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Pick Your Poison, Thursday

Okay, okay, even Margo needed to take a break from working on a way out. If only so she could handle the fucking ton of party planning still left to do. She’d gone on another booze run in the morning, checked on the canapes, got the right dress, and now she was back at the store.

Going through inventory.

Because she was using some of this shit to make sure the scents were right at the party, and the storage room was a great place to practice her firefly spell.

Was she paying actual attention to customers as she flitted from storage room to counter and back? Nah. Priorities, she had ’em, come admire ’em and weep.

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The ‘leave your money here and go, yeah I’ll know if you fuck off without paying’ sign was there again. Go do your own shopping.

Or snag Margo on her way in or out of the storage room.

Margo’s canon character songs are the best.

Edited 2021-10-21 15:57 (UTC)

One of these days, Irene might actually make a purchase here. Today, though, she was just wandering in with one of those party posters in hand, hoping to catch the lady of the hour.

"We are to wear masks and couture to your event tomorrow, and not come as errant dragon queens and serial killers and the like, correct?" she called, because greetings were for other people, clearly. "I love dressing fancy, but fancy-dress requires much more forethought."

Fashion, though, came naturally. (Though she also had a Halloween costume lined up, should she need one.)

“Yeah, think Halloween-adjacent fancy masquerade party, not flat-out Halloween,” Margo said as she stepped out of the storage room again, a bag of bath bombs in one hand. “I figure most of this island is going to half-ass it anyway, but I hope you know expectations for you are high.”

Judging other people’s choices while looking hot was a great bonding activity, right?

"I would be insulted if they weren't," Irene assured her with a bright smile. "There's a handful of us who'll turn out well, but yes, quite a good chunk of the island is likely to show up looking like the Hamburglar in a suit with that prompt."

She said it affectionately, at least. She'd made her peace with how, no, Toto, they sure weren't in Belgravia anymore.

"But the better question is whether I'll be in trouble for not bringing any magic," she added, teasing. "Hopefully I can make up for it with the clothes."

She could. She already knew she could.

“And even if you can’t, well, that’s why you have me,” Margo said brightly. She set the bag down on the counter. “Don’t worry. El and I come with a few nice cosmetic spells locked, loaded and ready to go. All you have to do is dress like a badass.”

"Done and done," Irene assured her, leaning against the counter. "Are the cosmetic spells for the house or for the party-goers or both?"

Irene didn't know if she especially wanted a spell to be cast on her, but then again, she might not even know if no one told her.

“Both,” Margo said. She looked up at Irene. “The house is already spelled to hell and back to make it bigger on the inside, but we got a few special things planned. And fancy sparkly shit for the guests on request.”

"Bigger on the inside?" Irene was English, through and through, and so of course her mind went to one place. Ingrained knowledge of that particular long-running science fiction series was practically as much a national characteristic as a love of tea and emotional distance. "I should have you take a run at my flat. And fancy sparkly shit already puts this a step above the last few parties I've been to. Masquerades included."

Of course Irene had a collection of Venetian-style masks to choose from. Granted, most of the parties she'd worn them to had been fairly clothing-optional, but still. Sometimes being a high-end sex worker had its various perks.

Edited 2021-10-21 16:58 (UTC)

If Margo had thought ‘high end sex party’ was going to fly in this place. . .

“If this isn’t the party of your season, El and I have fucked up,” she said, though it really depended on whether people would bother to show up. She was a little worried Eliot would see all the alcohol as a challenge if they didn’t.

“It’s a new place, we gotta put our best foot forward, you know?”

Sometimes they even did their best brainstorming at parties. You never knew.

Edited 2021-10-21 17:13 (UTC)

"It's probably a fabulous way to meet people," Irene told her, in all seriousness. "The island's so small that practically everyone turns out for everything. So while I'm sure your party will be the event of the season, no doubt, you could honestly probably get by with a cheese tray and a good playlist with this crowd."

Not that Irene was objecting to having an opportunity to dress up. Ever. At all. She'd probably wear a multi-thousand-pound outfit to this hypothetical cheese and iPod party, anyway.

Margo pulled a face. “Ugh,” she said. “No thanks. I’ve got my pride.”

She eyed Irene speculatively. “You ever host anything around here? Anything I should know about?”

"Not since I've been back," Irene admitted. "Usually I rely on having good friends who own bars -- Kitty and Eric usually take care of hosting parties, and I get to enjoy not having to spring for a cleaning fee. But." She held up a finger, her brows spiking up, "I had considered doing a sort of...open house. For the shop. I can't tell you how many people wander in and act like the dildos might bite them or like the whips might spontaneously hop off their rack and into their arms with no hint as to how to use them."

And who better to teach such a skill than The Woman herself?

"Perhaps around Christmastime," she added. "Or for Valentine's Day."

Did they really call her that? The Woman? Because that was some grade-a men chasing their pixie dream girl shit right there.

“It’d be one hell of a way to get everyone’s stocking stuffed for Christmas,” Margo said, smirking.

Oh, you know. Why pretend that women as a whole were worth anything when you could spend your whole life being misogynistically hung up on the one who'd beaten you?

But also: branding.

"Make sure those colder nights aren't so very frigid for everyone," Irene agreed with a wink.

“I’d be up for a sex store X-mas party,” Margo said, grinning with her tone and her voice at the same time. “Mr. Hitachi’s been very kind to me.”

"A triple-X-mas party, if you will." Come on, it was just there, waiting to be said. "Mr. Hitachi's a bestseller for a reason. Love that they finally gave up on branding him as a back massager, please." Irene rolled her eyes, waving a hand. "If tomorrow's party magic ends up being as impressive as I'm expecting, maybe you could add some flourishes to this potential dirty Christmas party."

“And it’s not like I got a shitload to do here besides read books about portals and yell at gnomes,” Margo said. “Parties are the second best cure for stress. Especially if we can sparkle shit up.”

"In my experience, parties tend to lead to other top-five cures for stress," Irene noted, teasing lightly. "How formal would we like for tomorrow? I was planning on cocktail attire, but I could do white tie if you think that'll be the standard."

She was, of course, joking. It hadn't been that long since Irene had taught a fashion class, and she had zero confidence that most of the island would know what 'white tie' even meant as a dress code.

(Irene was, of course, a hopeless snob.)

“Honey,” Margo said, her mouth set in half a pout and her brow creased in a way that said you know where we are, right? “Just give me anything I’ll actually like looking at that doesn’t scare the children.”

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