My first green in a long, long, looong time.
Written for this thread https://desuarchive.org/mlp/thread/43194111/ but was inspired first by a post on a about Octavia (see: https://desuarchive.org/mlp/thread/43218978/#q43272496 here)
 
>“OCTAVIA! WHERE the fock ’ave yew bewn?””
>You close the door behind you, entering the old-world snapshot that is this dust-trap apartment.
>Then, you turn around at the call of your name and see Mum’s seated in the small sofa with that bitter frown marked by cigarette lines.
>You stare at Mum blankly, not sure what she means by this.
>Then, it hits you.
>Wednesday.
>Brunch.
>You forgot…
“Ohhh, shoit.”
>“Yeh, shoit! Brilliant. Ah’m sittin ’ere fer foive-an’-a-half bloody hours thinkin’ yew’ve been abducted or joined a cult.”
“Sorreh, Mum, honestly! Lost track o’ toime!”
>“Yew missed coffee wiv yer MUM, Octavia.”
“Ah said sorreh.”
>But your apology is not enough.
>It has never, ever, EVER been enough, not for Mum.
>“Nahhh, don’t gimme thot. Every toime yew say ‘sorreh’ Ah end up hearin’ summat thot sounds loike evidence in a court case.”
“...Ah were wiv me mate, Voinyl.”
>“...VOINYL?”
“Keep yer voice dahn.”
>“NO, Ah WOON’T keep me voice dahn! Yew binned me off fer a bloke named after a FUCKIN’ MATERIAL?”
>‘Bloke’.
“It’s…It’s not loike thot.”
>Mum's legs tremble as she rises from the sofa.
>The cane does little to steady her.
>“Nahhh, course not,” she says, hobbling over to you. “Ah’m sure Voinyl’s a very respectable young man an’ not some loiterin’ cryptid what smells loike wet denim an’ Monster Energy.”
“Mum!”
>She stares daggers at you before squinting her eyes, trying to read your face in the dim light of the apartment, searching for any trace of shame.
>“Wot kinda naime IS Voinyl? Sounds loike ’e were assembled in a record shop.”
“He’s…”
>You swallow at the lie, but follow it with another.
“H-he’s in a band.”
>“OF COURSE ’E’S IN A BAND!” balks Mum, bringing the back of her hand up to her forehead.
“Mum, why’re yew awrways bein’ loike this!?”
>“Because Ah raised yew fer years just fer yew t’run off wiv woon pale bastard built loike a Victorian chimney sweep wiv tats on ‘im!!”
“Yew’re bein’ dramatic.”
>She gasps at the accusation.
>“Dramatic!? OCTAVIA, yew vanished fer six bloody hours wiv a man named VOINYL! Thot sounds loike the first ten minutes of a murder documentary!”
“We just went fer lunch…”
>“Did ’e pay?”
“...No.”
>“ROIGHT. So ’e’s a bum, too!”
“Mum, please…”
>And on it went for another fifteen.
>By the time you make it to your room, you have a lump in your throat, but take pride denying your mother the satisfaction in seeing you cry.
>As a matter of fact, you haven't cried in about six years.
>Maybe it’s become harder to cry now that you’re older, and maybe it's become harder than it should; you don't know for sure.
>Sometimes, you worry that there will come a day when you want to cry, but will not be able to.
>For now, you lie down on your bed, phone in hand with your contacts open, tapping on Vinyl’s name.
>You phone her.
 
>Vinyl Scratch has spent years assaulting her ears with Dubstep, Techno remixes, and, lately, something called Jenkemcore.
>All of this via her phone’s bluetooth connection to her wireless “Deftphones” (they’re *exactly* what you think they are, by the way).
>However, this often presents a problem to Vinyl Scratch in that whenever she is phoned, it is always in the middle of her music.
>Or, as she likes to put it, “mid-WUB.”
>And so, many a times a day, callers of the ambitious DJ/MC/WUBMASTER are treated to her quick, hasty, scalding answer on the other end of the line.
>It is a vicious, flat-toned syllable, harsh as an anvil fallen from the sky: “WHAT.”
>Never said as a question, either; always a command, one with the utmost venom behind it.
>Of course, being the friend you are, you’ve mentioned to Vinyl that she can, in fact, turn her ringer off.
>But hope is a foolish thing; it makes you wait for that one special caller who’ll magically book you a gig at the clubs downtown.
>Even if the first thing she’ll say to the bookee is that same, awful “WHAT.”
>Which makes what happens next all the more strange.
>As you put your phone on speaker, waiting to hear that same old ‘WHAT”, you donot.
>Instead, the dial tone continues to ring.
>And it rings…
>And it rings…
>And it rings…
>...Until, finally, there is an answer.
>“Oh, shit, I think I just answered the— Uh, h-hey! Hello! Uh, this is Vinyl’s phone here, her brother speaking!”
>You nearly double take.
“Anon? Is thot yew?”
>“Oh, shit! Octavia?What’s, uh, what’s, what’s, uhhh…wassup?”
>Putting aside the frantic, breathless tone in his voice, you swear you hear something in the background of…of wherever he is.
“Oh, ah, not much wiv me, really. Just, ah... wonderin’ if Ah could ’ave a word wiv Voinyl, yeh? She, um…she ain’t busy, is she?”
>What the fuck is going on over there?
>You hear banging.
>And music.
>Well, what Vinyl calls music, of course.
>Jenkemcore, perhaps?
>Anon grunts before answering.
>“Gah! Uh, we’re…I-I mean, I’m…she’s a little—uff!—occupied at the moment, I think!”
>“ˢᶜᴿᴬᵀᶜᴴ ᵐᵉ ᴰᴱᴱᴾᴱᴿ ᵗʰᵃn ᵐʸ ᴹᴵˣᵀᴬᴾᴱˢ ᴼᴴᴴᴴ ʸᴱᴬᴴ!”
>Strange music indeed.
>Sounds a tad like scream-o!
>Lord knows it’s just as easy to parse…
“Oh, no worries,” you tell Anonymous. “Um, d’you reckon yew know when she’ll be free, then?”
>“Uh, whew! G-goddamn… Uh, did, did she… Um, didn't you guys just have lunch together?...”
“Yeh, we just saw each uvver about ’alf an hour ago, but—”
>“ᴹᴼᴿᴱ! ᴴᴬᴿᴰᴱᴿ! ᴹᵃᵏᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᵘᶜᵏin’ nᵉiᵍʰᵇᵒʳˢ ᶠᴱᴱᴸ ᵗʰiˢ ᴮᴱᴬᵀ!”
“Wot’s that?”
>“ʸᴱᴬᴴᴴᴴᴴ, ᵗʰᵃᵗ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᴰᴿᴼᴾ ʳiᵍʰᵗ ᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ, ᵍiᵐᵐᵉ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵈiᶜᵏ—ᶠᵁᶜᴷ!”
>“Nothing!” coughs Anonymous. “Just, um…just allergies. And moving furniture. That’s the, uh, creaking y-you might be hearing.”
>He coughs again.
>“Uh, look, I can give her a call for you, if ya want.”
“Luv, yer usin’ ’er phone roight now,” you remind him.
>“ᴳᴬᴴ! ʸᵒᵘ'ʳᵉ ᴿᴱᵂᴵᴿᴵᴺᴳ ᵐᵉ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᴵᴺˢᴵᴰᴱ-ᴴᴼᴴ-ᴸᴱᴱ ᶠᵁᶜᴷ!”
“Oi, Anon, wot's thot yew? Yew alroight? Yew sound a bit outta breath, yeh? Ah ain’t caught yew in the middle o’ summat, ’ave Ah?”
>“What? N-no! I…Uh…fff…yeah, s-sorry, um. I-I’m kinda in a tight spot right now, soifyadon’tmindI’mgonnagoand—”
>“ᴰᵘᵈᵉ, ʲᵘˢᵗ ˢᵃʸ ʸᵒᵘ’ʳᵉ ᵈᵒinᵍ iᵗ ʷiᵗʰ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵍiʳˡ!”
>“Uh, um, ᵒᵏᵃʸ, ᵇᵘᵗ ʷʰ—”
>“ˢᵃʸ iᵗ'ˢ ᴿᵃʳiᵗʸ. ᴵᵗ'ˡˡ ᵇᵉ ᶠᵘnnʸ. ᴺʸᵉʰ-ʰᵉʰ-ʰᵉʰ-ʰᵉʰ-ᴴᴼᴴ-ᴸᴱᴱ ᶠᵁᶜᴷ, ᴿᴵᴳᴴᵀᵀᴴᴱᴿᴱ! ʸᴱᴬᴴ, ʸᴱᴬᴴ, ᵀᴴᴬᵀ'ˢ ᴬ ᴳᴼᴼᴰ ᴬᴺᴳᴸᴱ!”
“Oh, ’ang on a mo’. Think ah jus’ ’eard Voinyl! Was thot ’er jus’ now?”
>“Uh…”
>“ᶠᵘᶜᵏ iᵗ.”
>You hear rustling against the receiver as the phone is snatched from Anonymous and into to hands of…
>“Yo, Tavi! I am LITERALLY FUCKING MY ACTUAL BRO right now, so you can either JUMP THE FUCK IN or CALL ME THE FUCK LATER. Love ya, babe!”
>*click*
>...
>Blimey.
 
ELSEWHERE:
 
>“Wow, dude, way to sound like a fuckin’ nerd on the phone,” says Vinyl.
“Yeah, well, whatcha gonna do?” you ask, shoulders shrugging under her bed covers.
>Your sister tilts her head, peeking at you from her pillow.
>“Aren’t you gonna hit me back with something?” she teases.
“Honestly,” you say, cozying up against her warm, naked body beneath the comforter, “it’s kinda hard to feel self-conscious when I know how good I give it to you.”
>“No fuck-boy talk,” jokes Vinyl. “You’re no good at it, dude.”
“Nah?” you ask.
>“Nah,” laughs Vinyl.
“Nah?” you ask again, laughing with her now as you sneak your head into the crook of her neck. “Damn, Viney, gonna go and teach me some more moves, then?”
>Vinyl’s laughs only get louder, perking in pitch with each of your tickling love bites.
>“Ha! Dude, as if I even need to. I fucking know *exactly* how to get you off.”
“Mm-hm? And why’s that?” you wonder, slipping your hand behind her neck as you move on top of her.
>And she looks up at you with those smoldering eyes and says, “Because I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have, bro.”
“Right back at ya, sis.”
>You kiss.
>There’s no argument between you, no debate to be had, for this was all true: you are each other’s best.
>Just as you are indeed brother and sister.
 
 
.
.
.
 
 
>Be Octavia.
>Be next day.
>At eight o’clock the following morning, you cook Mum a plate full of eggs with a side of beans on toast.
>She only pokes and prods at the food on her plate before scraping it all into the garbage bin.
>“Octi, luv, Ah’m a wee-tiny gurl, yew know!” she’ll say. “Can’t eat ‘alf as much as Ah used ter when Ah were lookin’ ‘bout yer oige!”
>It’s peculiar.
>She does this every morning, and you don’t know why.
>The last time you didn’t cook her breakfast, she cried for the better part of five hours, wailing on about how you, the only family she has left, do not love her enough to cook even a simple meal for she, the woman who has lost everything.
>And yet she never, ever eats your breakfast.
>Only sips her cuppa.
>Brilliant.
>So, with that wasteful ritual out of the way, you go ahead and give the bat her Akynzeo tablet along with the eight milligrams of her dexamethasone.
>After this, you gather her things and both head out the door and wait at the bus stop.
>The reason why you take her on public transport for these daytrips is because, simply put, Mum doesn’t trust the drivers in taxis or ridesharing apps.
>If they have the slightest trace of an accent, she will immediately suspect them to be terrorists from the third-world, you see.
>Eventually, the bus arrives at your stop and you both board, taking your seats.
>Mother didn’t forget the bus fare this time, nor did she pretend to forget it either.
>Thank God.
>Still, what follows is thirty agonizing minutes of your mother editorializing on all the wrongs of the world without end.
>“It’s all them commuters’ fault in Parliament fer this mess,” she’ll say. “Here or ‘cross the pond. Filthy fockin’ nonces, the lot o’ ’em, they are! Bet you loike thot, don’t yew, Octi, dear? Tch! ‘Voinyl Scratch’! Wot a noncey name, thot.”
>At last, the bus reaches your destination—the Harmony Cancer Research Center.
>Registration is slow and tedious, starting at the front desk where the receptionists ask your mum if she has her green health card and hospital card, attempting to verify that all information is accurate while she gives a convoluted series of questions for answers, like “How do you know if the machine’s right or not?”, or if such-and-such is really what so-and-so said, because she’d really, really like to be sure, is all.
>Oi…
>After about ten minutes of this embarrassment, she’s finally given her patient bracelet and you are both guided to the computer kiosk within the waiting room to fill out her symptom assement.
>Which, by the way, she could always do in advance, at home, without you.
>“Ohhh, Ah dunno, Octavia. D’yew reckon Ah’ve gotten worse at thot sorta thing, then?”
“No, Mum.”
>“Mm. Well, Ah think Ah do.”
“Oh?”
>“Ah notice Ah’m gettin’ colder. Might ’ave summat t’do wiv it, Ah suppose.”
 
>They take you to get her blood drawn, then lead you both upstairs, onto the third floor, and to the hall outside of the chemo suite while they look at her white blood cell count.
>More waiting until they reconnoiter with you both, lead you through the chemo suite, and finally into a patient room.
>They explain that while your mother’s white blood cells are still tired of her living (preach to the fucking choir), they are nevertheless responding well to the treatment, and will give the all-clear.
>All of this after asking Mum about her symptoms, the medications she's on, taking her temperature, blood pressure, and so on.
>Then you wait for another thirty minutes until the medications used for the immunotherapy is processed by the on-sight pharmacists at the on-sight pharmacy.
>Finally, the chemo can begin.
>As usual, Mum sniffles, working hard to pull up the alligator tears while a male nurse seats her in a large, brown reclining chair.
>He hooks her up to an IV pump, playing his role well, assuaging any potential escalation in Mum's melodramatics with the calm tenor of his voice.
>It probably helps that this nurse is rather handsome, too, like Anonymous; you get the feeling he's used to dealing with patients like your mother, and...
>And your thoughts come to an abrupt halt.
>Did you just call Anonymous... handsome?
>You shake your head a little, as if it will rid you of this thought that is somehow your own.
>You did, didn't you?
>Not directly, perhaps, but let's not play semantics here.
>Your breath quickens while watching the nurse's strong arms put the needle into your mother's vein, his muscles just as large and toned as his shoulders are broad.
>Also like...well, you-know-who.
>Ugh.
>Before he leaves, the nurse assures your Mum that the medication in her IV bag drips over a period of time considered safest for her according to chemo-therapy safety guidelines.
>His words exactly, and you’re mad for remembering them, mad at noticing him, mad at whom he resembles and that person's sister...
>Then, he is gone, and you are alone with Mum...
>Hours pass.
>She whines, reminscenes, and continues feeling sorry for herself while off-handedly deriving you.
>You have come to believe complaints are all she lives for.
>Not that you blame her for complaining when its time they put the Doxorubicin in her IV.
>It looks like red Kool-Aid, and it makes you piss red for a day after it circulates throughout your entire system.
>So, yeah, you'll give Mum a pass on that one.
>Then more time passes, and finally she is set for her last round of medicine, Dacarbazine.
>Thirty minutes into it, and drowsiness gets the best of her.
>At last, you are left to your own thoughts.
>But they are still thoughts of Vinyl Scratch and Anonymous.
>Worse, they are thoughts which will not leave.
>You look out the window at the parking lot, seeing the bus arrive at the exact same stop where you arrived from just a few hours ago.
 
>What you heard yesterday on the phone...
>It shocked you.
>You hoped the whole thing was just a big joke after the fact, trying to rationalize it any way you could.
>But if it were a joke, then it went well and beyond Vinyl Scratch’s usual tomfoolery.
>Fact is, as crazy as the idea of her sleeping with Anonymous, her own brother, might seem, the way your conversation played out over the phone left little room for you to doubt that is precisely what was happening.
>She was fucking Anonymous.
>And she invited you to fuck them both.
>Hell, even if you had convinced yourself it was some farce, there were still the texts Vinyl sent to you afterwards, yesterday in the evening.
>With a slight tremble, you pull your phone out from your pocket.
>Decide to read them again.
>Haven't read them since this morning before making breakfast...
 
>‘hey, so i’d say what you heard last night isn’t what you think it is’
>‘but nah, its exactly what you think it is lol’
>‘call me?’
>‘( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)’
 
>bloodyhell.jpg
>Fucking Vinyl Scratch.
>You’ve yet to respond.
>Don't even have the faintest clue how.
>There’s no chance you can go over all this just by texting her; there’s too much to discuss, so many questions with so much ground to cover.
>But answers must be had, and there’s only one way to get them.
>It is not through stilted talk over a meesager app, nor is it by spinning question after question—all alone and by yourself—without addressing both Vinyl Scratch or her brother.
>No, the only way you’ll understand any of this situation is through a direct conversation, whether it’s with one of their voices on the other end of the line or meeting face-to-face with each other—both, preferably, and in that exact order.
>You look away from the window and glance over to your mum.
>Still asleep, she appears static and immaterial.
>Her head rests against the back of the reclining chair, her eyes closed and jaw slack.
>Her sere body is dry and frail-looking under the light of the patient room.
>Like this, she appears casket-ready, and would be beautiful in accordance to the art of a skilled mortician, perhaps even a clumsy one, for this is the closest you see to your Mum finding peace.
>You’ll be fine talking on the phone.
>So long as you can keep quiet.
>You call up Vinyl Scratch.
>Again.
>And this time, you hardly hear the dial-tone.
>“WHAT.”
>You take a deep breath before speaking.
“Voinyl,” you say, “Oi ’ave several questions, an’ Ah expect yew t’answer each an’ every woon o’ ’em wiv the utmost honesty.”
>A happy suck of air from Vinyl when she hears it’s you.
>“Yo! Tavi! Babe! I’ve been waiting, like, a billion friggin’ years to hear back from you, girl!”
>“So,” she says, and it is alarming how easily her voice descends into a coquettish purr, “what’d ya think about last night? Like what ya heard, Tavi?”

>You scoff.
>How can Vinyl be so casual, yet so…so…
“Wot do Oi think?” you ask Vinyl back in an indignant tone of voice. “Oi think it weren’t very funny, Ah’ll ’ave yew know! It were crood, an’ crass, disgustin’, an’ roight immature—even fer yer standards, Oi should add!”
>Vinyl chuckles.
>“Yeah, and?”
“And yew’re—!”
>You stop yourself short, remembering to keep your voice down:
“And yew’re sleepin’ wiv yer little brother!” you hiss.
>“Yeah, ‘cuz he’s my big brother where it counts.”
“Please, spare me the details! Oi don’t want t’know about that, yew understand?”
>“Psh, ya sure?”
“Yes! Absolutely sure, thank yew very much!!”
>“Really? ‘Cuz, listen, I might’ve been a little blunt when I was getting, like, absolutely fuckin’ REAMED by my boy Anon over here—”
“Oh, blimey, sweet lord!”
>“—but I honestly kinda hoped you would call me back, y’know? Take me up on my offer?”
“Don’t muck about wiv me any more than yew already ’ave. Oi’m not laughin’; Oi’m sure yew’ve noticed. Oi don’t take this as a laughin’ matter.”
>“Girl, it’s *not* a joke! You *really* should’ve joined us last night! Anon and I? Yeah, I know, it’s kinda freaky! But we just… uh… well… Heh. Nah, I got nothin’. We just freaky like that, bitch. Nyah-hah.”
“Y-you... yew just... Yew want me t’join yew, yew said t’me! Just loike that! Ah don’t know wot t’make o’ somethin’ so... so... ’ow am Oi s’posed t’take that, Voinyl?”
>“Meh, it’s complicated,” Vinyl says like it’s no big deal.
>You throw your hands up in the air.
“WELL, IT SURE DOESN’T SOUND LOIKE IT IS TO YEW!
>“Octavia, dear…?”
>You cover your mouth immediately at the rasp of your mother’s voice, realizing how loud your own has become.
>All thoughts you had otherwise are replaced by a single, repeating mantra:
‘Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up.'
>“O-Octy…” she murmurs some more. “Tell…mm, tell your daddy t’…t’be quoiet, please…”
>You swallow the lump in your throat.
“Mum? Um, it’s all good, Mum. Go back t’sleep. It’s nothin’. It’s nothin’.”
>After a minute, you remember that Vinyl is silent on the other end of the line.
>Another minute, and both of you are silent, neither knowing just quite what to say…
>“Are…are you with your mom right now?” Vinyl eventually asks. “How’s it all going?”
>You shrug, shaking your head with a sigh.
“We’re... It’s... She’s takin’ a nap roight now.”
>“Oh,” say Vinyl Scratch. “Um, sorry.”
“We’ll be leavin’ after they flush the last o’ this medication out o’ ’er. Then we’ll ’ead ’ome.”
>“Is she… How is she?”
“Oi... It’s about the same. Same ol’ Mum.”
>“Yeah…”
>More silence.

>Then:
>“Hey, Tavi, look; you got the key to my uncle’s shop. I’m at my pad there tonight. I’ll explain everything to you there, alright? Promise.”
“Um..yeah, sure. Roight.”
>“Really, I will,” Vinyl says. “And, uh, sorry about…you know. Last night.”
>You sigh.
>An apology is nice, sure, but…
>But not yet.
>You are nowhere near done discussing this.
“Why didn’t yew tell me?”
>“Tell you what?”
“Wot do yew mean, ‘tell me wot?’ Wot do yew think Oi mean? About any o’ this!”
>“Uh, because normal people don't exactly bring that up over lunch? Duh.”
“Oi'm bein’ serious,” you warn her.
>“Yeah,” says Vinyl back, a sharpness in her tone. “So am I.”
“Then…then fer ’ow long?”
>“What?”
“Oi asked how long you and he’ve been…y-you know!”
>Vinyl takes a breath before answering, and you can see within your minds eye her shoulders deflating.
>“A couple years.”
>Your eyes bulge from their sockets.
“Years?” you say back to her, slack-jawed.
>“Yeah… A couple of years, at least.”
“Oh, my God.”
>You bring your hand up to your forehead, rubbing at your temples.
“An’ yew never thought t’mention it?”
>“Pssh! Yeah, like if I told you over mozzarella sticks or something yesterday? I’m sure that’d go over well.”
>You feel a strange hardness forming in your chest.
>Like a dull ache.
“So, no. Yew never did then.”
>“Ugh! No, I never did! Is that what you want to hear? So you can finally feel better about yourself!?”
“Oi didn’t say thot,” you tell her quietly.
>“Yeah, well, it’s starting to feel like it, y’know? So fuckin’...just, I dunno. If you wanna call me gross, then fucking do it. Just don’t tell anyone else.”
>Then, Vinyl says something that really baffles you.
>“God,” she says. “You’re acting like the weird part is that me and him are sleeping together.”
>For a moment, you can only laugh in disbelief.
“‘Cos it IS weird!” you tell her. “It is EXCEEDIN’LY weird! Why, Oi’d go so far as t’say it’s positively mad! Yew shaggin’ yer brother is DEFINITELY the weird part.”
>“Nuh-uh,” says Vinyl, “the weird part, Octavia, is that you think *that’s* what’s bothering you, even though it isn’t.”
“Oh? Is that so? Go ahead an’ enlighten me, woon’t yew? Wot could possibly be botherin’ me so much?”
>“...Nah. Not with you on the other end of line. We talk. My place. No, wait— the record shop. I’m house-sitting it for my uncle again. You still got the key, right?”
“Yes,” you say, dragging the word out, “but Oi’m goin’ to need a better reason than thot, yeh know.”
>“Don’t worry. I’ll explain *everything* to you, Tavi. Just, uh…come over at six.”
>You look at the clock on the wall in the patient room.
>Mum’s round of Dacarbazine would be finished within the next half-hour or so, taking the bus home would be an additional thirty minutes right after you guys check out, and then, once at the apartment, you’d have to fix up dinner for Mum before she basically goes lights-out for the rest of the evening. 
>If you head over to the record shop after that, it would be right as the sun starts to go down that you’d be able to go to the record shop, ten minutes by bus, plus five more if you include the walk to the bus stop…
“Fine,” you tell her. “But make it six thirty.”
>“Good,” says Vinyl Scratch. “You got it. I’m staying the night there, so it’s okay if you’re a little late.”
“Oi’ll be there, alroight?”
>“Right, right... Uh, bye.”
“Tah.”
>*click*


.
.
.


>Just a year before Vinyl Scratch was born (and two before Anonymous), the man who would become their uncle had made a stupid-but-actually-smart investment, resulting in acquiring lots of cash he never thought he’d make in his lifetime.
>With it, he opened up his very own record shop at Carousel Avenue, a two-story townhouse building.
>It was narrow and old but quaint in its architecture, fitting in with all the other shops and local dens for the offbeat and alternative.
>It became one of those places you hear locals talk about, the kind that’s seen lots of respect and love throughout the years.
>It’s a part of the scene, and he found much fulfillment in this.
>Then there came a day during the first year of operating his store, one where he found himself not knowing what to do with the second floor of this building.
>It had a small living space with a bedroom, a bathroom, and so on—old townhouse things, see?
>But he did not need these accommodations, this little nesting spot.
>He had a house with a dog and a wife and his side piece; a yard with a birdbath in it; and a toilet with a bidet from which he cleaned his posterior.
>And so, while the second-floor accommodations were made functional by the previous building owners to entice buyers, these went ignored and unlived in under his rule.
>But not for long.
>One day, he got the call from his sister.
>She was going to have her husband’s baby.
>In his excitement upon this news, a muse struck the man with a vision, one of his second floor.
>Not only would he be part of his sister’s child’s life, but they would be a part of his.
>Matter of fact, he was too fun not to be the fun uncle!
>It just made sense!
>And if the kid or kids needed work when they got a little older or simply wanted a place to stay away from Mom and Dad to hang out, well, he’d let them stay anytime they wanted.
>They could always come to him at his store with a place of their own.
>Niece or nephew, only child or siblings—they'd always be welcome on the second floor.
>Years later, and his dream came true.
>Some kids have treehouses; his niece and nephew had an entire upstairs pad made for them.
>In their youth, he would babysit them there on days they were too sick for school while their parents were at work.
>Things of that nature.

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Also, I just wanted to add that Octavia and her mum’s voice is based on the Northumbrian dialect I’ve heard spoken from Alan Moore. However, as I am not a native to the country of Prince Andrew’s Brit-Bongistan, I would appreciate it if any of you wonderful Pakistanis might attest to the accuracy of the dialect, as I have so tirelessly tried to recreate it. I hope you all have your loicenses to post, and remember: while Elton John might play better than Billy Joel, Billy Joel is the better artist overall. He also doesn’t fuck little boys, either. At least you are not French. Ta.
 
I've not written a green in a very long time, so I apologize if it is not up to standard. It has been so long, I've actually forgotten the password to my old Ponepaste. If any of you are interested in reading my old greens, I'd encourage you to subject yourselves to them at this link:
 
Feedback would be appreciated.