Dedicated to alexan629 reading her stories made me want to write and I finished this in a day. Like once I read her stories I'm like 'k no more procrastinating write omg'. No lie my bromo sapiens.
-----xx
Charity events aren't really his thing. Actually, he couldn't care less. When brought up by people as arrogant and fake as Brent Angelou, anyone would lose the ability to feel empathy and sympathy but get too good at faking it. 'It's not your fault they're hooked on drugs. Not your fault they're born poor or became it. They didn't work hard enough; they didn't have enough willpower. 'You don't wanna be like them, Mark. You have an empire and more money than you can spend- so many people want to be you.'

But if his father taught him anything, it's that charity brought in the most money that sponsoring it is the right step forward. Easily, they defile the idea of something so noble and selfless. The Angelous; assholes who somehow climbed the social ladder and became the top socialites who got invited to yacht parties to make deals with assholes just like them.

Mark Angelou always thought it was wrong. Everything.

"Ya, ya. Sue them for it. Their slogan is a carbon copy of ours, and true or not, we have better lawyers." The man spoke from his desk, polished shoes on top of the paperwork pile. His big, brown cigar is wasting away between gold-ringed fingers as the ash hissed when it hit the cold marbled desk. "How's our partnership? Shit- that's a problem, so get the CEO a trip to Cabo or something. If his marriage is unhappy, get him the hot flight attendance."

The attempt to sugarcoat himself with false philanthropy and propaganda sure worked, and the goal of gaining trust and populace with the media was achieved so long ago. New goal; make an island all out of money. Mark tried not to think about it, or the line of white powder neatly set on his dad's desk. He focused on his fingers, or more specifically the coins he controlled with them. They seemed to appear and disappear on his palm, tugging a small smile on his otherwise stoic face.

With a sigh, his father slammed the phone and removed his feet off the table. He as if bowed, snorting the white powder to look relaxed. To finish off, he downed a tall glass of whiskey, leaving it opened for Mark.

He dodged up, green eyes meeting his father's similar, corrupted shade. "Arent you making that speech later? For the charity event, as the biggest sponsor? I don't think all that is necessary, Dad-" He mumbled lowly.

The man stood up, straightening his tux and practicing the teeth-whitening commercial smile. "I'm not doing this shit sober. Are you coming?"

The boy shook his head, placing the coin in his coat pocket. "No, um- Unless I can do some magic tricks for the kids-"

"Nope. Cant do." He sighed, flicking his cigar before throwing the barely smoked stick away. "You look stupid, I'll just be honest. And because I love you, I need you to focus on something else. You're the one who inherits all of this when I die, Mark. You gotta learn a thing or two." He gave a smile, looking at his slim built on the full-body mirror. Brent dusted away the little stain of cocaine and tightens his tie.

Mark shuffled uncomfortably, eyes on the floor. "I'll study while you're gone. I'm getting good on the piano." He smiled.

"The violin?" His father asks, heading for the door.

Mark shrugged. "I'm working on it, Dad. It'll be ready for the picnic this weekend, promise." The boy assured, showing a less rehearsed version of his father's million-dollar smile.

Strong hands came to pat the boy's back-combed hair. "Smart, Mark. Anyway, I have to make sure you study, don't I?" He sighed, taking a phone from his coat pocket. "Burn the magic books, Ruby. Yeah, the equipment, too. Cant have that laying around my house, Rubybabe." He spoke coyly, sharing a reassuring smile with his son's crumbling eyes. They crumbled in tears, damping the soft skin and dragging streaks down his youthful face.

Mark's hands clenched to a fist, nails digging into his palm, but the smile remained. His father gave him a similar smile as he puts the phone away. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I could buy your stupid book company if I want to." He chuckled before making an exit. "And if anyone sees you with that coin, it'll be up your ass by morning." And with that, the door slammed shut.

-----x

His posture was perfect. Two feet planted firmly on the ground; shoulder width with his back just arched to the perfect extent. His eyes are closed; thick lashes pressed against each other as his fingers moved skillfully to hit the perfect last note, followed by a single echo of applause.

"Mark, that's beautiful!" A woman smiled, her aging lines numbed with botox and hidden under pounds of high-end makeup. "It's amazing that someone so young can play Danse Macabre with such... Ah! Magnifique!" She swooned.

He bowed, smiling before taking a seat on the picnic carpet embroidered in flowers. It's nicely set, overlooking the lake that extended to the vast ocean but without the annoying and sun burnt tourists. "Thanks, Miss. I hope this picnic is up to your standards, given the absence of my father." He sighed. "He promised my sisters a shopping trip to Bali," He spoke, instead of just blurring out 'he's too high to make it'.

The woman placed a hand on her heart; or where it would be if she had one. Anyone who exploits funds for 'animal rights' surely has the organ missing. Or surgically removed along with some of her ribs. She stroked the fox-fur shawl that covers her pearl necklace, still smiling a smile that he's sure she rehearsed as hard as he did his. "I'm really happy you brought sandwiches." The smile turned to a pout as soon as she saw the salami. "I'll have anything else, dear. I became vegan not too long ago, and I'm sure I told my assistant to write it on the email but... People make mistakes."

Mark isn't sure if he's allowed to laugh. Those foxes keeping her warm doesn't look alive; neither does the stingray on her too-small and useless purse. 'Fucking hypocrite plastic bitch,' he thought as he gave her a sweet smile. "Ah, I wondered if you lost weight. You're looking very good." Mark placed a sterling pen on top of hefty piles of paperwork set within the woman's reach, as if an invitation for her to go over them and share her negotiations. Not that he'd allow any.

She giggled, not saying thank you nor does she deflect the compliment. "You don't have to do that to make me sign," The lady smiled, taking a pen and writing her signature on the space provided under a hefty amount of documents. "Your father took enough pictures of my company's CEO in... risqué positions to make me sign. Smart blackmail; it could've really compromised our position."

Mark gave an airy laugh, retrieving the paper with a smile. "That's Dad." He started. "Thank you for the cooperation."

"Prick." The lady spoke under her breath before sipping the liquor more than eagerly.

-----x

He hated it. It made his whole body felt like gum stuck under a desk. The deceit and cheating, and acting all pompous to hide the fact that they're lower than scum. It took a toll on him; a twelve year old doing the dirty work of a shitstain billionaire who has less compassion than a stick of butter. Anything else would be better than this; Mark would trade it for a life of adventure and friends in a heartbeat. Real friends.

So he faked his death.

Polished shoes, laid out perfectly overseeing the lake that became one with the vast ocean. A body isn't hard to get when his father has more connection than a spider's web; some of those residing within the morgue. A gunshot to the not-yet decomposing body of someone of his stature; one to blow the face off and make it unrecognizable and the other to the cold hand in order to show a bit of clumsiness- makes it more realistic. He rolled the body into the cold depth of said icy lake, watching as the unidentifiable body sank. As a final touch, he threw his lucky penny in. Maybe he could be as great of a conman as his father; or maybe an even better magician. And every magician needs a dramatic exit.

And just like that, he's gone. Sure, there are many holes in the story of his death. But the moment they realized the bodies don't match, he'll be long gone.The greatest magic trick he had performed for his father, and surely the last.

-----x

Two weeks later and he's now living on his last dime.

Mark Angelou had fully transformed; from a slick-back chrome heir to a punkass street-dweller. His hair is now a Mohawk, both side shaved to show off an industrial piercing on just his right ear. Within two weeks of his 'death', he learned how to smoke without flinching or coughing at the disgusting tar. Its nowhere as nice as his father's thick cigars. He's experienced plenty within the two weeks, and so far he hasn't had enough. Maybe he could try stealing from a grocery store, getting jailed just to see what its like, or even join a murderous cult. He's still thinking about it. And he would still be had he not heard the gruff voice who sounded... less than pleased. Street fight or not, Mark would like to see.

"Are you trying to act smart?" A harsh voice spoke, followed by a stern hit.

The blonde kid wiped blood off his nose, determination in those blue eyes. "I'm just saying that there's more than one 'Adam' in this area. How do I know which 'Adam' you were talking about?"

The two older teens, maybe eighteen, gave the blonde a kick to get him on his knees. "We fucking saw you with him, and he owes us."

Intrigued, Mark walked in the scene and smiled. "I know Adam." He spoke calmly.

The two looked at each other, discussing something in their glare before one spoke, "Where's the son of a bitch?"

Mark raised a brow. "Where your balls are; missing in action" He smirked. The blonde coughed a snicker, and if he's not in the range of getting kicked square in the chest, he'd burst out laughing.

"Do you want a fight?" One of them spoke, wrapping a long piece of cloth around his knuckles.

His green eyes gave them both a demeaning glare, acting as annoying as he could. "Not really. I wanna win a fight, not the fight itself," He sighed, hands calmly in his jean pocket."Gotta toughen up my street cred."

The teen frowned, boiling with anger as he took out a flipknife. The thirst for blood is obvious in those eyes as he aimed it at Mark's dark hair. "I fight dirty, kid, I'll fuck you up."

The boy rolled his eyes, pulling out a handgun just as quickly as he fired a warning shot that barely missed. "Agreed. Its not fun otherwise." He sighed, the Italian mafia look not strange to Mark's facial muscles; so easy for him to recreate. Overall, the boy just looked bored if not the tiniest bit sadistic- a streak that run through the Angelous."I don't really fight shitty people, I feel like you have nothing to lose." And with that, a shot in the knee is enough to make the opponent kneel.

"Fuck- Which gang are you with-" The other one spoke, panicking as he took a hold of the blonde kid just to have a bullet buried in that very hand. He winced in pain, and the blonde ran as soon as he's free.

"Shit, not even a thank you?" Mark spoke, swatting the gun at a CCTV that might've captured footage of the crime before his feet chased after the younger blonde's. The boy slowed down once it became clear that nobody was behind them, his small lips wheezing and panting, and so did Mark. 

"Thanks." He managed to speak up, taking deep breaths after deep breaths. "Jiminy Cricket- whats your name?"

Mark froze. Nobody had ever asked for his name before that he hasn't came up with a good fake yet. "Uh, Mark Angelou." He spoke, scratching his shaved head. "You know what, no. Guy Merlin, I like the name and it's now mine." The boy spoke confidently. "I hope you're okay. Warning though, I'll beat you if you call me Mark, so doesn't really matter if you're okay or not."

The blonde nodded, smiling. "Just a nosebleed. This happens a lot if you're friends with Adam."

"Shit, sounds interesting. Would be cool if I get to be friends with Adam. You owe me your life, by the way, so you gotta hook me up with this guy." Merlin smiled coyly, swinging his arms around the blonde's shoulder.

His blue eyes rolled. "Throw the gun away and I will-" Before he could even finish his sentence, Merlin tossed his handgun inside a rotting dumpster.

"See? Totally trustworthy." Merlin chuckled, gently nudging his new friend. "So, who is this Adam and what's his beef?"

"Adam Roux," Cricket corrected. "And he has beef with everything."

-----x

Lamest origin story 2k16. Houdini had a better exit and Phea is shamed.

Here's a fun challenge. Find a character who isnt coked up.
You cant? Same.

Maybe this onion isn't the best one, but I'll make it up with shit jokes on the next one :"">

I just love making these backstories, and this one is kind of rushed but yeah. I mean, I really want the 'cocaine snorting businessman' character somewhere here, as well as just some good ol' fashioned fake people. The conflict on the previous chapter is just a warm-up by the way, since OH BOY- just you wait. I wanna give so much spoilers but like. My story is already predictable without it that whatever.

Also Mark's dead is totally based off of Dualscar Ampora. Or maybe Grand Highblood. Idk yet.

ANYWAY. STILL WAITING FOR THAT ROMANCE INBOX GUIS.

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