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[Luke Smith]

"A... fire breathing dragon?" He questioned the idea as he saw the blue prints on paper. This was a last minute addition - well, actually that was the thing he had to decide. Scoffing, he started chuckling, "Making a fire breathing dragon out of wood. I don't think so." Well that answered all questions. They wouldn't have the time to fab it out of metal, "I don't know, maybe the next one. With something not so flammable." Shit, it was dangerous period to have anything flammable anywhere near Pyromania stage during a show. It was probably a little too dangerous, but that's what insurance was for!

Luke never went out to intentionally hurt anyone - not yet anyway. The fair share of musicians had suffered minor burns, but thankfully nothing too catastrophic. Mild concern did come over him at times, but fire almost had a mind of its own. Hell, he taped the areas off with dayglo orange tape, and if some idiot couldn't see that against a black background, then they deserved to get burned.

He began walking towards the stage, just to double check everything. Of course, as he did this a regular nicotene craving ravished him. Igniting a propane canon, a burs of fire came out. Carefully, the cigarette was lit. Overkill? Yeah. But he didn't have a lighter on him and honestly, he didn't feel like looking for one.

The stick was held loosely between his lips, connecting and reconnecting pipes, setting dials - just incorporating those final touches so they wouldn't have a huge disaster on their hands. Grabbing a radio out of his back pocket, he was in contact with the tower. The tower was essentially the life of the operation. They were able to see everything, and everyone. Everything needed to run the show was there, and would be controlled via the tower, "Go ahead and let's test the falls." He stood, leaning back against the barricades with his arms crossed. Eyes set on the stage, he heard them respond and simply waited for the moment to come.

With a hiss that was never heard over screaming piles of fans, the falls came on, sending star-like sparks towards earth, but never surviving their way to the ground. Perfect. He didn't want any Michael Jackson disasters. Of course, Michael was a disaster, that was a different story for a different time.

Satisfied with the result, he contacted the tower again, "Alright everything is clear and ready to go.." just five more days and the place would be packed. They hadn't sold out the venue, but they were so close. Who knows, a few extra might show up to shave the tickets off the top. Opting not to walk around or take the stairs, Luke took two large strides and launched himself back up on the stage - accidentally touching one of the many effect spouts, "Son of a bitch.." It was warm - really warm - however it did no damage other than leaving his hand with an angry red reminder of 'watch where you're putting things, dumb ass.' It was nothing he hadn't countered before. By now, minutes had passed and his cigarette was near the end of it's life span.

One last inhilation, and Luke threw it on the ground, stepping on it before he walked off. Now, he liked pyro - but wild fires were a bitch.

[twitch]

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ACROSS THE ROOM, ACROSS THE ROOM ,
i hope to watch you writhe again soon. . .

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there was something terribly painful about sitting in a bus all night long. not physically, besides the fact that there was often the crammed quarters of uncomfortable bunks or crashing on the couch. that also meant long nights of stiff necks and aching backs, but that wasn't something to complain too much about. shit like that happened all the time. if you weren't willing to put up with that and demand massages from your band mates or people in the crew, then you just weren't ready for touring. wednesday could definitely put up with the physical pain of touring. the mental pain of sitting in the bus? not so much. it bothered her to be seated in the same place, staring at the same walls that remained unchanging with every passing second. watching the minutes on the same clock on the same wall tick by, the maddening sound of the hands moving eating away at whatever stability you claimed to possess. that was the hardest parts. screw the bruises and the cuts you got from thrashing around. waiting was murder.

with that being said, the over analysis of the situation ran through wednesday's mind several times. she sat there on the semi-comfortable material of the couch, tapping her slender fingers on the arm. her eyes were shut, a small frown gracing her features as she tried to remain absolutely calm. the minutes continued to tick away on the clock, loud enough to make the girl flinch with every 'tick! tock!' oh, the joys of life. a deep sigh escaped her lips as she continued to sit and contemplate to herself. how could this get any better? wednesday could think of a lot of reason that it could. for one, it could've been raining and she could've been outside, dancing in it. secondly, she could've been onstage, performing and doing what she did best. however, both options were basically ruled out. she couldn't dance in the rain if there was no rain, and it didn't work with the on and off breeze of atlanta's april air. that, and she had to wait a total of five days before she could really perform. now, five days wouldn't seem like much to the average person if they had - let's say a dentist appointment - in five days. but for wednesday, asking her to wait five days was like asking her to wait for the apocalypse. once again, i say this in the lightest terms possible - waiting was murder.

after what seemed like the millionth 'tick!' - the closed eyelids of the blue eyed girl shot open as she shot up from her seat, throwing her arms into the air in defeat. "oh, fuck this."

[/color] she grumbled to herself, immediately walking over to the doors of the bus and prodding it open with her foot. pssh. as if she would've been able to sit there all day without reaching her breaking point. her Converses collided with the ground as she set her foot on the floor, proceeding to walk towards the direction where life seemed to exist. as she walked along, her feet dug into the gravel, creating miniature sandstorms to whatever miniature non-existent people lived below. brushing lingering strands of hair out of her face, she thought about her reasoning for heading in the direction of the stage. did she even have a reason? of course not. she never did. it wasn't the fact that she was craving human contact, resulting in her going to the place with the most activity in the area. it went more along the lines of her having to get out of the bus before she went over the brink of insanity. yes, that sounded like a logical explanation.

it didn't take long for her to reach the stage area. a big thing like that wasn't hard to miss, although it'd been wednesday's first time at the stage since arriving in atlanta. better to get acquainted now than to be tripping over things and falling on her ass five days from now, right? hopping quickly up the stairs, she allowed her cool blue eyes to take in the area surrounding her. it was mostly consisted of men hard at work, setting the stage up. their weapon of choice? she could already tell the intricate detailing of the pyro equipment that they wee planning on using. anywhere else, and the police would've been storming the place and arresting people for even thinking about playing with such things in public. but no. they were paid to do this. doing a show one day, she heard some security staff calling the crew "paid criminals", which simply made her laugh out loud. wednesday - for one - loved to play with fire, regardless of the fact that she wasn't paid for it and set things on fire out of her own enjoyment. that didn't make her a bad person, right? of course not. shoving her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans, she plopped herself down onto the hard floor, crossing her legs as they taught her to master in kindergarten, simply watching as the men shuffled around all over the place. curiosity killed the cat, but wednesday surely wasn't the one to listen to the old school proverbs. blue eyes followed the retreating figures of moving men, reaching down into the pockets of her jeans to remove a lollipop - a watermelon Blow Pop, to be exact - and pop it into her mouth. whenever she didn't possess cigarettes, her lollipops were the second best thing. childish, but whatever. that was simply how she was. "ANYONE HAVE A CIG?"[/color] wednesday shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands to project her voice to any of the men that were listening. hey, it didn't hurt to try.

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OUTFIT ,[/color] incomplete.
WORD COUNT ,[/color] nine hundred and sixty three.
TAG ,[/color] wednesday manson and luke smith !
NOTES[/color] sorry it took so long! i get carried away. and i swear i won't claim threads anymore. x]
LYRICS ,[/color] the writhing south by say anything.
LISTENING TO ,[/color] williamsburg by armor for sleep.[/font][/size]

[Luke Smith]

Luke went off in search of a lighter. Seriously. He was a pyrotechnician, you would think he'd have a fucking lighter or some god damn matches somewhere. No. He just had big tanks of propane and fuels to make fire. That was one thing about it. Luke could never keep up with anything. Hell, he was probably lucky he even knew who he was in the morning. He was twenty six, and had fucking alzheimers already. Great. Perfect. What's next? Drooling all over everything? He dug - carefully - through a trunk of bottle rockets. He always kept stashes of bottle rockets.

Now why on earth would anyone have a stash of fucking bottle rockets? One reason, and one reason only. It was fun to shoot people with them. Bottle rocket wars, burn battles - call it what you will. Many a drunk night had the tour ended in such fiasco. It was stupid. It was painful. The memories however, were great and they would last forever. Then again, there was that night they were all arrested for shooting them off at cop cars. They'd almost gotten away with it too. No, that was a lie. They wouldn't have gotten away with it. Luke chuckled lightly, remembering how dear Freddie had gotten tazered. Oh god, Freddie.

He was a pain in the ass to the bands. Luke didn't mind him much. Infact, he almost enjoyed having the weird ass little fucker around. He was entertaining, off beat - all his own. Which is probably the only reason he hadn't been killed yet. Freddie might not have been the sexiest guy or the most fit, and more often than not, his flamboyancy scared off many a straight rockstar and roadie. Freddie knew how to live life, and enjoy the fucking ride. That's what Luke admired... That, and he was one of the few people that didn't get totally pissed when Luke set his pants on fire one night. Imagine it if you will. A man with all the gayness in the world, drunk off his ass, trying to outrun his own leg. Yeah, the drunken chase after him with an extinguisher ended up being quite a sight of interest as well. Hot Pants, Fredericks nick name, would never call his pants hot again after that.

Still ruffling through boxes of shit, he finally found one. It was a cheapo, half empty - but it held a flame well enough. He began a pace back towards the stage, feeling in his pockets for his cigarettes. Tours made him a nervous fucking wreck. Two jobs in one. One, where you had to make sure everything was going smoothly. The other? Giving one hell of a show, and making sure no one got seriously injured in the mean time. He looked down, placing yet another Marlboro between his lips, lighting it up in a more conservative manner this go round.

Eyes shifted up when he heard someone shouting, asking for a cigarette. At first sight, he couldn't much tell who it was. As he approached, and was able to see her features he recognized her easily enough - as per his job. His brow lifted, a though crossing through his mind, "Maybe.." He answered her, signifigantly more quiet than she had been, "But I think the correct term is 'May I have a cigarette?'"

Grammer snob. He wasn't really one, but he liked picking on people. That was just Luke. Random. Quirky. Insane at best. A scoff coupled with a small grin, "Here," he handed her the pack and the lighter. He knew what it was like to be without nicotene. It was fucking hell. Especially during Christmas. With annoying family members. Family members, who didn't motherfucking smoke because they were all doctors and it was supposedly bad for your health. Ha! Stress was bad for you! Cigarettes stopped that stress - not as well as pot, admitedly - but cigarettes were legal. Eh, pot was such a high school drug, but Luke still loved it.

Attention averting back to her, he continued, "Wednesday Manson, right? I'm Luke. The fucker who sent you one hundred and fifty seven and a half contracts." It was all part of his job. Contracts. Insurance. Pay. Comission. Booths. Parking. Meet and Greets. Scheduling. It was fucking crazy, and he often felt guilty about sending so much paper work. It sucked - but he couldn't much help that. Contracts protected everyone - otherwise he wouldn't do it because Lawyers were pricks. He knew this. His mother had been one. And she was one foul bitch.