The Ferris wheel carriages lacked the length to enable any sensible, five foot nine vampire to stretch fully across one of the seats, given their primary purpose was for people to sit normally (re: vertically) and gaze out the window. Rialto - as he would - got as close to lying down as the seat allowed, back curved up against the side of the carriage and his legs bent like crooked branches, toes poking the metal of the other side; the rest of the space wholly occupied by a plethora of knickknacks flashing gold and blue in the moonlight, beads of red and silver interwoven with feathers and chains draped over the floor, around him, a long link of colour still in his hands as he braided a very necessary scarf for people’s phones.

He was an artiste. Soon he was going to hit big, then people would know.

The people he was going to boast extensively to, once some multibillionaire bigwig caught wind of Rialto’s genius and showered him lavishly in just a little bit of those billions so he could graduate from Etsy and make a huge brand of very utilisable phone accessories (shoes, he’d made; umbrellas, been there; battle armour… he’ll make a note of that one), included half the supernatural naysayers he dealt with daily. Did Picasso give up once he was shunned? Of course not. He just cut his ear off. Unless that was some other guy, and for some other reason.

Rialto didn’t differentiate very successful people.

Once he finished adding the last superfluous bell to the phone-scarf, shook it out a little bit to make sure it all held together, Rialto sat up, with both a bit of struggle and a satisfied huff. Time to sell.

“Live breakfasts are important for liver function,” he piped up pleasantly not five minutes later, right over Catheryn’s shoulder. “Do you like to donate?” Because artists - sorry, artistes - liked popping up behind people, almost too quiet to hear considering Rialto’s everyday footwear consisted of sandals. And can’t forget to advertise. He held out his phone, basically the entire screen cracked with how nicely he treated it, wrapped up in a cute adorned scarf. “If I may interest you for your safety, look. If you hurl the phone at someone’s head, not only will they be out cold, your phone has a complex defence mechanism to prevent breakage.” The scarf, remember.

Why the phone scarf, some people might deadpan.

Because no one else wanted to give phones their scarfs, our local intellectual would explain.

© MADI

Rialto would have been unmoved from his place if it weren't for the minute shock of Cat being jostled, and then the slender fingers scuffing his forehead, which on the surface seemed harmless except for the solid thud they made, the blow dislodging the hair between Rialto's eyes.

Whether Rialto had the ability to resist grimacing at the physical pain, he didn't utilise it in the slightest - worsened by their words of devilry and sin, Rialto's mouth falling open at the harsh sting they wreaked. "You take that back," he said through gritted teeth, hand snapping up to grab Alex's wrist and a vein fit to burst on his forehead. "They're poorly made with a lot of thought." The biggest insult wasn't even the one about their price. Rialto didn't think twice about the price.

Poorly made, though. That one sizzled like holy water down the throat.

The vampire withdrew the phone and its apparent sheath to tuck into the inside of his creased vest, petulant but not surprised at the failure of yet another sales pitch. If it wasn't the lack of diversity that prevented anything from being bought, could it possibly be that he needed to change up his methods? ... Never mind. These two would certainly keep being here shooting down his potential clients, now and later. Ah, what were immortal companions for.

"The night is young," he said blithely, at that point making to push Alex away by the face with a palm. Back to the young individual they were addressing. The ash scattered from only moments ago still stained the crisp air, faint but thickly pervasive - it was really too sad that people these days forewent pipes in lieu of inelegant temporary sticks. They could at least afford to corrupt their own lungs in style. "Soda is enough for a day or two. Now, what's your story?"

© MADI