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[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Old Macdonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O,
And on this farm he had a Mercutio,
E-I-E-I-O.
With a 'forsooth' here and an 'ay me' there,
Here a 'zounds', there a 'sblood',
Everywhere a 'single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness',
Old Macdonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O.

Sadly, Old Macdonald is not available to talk to you. He's a very busy and famous man, and his time is precious. Mercutio, however, is entirely at your service, running through fencing routines in the crisp air outside the bar.

Comments

[mogget_cat]

*Old Macdonald had a farm,
E-I-E-I-O,
And on this farm he had an Yrael,
E-I-E-I-O,
With a *snicker* here and a 'feed me' there,
Here a nap, there a purr,
Everywhere a Yrael makes every effort to trip Mercutio as he goes through his fencing routines,
Old Macdonald had a farm,
E
I
E
I
O.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Well, once is enough, before Mercutio stops his dance and huffs down at the cat.

"Having fun?"

[mogget_cat]

*Yrael grins up at him.* Actually, yes.

You?

*Totally innocent.*

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"I was, before this scraggly thing of fur interrupted me. Have you seen it?"

[mogget_cat]

*Yrael wraps himself around Mercutio's left ankle.* I have not seen anything like what you describe, no. I shall have to keep an lookout for it. How dare it interrupt your fun.

*Mercutio's foot is patted with a paw.* There there.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Th'art deeply annoying."

He's smiling, though.

"And steeped with insincerity."

[mogget_cat]

*The fuzzy footwarmer looks taken aback.*

Me?

Me??

*But isn't he the cutest thing ever? So innocent and pure as the driven snow.*

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Aye, you. The thing sitting on my foot."

He taps Yrael with the side of his foil.

[mogget_cat]

Well, there is another definition I can give when people ask what I am.

*Yrael leaps up and gingerly climbs his way to Mercutio's shoulders. Mercutio doesn't mind the occasional prick of kyoot ickle kittums claws, does he? It's minor payback for the tapping with the foil.*

*Once comfortably ensconced about Mercutio's shoulder, he purrs into his ear.*

How have you been?

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"What, thou shalt say, 'I am the thing sitting on your foot'? But it will not always be true."

Of course he deosn't mind. He's bloody used to it. He only yelps a little.

"I have been, as always, shiny. I have been called 'muted' by a pretty man and have kissed a stone-cold killer. The second was more entertaining."

[mogget_cat]

Do I always tell the truth, Fig?

*His fur is soft and vaguely tickly against Mercutio's neck.* Did it provide much entertainment, or was it forgettable?

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"For a given value of 'truth', mayhap."

He grins, and stretches an arm to pet Yrael's head: it's uncomfortable, and he drops it after a moment.

"It was... an average level of entertainment."

[mogget_cat]

That is nice. *He purrs against the petting hand, but stops with the petting stops. Hmph.*

I, too, have been finding entertainment from a, as you put it, stone cold killer. But he doesn't enjoy it as I do.

*Translation: Yrael's been being mean again.*

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Drink (J&B, rocks. by Bar), deconstructed suit (by Bill Blass), smirk (by Patrick). Sitting on his suit jacket, he is not entirely too far away to stare with that expression carved on his perfect face without touching his eyes.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Mercutio has, as previously mentioned in millicanon, staredar. Yay.

He doesn't turn around, though, just continues the flowing, hypothetically deadly dance.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Idles with the glass, listening to the ice chink-clink with indifference. Today's facade is very hard to maintain, because he is outside and is starting to worry about (basal cell carcinoma) his complexion. But he blinks, continues to stare, and the worry is replaced by rage. His smile cracks.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

Mercutio slows smoothly to a halt, stretching and breathing a little more heavily than normal. He sheathes the rapier, but not the dagger. Yet.

"God gi' good e'en, Mr Bateman."

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

Smile appears slick and oily, "Thou talk’st of nothing."

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Thou talk'st of dreams."

He long since stopped being fazed by quotations from his play.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

He laughs, drinks. Gestures toward him with the glass, "Quaint."

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"I am."

He smiles.

"How dost thou fare, pretty killer?"

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"No worse (nor better) for the wear." He mutters over his glass. "Should I bother asking you the same?"

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Why, dost know the answer?"

He wanders towards Patrick, dagger loose and casual in his hand.

[yuppie-trash.livejournal.com]

"No, but I don't care what the answer is." Another cool swallow of warm whisky, he sets the nearly empty glass down in the grass. Watchful.

[singlesoledjest.livejournal.com]

"Bitter?"

He's grinning.