This alleyway has seen all manners of things. It's seen death, of child and wife, friend and foe alike. It's seen tragedies both small and large, torture beyond compare, betrayal beyond reason. Of all the horrors that have been seen in the misty month of October, however, none live up to the terror before them now.
One Rusty Venture stands by the poolside in bright blue swimming trunks that are about two sizes too big for him, sixteen years old young, puberty, as Rusty later put it, oozing out of his pores. That's oozing that's both literal and figurative, for the record; sixteen-year-old Rusty is stricken by cystic acne that somehow his scientist father hasn't considered fixing for him, his mass of bright red hair too short to be yanked into a proper ponytail, but too long to be swept aside and his skinny chest, practically concave, is boasting a sparse collection of wiry red hair... though it's difficult to tell at this point what's freckles, and what's hair. It all gives off the impression of a boy who is simply permanently sunburnt, including, unfortunately, some spindly hairs that are only just growing in on the corners of his upper lip.
He doesn't look particularly happy, arms hugged close to his chest as if that will conceal him from the world around him. And what a world that is! Despite the sign hung in the yard proclaiming HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY RUSTY!!!!!!!, complete with gratuitous exclamation marks, this doesn't look like a party for a young man. There's not a single soul around his own age. Instead, there's a motley crew of people in costumes, some clearly heroic in nature, others ostensibly villainous but happily partaking in the table of hors d'oeuvres. The hero business is woefully short on women, but Jonas Venture Sr. seems to have solved this problem by inviting other women by the metric ton. There are models, of course, but playboy bunnies as well, and women who are, to say the least, quite obviously sex workers. They all look like they're having a wonderful time, and Jonas, pinnacle of class that he is, has his hands firmly on two womens' buttocks. They do not look as though they're complaining; where Rusty is slim, with a narrow, dour face and no muscles to speak of, Jonas is a veritable Ozymandias of a man, broad and square-jawed with a deep, booming voice.
And it's that deep voice that suddenly cries out, "And now, the man of the hour... RUSTY VENTURE!"
The band playing in the background stops immediately, and all eyes are on that quivering mess of hormones that is, for the moment, Rusty Venture. He doesn't look too happy, but he never does. He attempts at a nervous smile that looks more like a grimace than anything else, but before he can even pretend to enjoy himself, Colonel Gentleman reaches out and yanks down his trunks while a beam of light shot by Action Man hits him right in the unmentionables.
It was a shrinking ray, as soon becomes apparent as Rusty suddenly gets a whole lot smaller.
Rusty turns almost as red as his hair as he scrambles desperately at his trunks, toppling over in the process ("ah, the boy's never been athletic", Action Man can be heard rumbling), struggling to cover himself up as the party erupts in uproarious laughter. The only person who seems to gain more amusement out of this than the playboy bunnies is Jonas Sr. himself, hand cupped over his mouth as he has a good chuckle, though even the sound itself is urbane, as if he's laughing at a witticism instead of a shrinking penis.
"Oh, lighten up Rusty," his father can be heard saying as his eyes begin to fill with tears that he's in the process of valiantly denying, "it was only a joke."
Which would be a nice note to end on if not for the last, lingering shout from Action Man: "HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT HIS PENIS!"
Have you ever looked at Doctor Thaddeus "Rusty" Venture and thought to yourself: man, I want to know what that bundle of repression and neuroses shoved into an assembly of bones and sinew looks like when he's ready to get it on?
If you answered no to that question, you are a sane human being. If you answered no to that question, you also shouldn't be here for this memory. Donning a diamond-patterned vest and wig that looks straight out of the 70s, Rusty is in the midst of charming one Doctor Girlfriend - currently undercover as Charlene, and no, we don't know how Rusty missed that voice either - who is herself wearing chopsticks in her hair and a hanfu-inspired dress that looks straight out of the late 90s.
"So... this is me," she says, jingling her keys in front of her car.
"Um, uh, um, uhhhh, okay, Charlene," Rusty says, looking as though he's about to get an aneurysm by having an attractive woman even look at him. "How about I give you my number to my two-way private wrist communicator watch?"
"How about I give you a ride to your place?"
Rusty looks like he might cry shortly thereafter, and spends the ride over to his beautiful compound attempting to subtly readjust himself so he doesn't sit on his own boner. It doesn't take them long to enter his bedroom - which, incidentally, also looks like it's straight out of the 70s due to some horrifying arrested development on Rusty's part - and they get to undressing and, of course, indulging in a little foreplay.
Which is to say, a half-naked Rusty is busy wrapping his arms around her like an octopus and shoving his tongue down her throat with the desperation of a man who's only had the company of his own hand and various experimental sex toys (the auto-suckerTM got stuck on him for three days once, and he's chosen good old hand lotion ever since that particular trauma) for a very, very long time. Charlene's hands dig right into that massive wig of his, moving it around his bulbous, bald head. Rusty ruts against her leg, as if he has no idea where to locate a woman's vagina. It's disgusting.
"Do you have any condoms?" She asks.
"Just a mo."
Rusty digs around for a condom in his long-neglected nightstand, and it promptly crumbles once he picks it up. "Huh! Condoms. Rusty doesn't need condoms to please a woman," he says, with the smugness of someone who's trying desperately to spin something horrible into something to do with his non-existent sexual prowess.
As he tries to get condom-dust off of his fingers, Dr. Girlfriend approaches him from behind and unceremoniously shoots a needlegun into his neck. Not to be dissuaded from a simple attack, Rusty lets out a distressingly salacious, "Oh, so you like it rough," before promptly passing out.
It is, without hyperbole, one of his finest moments, and that's a very sad statement indeed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
One Rusty Venture stands by the poolside in bright blue swimming trunks that are about two sizes too big for him, sixteen years old young, puberty, as Rusty later put it, oozing out of his pores. That's oozing that's both literal and figurative, for the record; sixteen-year-old Rusty is stricken by cystic acne that somehow his scientist father hasn't considered fixing for him, his mass of bright red hair too short to be yanked into a proper ponytail, but too long to be swept aside and his skinny chest, practically concave, is boasting a sparse collection of wiry red hair... though it's difficult to tell at this point what's freckles, and what's hair. It all gives off the impression of a boy who is simply permanently sunburnt, including, unfortunately, some spindly hairs that are only just growing in on the corners of his upper lip.
He doesn't look particularly happy, arms hugged close to his chest as if that will conceal him from the world around him. And what a world that is! Despite the sign hung in the yard proclaiming HAPPY 16TH BIRTHDAY RUSTY!!!!!!!, complete with gratuitous exclamation marks, this doesn't look like a party for a young man. There's not a single soul around his own age. Instead, there's a motley crew of people in costumes, some clearly heroic in nature, others ostensibly villainous but happily partaking in the table of hors d'oeuvres. The hero business is woefully short on women, but Jonas Venture Sr. seems to have solved this problem by inviting other women by the metric ton. There are models, of course, but playboy bunnies as well, and women who are, to say the least, quite obviously sex workers. They all look like they're having a wonderful time, and Jonas, pinnacle of class that he is, has his hands firmly on two womens' buttocks. They do not look as though they're complaining; where Rusty is slim, with a narrow, dour face and no muscles to speak of, Jonas is a veritable Ozymandias of a man, broad and square-jawed with a deep, booming voice.
And it's that deep voice that suddenly cries out, "And now, the man of the hour... RUSTY VENTURE!"
The band playing in the background stops immediately, and all eyes are on that quivering mess of hormones that is, for the moment, Rusty Venture. He doesn't look too happy, but he never does. He attempts at a nervous smile that looks more like a grimace than anything else, but before he can even pretend to enjoy himself, Colonel Gentleman reaches out and yanks down his trunks while a beam of light shot by Action Man hits him right in the unmentionables.
It was a shrinking ray, as soon becomes apparent as Rusty suddenly gets a whole lot smaller.
Rusty turns almost as red as his hair as he scrambles desperately at his trunks, toppling over in the process ("ah, the boy's never been athletic", Action Man can be heard rumbling), struggling to cover himself up as the party erupts in uproarious laughter. The only person who seems to gain more amusement out of this than the playboy bunnies is Jonas Sr. himself, hand cupped over his mouth as he has a good chuckle, though even the sound itself is urbane, as if he's laughing at a witticism instead of a shrinking penis.
"Oh, lighten up Rusty," his father can be heard saying as his eyes begin to fill with tears that he's in the process of valiantly denying, "it was only a joke."
Which would be a nice note to end on if not for the last, lingering shout from Action Man: "HEY EVERYBODY, LOOK AT HIS PENIS!"
Thanks, Rodney.
MMMM HOT SEXING
If you answered no to that question, you are a sane human being. If you answered no to that question, you also shouldn't be here for this memory. Donning a diamond-patterned vest and wig that looks straight out of the 70s, Rusty is in the midst of charming one Doctor Girlfriend - currently undercover as Charlene, and no, we don't know how Rusty missed that voice either - who is herself wearing chopsticks in her hair and a hanfu-inspired dress that looks straight out of the late 90s.
"So... this is me," she says, jingling her keys in front of her car.
"Um, uh, um, uhhhh, okay, Charlene," Rusty says, looking as though he's about to get an aneurysm by having an attractive woman even look at him. "How about I give you my number to my two-way private wrist communicator watch?"
"How about I give you a ride to your place?"
Rusty looks like he might cry shortly thereafter, and spends the ride over to his beautiful compound attempting to subtly readjust himself so he doesn't sit on his own boner. It doesn't take them long to enter his bedroom - which, incidentally, also looks like it's straight out of the 70s due to some horrifying arrested development on Rusty's part - and they get to undressing and, of course, indulging in a little foreplay.
Which is to say, a half-naked Rusty is busy wrapping his arms around her like an octopus and shoving his tongue down her throat with the desperation of a man who's only had the company of his own hand and various experimental sex toys (the auto-suckerTM got stuck on him for three days once, and he's chosen good old hand lotion ever since that particular trauma) for a very, very long time. Charlene's hands dig right into that massive wig of his, moving it around his bulbous, bald head. Rusty ruts against her leg, as if he has no idea where to locate a woman's vagina. It's disgusting.
"Do you have any condoms?" She asks.
"Just a mo."
Rusty digs around for a condom in his long-neglected nightstand, and it promptly crumbles once he picks it up. "Huh! Condoms. Rusty doesn't need condoms to please a woman," he says, with the smugness of someone who's trying desperately to spin something horrible into something to do with his non-existent sexual prowess.
As he tries to get condom-dust off of his fingers, Dr. Girlfriend approaches him from behind and unceremoniously shoots a needlegun into his neck. Not to be dissuaded from a simple attack, Rusty lets out a distressingly salacious, "Oh, so you like it rough," before promptly passing out.
It is, without hyperbole, one of his finest moments, and that's a very sad statement indeed.