each name, tears trailing down with each conceptualization of apologies for he family. They'd never publish this s***. Yet maybe if he'd leave this somewhere the union will find it. It will urge them to do some righteous action.

Choking on tears, the time came.

As with the handwriting was dry, piss down his right leg. Ky saw the mini-evcavator. Social media unable to fill the loneliness.

Free air twirled around his pant leg. Jumping to the digger of purgatory. The digger got closer.

Red, consciousness now entering a hellscape as now was his test. The enchantment of his soul of his lucky keepsake remaining. Down like the mess made.

Gurners career doubts

The kneeling against a Marcy's guest bed. She was doing a safe job, he was not.

The want to turn pro. A pro coach, none of those myths copywriters and art directors made up with race to the bottom desperation of hustling whales with addiction. To serve selflessly and to bring people up.

Yet with a used laptop and phone, with a rogue coach with gibberish off tangents yet telling the truth. It was all that he's got. He decided to take the leap, with a job at a corporate gym. His young training is what he's got. Luck, the size of his physique.

What does that entail? Sacrifice of hours of other activities to fill a certain desire to fill work hours, working entirely freelance and to make sensible racing to the top. To develop a reputation.

He knew what had to be done. To be made. All the things that were to be quit and the sunk costs of the past life were to be done.

Half-Naked, Nervous. The coach knew he was exposed to the fragility of such a world, all those years being a young sprout, and not making a fuss.

This was a fuss, and it was going to make him a new learning opportunity. 

The swelling of doubts coming at the edge. Imposter syndrome rearing it's ugly head and making him choke, he had to lean into it.

He persisted.

Lancaster's Wabisabi cup, Its Crudeness.

"It's crud, yet my crud."

Lancaster found the box by the side of the potters workshop. He said he'd go there only once.

A crude misshapen mug, made with red clay coils. It laid there, red. Out of some mental resurgence, a black joyous grin had been dabbed on it, laughing at some ill-gotten fate.

"Beats on whatever happened yesterday." He mumbled. "I'll call you crudey."

An unconscious need to express his dissatisfaction for blowing it at the last meet.

Imperfect, yet better. He's decided to drink from this morning routine from now on. It felt real in his grubby mitts.

From a splodge of clay, it felt solid.

Kierons rant with the Content priest

An old fox sparrow, sitting in his usual place, Ki usually passed him after his morning workouts.

This day, in his early twenties, kieron decided to sit with him, unsatisfied.

S "What's the matter?"

"I can't figure out how to increase my profile on social media."

"Oh, you on about that again? Why not take a break?"

Kieron, disgruntled as a fitness influencer face contorts like a discarded writer's page.

"You don't u
nderstand, if this or that gig ain't going to translate into workable attention that i can monetize into a living, I'm toast. I have to work."

The old sparrows eyes light up, trying to retort.

"Bu-"

"Yeah, old content priests like you don't know what it takes.."

"Why can't you spare yourself and be okay with life? You should be happy! What about living a life well lived?"

"That's a utilitarian nightmare, I'm not making a difference and nobody's seeing me."

For a moment, he storms off.

"I should be miserable!"

The preacher pulls back, trying to get some time to reflect.

"Kieron, you idiot."