Tituba's Farewell
* * *
The following storyline is untelevised/unfilmed.
* * *
In the years passed, the Frontier Arena has seen better days. Gum is lodged underneath the steel chairs littering the arena from years of misuse. Since the golden pinnacle of eighties wrestling, Virtue, went under, the Frontier Arena has been the home to many low profile matches. Half of the light fixtures were never even repaired after they went out, the wallpaper is half torn from where it once proudly plastered and the plumbing has been backed up for a couple of years now.
In the olden days, the Frontier Arena would have been the gathering spot for showdowns for the heroes of that time. Now, it was a dog house for low class, trash bred backyard wrestling punks to botch a basic clothesline with a meager fan attendance. Though, realistically, the crowds were so minuscule that the place had been quarantined for termination for a few months now.
Even the four roped, short ring that epitomized the Nineteen Virtues was dilapidated and worn to the point of rust and decay. It was a wonder how the ropes didn't snap every time someone was Irish whipped or how the steel post didn't topple over whenever someone took a stinger splash.
It was clear that the heir to the Virtue fortune and former owner of Pure Frontier Wrestling had better things to do than worry about the Frontier Arena. It was, to him... a burden and one that would be ended sometime in the next few years. As soon as the paperwork cleared up, that is.
But, today, there was a reasonable crowd in attendance at the Frontier Arena. A welcome home celebration for the hometown hero and overseas, overnight sensation -- the King of Hearts, Ripplemagne. After management canned him in Global Extreme Wrestling, the Patriarch of Pretty departed from his cast and friends that he toured the world with. A prodigy in his own right, Ripplemagne made the folks back home proud with the highest win percentage in the company's history, among a plethora of other highlights.
It probably wouldn't have been too hard to line up employment with another company and become an overnight sensation again, but the nineteen year old was nostalgic and wanted to return home. And what better way to make a grand entrance back into the Empire State than to fill up seats for a low budget auditorium in a squash match against a forty-five year old has been?
???:
"Kind of ironic. After years of this place seeing the lowest of lowly matches and being on its last leg, the last match the ol' place is going to see actually has a bit of prestige to it."
The balding, grayed man in his well tailored suit and sunglasses epitomized Italian New Yorker. There was audible cheering coming from the auditorium, but the corridor they were in was vacant of yells and hollers. Besides the guido was the Suicide King, himself, clad in simple pair of faded 1969 bootcut jeans and white tanktop. Well, in addition to the typical accessories he wears to the ring; a pair of long white dress gloves, mismatched sneakers and set of sterling dog tags.
Ripplemagne:
"The place is getting ransacked after this, eh?"
The porcelain skinned lad swaggered over in an effeminate strut and took a swig of his pink Focus vitamin water. His wavy champagne locks jingle jangle jingled around his model-esque features as the groomed pretty boy smeared an inkling of cherry chapstick over his lips.
Guido:
"It's a shame, really. I used ta take my sons to see Virtue back in the day. Man, those shows were really something. Made wrestling what it is today, in my opinion."
As the man kind of wept at the idea of the Frontier Arena being demolished, a lion roar could be heard over the PA, masking the cheers of the fans in the auditorium.
Are you ready!?
"Remember the Name" by Fort Minor began to ring throughout the arena as Ripplemagne flipped his hair and made way for the door.
Ripplemagne:
"Touching story, but the stupendous Ripplemagne has to go make wrestling what it will be ten years from now."
The curtain sprawled open and nearly toppled off of the entrance way as pounding and screams for GEW's Sexiest Male of 2009 stepped between two security guards with his ever lovable smirk etched across his face. Characteristically, Ripplemagne was a whiz at ensuring that the male:female ratio of fans was never as machismo favored as it usually is at wrestling events.
Announcer:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please join me in welcoming home a Global Extreme Wrestling all-star from the great white north! Weighing in at one-hundred and forty-five pounds. Standing at five foot, eight inches tall. He is the inaugural winner of the GEW Breakout Superstar, Funniest Superstar, and Sexiest Male of the Year.
Leader of the GEW Stable of the Year, Matinée Unlimited. Undefeated Sterling Champion of the company with 0 singles competition losses. The Patriarch of Pretty, the King of Hearts, the Genitalia of Professional Wrestling, the Suicide King... and about fourteen other nicknames he wanted me to use as he made his way to the ring -- the magnificent Ripplemagne!"
Stepping through the masses of clamoring fans and being sexually violated by every female in his path, Ripplemagne licked his lips as he approached the ringside area. His opponent, "The Candlestick Maker" Dory Roberts, had already been introduced and waited patiently in the ring.
The older gentlemen was wearing his candlestick maker gimmick outfit from the mid-eighties. But it had... clearly seen better days. The gentleman's gut stretched through the thick white fabric of his smock and he just looked... awful. He stilled rocked a neck-long mullet, but it had receded to the center of his crown and the next inch or two of his hair was so thinned that you could see right to his scalp. A rich plaster of stubble blanketed his face and the muscular physique he once had had faded to flab.
On the other side of the situation was the Patriarch of Pretty; perfect hair, perfect physique, soaring blue-green eyes, a clear complexion. A to-die-for appearance and he knew it. Mr. Fucking Perfect. Flickering his lightning quick tongue to the ladies in the front row, Ripplemagne smirked and stood back for a basking taunt.
Dory Roberts visibly sneered at the young man and resented how the fans were cheering for such a cocky kid. In his day, such an ego would be met with sharp jeers and a swift kick in the ass. And the worst part about is that he was pint sized! Weren't wrestlers supposed to be at least 6'3" with a bicep circumference of 50 inches?
Well, admittedly, Dory Roberts didn't have the latter bit, but he was standing at 6'5" and this 5'8" kid was fluttering around the ring like a butterfly with no care in the world? Fuck him.
As the show of love for the youngster died down, the makeshift bell on the outside was sounded. Already detesting the lad, Dory edged in for the pint sized superstar, but missed the grapple. Spinning to catch the kid with a hard left, the Candlestick Maker misses again! Capitalizing on his swiftness, Ripplemagne ducks the left and springs back up for a serious backhand across the rugged face of the 1980s superstar.
The fans wince as Ripplemagne hams it up, bowing from side to side and mouthing "thank you, thank you". But the arrogance catches up with him as Dory spins around and locks him in a headlock! But the slippery Ripplemagne squeezes right out and springboards off the second rope and locks his legs around the neck of Dory Roberts for a 540 headscissors takedown!
Flailing to his feet, Dory leaps for Ripplemagne, but sees stars abruptly when he meets with the black DC sneaker on Ripplemagne's foot across the side of his head. The roundhouse kick known as the Ataxia In Medias Res hits smoothly, sending the has been down to the mat. With a hearty laugh, Ripplemagne lays his back against his knocked out adversary and hooks the leg.
One!
Two!
Three!
* * *
And it was over like that.
Dory slumped over the water cooler with a paper cup in one hand and an ice bag in the other which he firmly pressed to his swelled temple. As his glazed over eyes glance up, he locks eyes with the young, cocky kid who just embarrassed him.
With a beautiful, fair skinned girl locked on his arm and rippling pectorals, the older gentlemen sneered at the boy. Crossing down the corridor, Ripplemagne caught wind of his fallen adversary and paused.
Dory Roberts:
"Congratulations, kid."
A smirk appeared on the champagne haired boy's face as his glistening blue-green eyes locked on the ice bag like a honing device.
Ripplemagne:
"How's your head?"
Dory Roberts:
"Seen better days. It's a shame that this sport has turned to so many theatrics and fancy twists that it doesn't even resemble the sport I once knew. You're a talented acrobat and maybe even good enough for MMA... but you're no wrestler."
Ripplemagne:
"It's funny. Because from where I'm sitting, you've got the ice bag on your head, the fans are still screaming 'We Believe' and no one even knows who you are."
Dory Roberts:
"See, this is why professional wrestling is on its last leg. Punks like you telling Wilde Tanke that he has no place in this business. In the old days, we didn't have all of your fancy theatrics and we still put on a damn good show. You'd never be able to hang with that crowd."
Ripplemagne:
"Seems to me like you're Going Green."
Dory Roberts:
"That rat trap sh--"
Ripplemagne:
"Because after that performance, you're green with envy. It scolds you to know that the talent of today makes your little atomic leg drops and body slams look like paper weights.
At that point, the young girl slapped Ripplemagne on his shoulder. Her brunette locks and delicate features took the lime light as her Australian accent broke up his diatribe.
Miss Sarah:
"Easy, Rippie. If he wants to think that he's better than you to shelter his fractured ego, let him. He's not hurting anyone."
A smug look appears on the face of Ripplemagne as he begins to walk by the Candlestick Maker with his voluptuous manager, Miss Sarah, rubbing up against his chiseled bicep.
Dory Roberts:
"One day, you're going to learn the value of listening to your elders."
Throwing his hand up behind him without even turning back around to face the man, Ripplemagne seemed to have completely dismissed the old koot. As they turned the corner of the hallway, a screech was heard from the lips of the the voluptuous vixen.
Her pearl white teeth were reflected from the gleaming overhead light as her mouth went agape. A platter of newspapers littered the floor and the ominous stench reeking through the hallway permeated from the lifeless carcass slopped against the ground.
The voluminous, ebony-skinned woman's head was mounted up against the wall with her neck contorted, so that her body lied motionless along the raggedy newspapers. They seemed to be all wrestling fliers and articles dating back quite some time. The dung beetles buzzed around her grime covered face and crawled around the cap of her greasy dreaded scalp through her haphazardly worn bandana.
The woman's faded dashiki barely managed to cover her no-nos, but thankfully, the shadows obscured sight of any such thing. Littered with beads and jewelry, the woman looked like an off-the-boat immigrant from Jamaica. And not Jamaica, Queens.
The woman's foot was probably a good few sizes bigger than even Ripplemagne's and he was a ten. Probably about the same height as him too. Her yellow-tinged nails were beginning to lose their consistency as one could even manage rat-bite-like holes in them.
Miss Sarah:
"Oh my God. We need to call 9-1-1."
Ripplemagne:
"Why would we do that?"
Miss Sarah:
"Do you not see that?!"
Ripplemagne:
"...Do they not have hobos in Australia?"
Miss Sarah:
"What?"
As one of the dung beetles sprawled over head closed eye lid, the woman's oven mit-like palm came down, swatting it away from her. Seeing this made the hair on Miss Sarah's neck stand up as her tear ducts began to fill up and she wrapped around the back of the King of Hearts, grabbing him by the waist.
Ripplemagne:
"Frisky, are we?"
The woman began to rock from side to side, stirring herself awake as Ripplemagne gripped his manager by her wrist and began to walk her around the prone woman. But before they could edge around her completely, her strong accent flickered from her tongue.
Hobo Woman:
"Ay, boy."
Having lived in New York for the better part of his life, Ripplemagne reacted quickly and pulled Miss Sarah in front of him. Moving away from the haggardly dame, Ripplemagne swiftly to keep Sarah out of harm's way by keeping her in front him with his back to the hobo.
Hobo Woman:
"Don't be ignorin' me, mon."
Shoving Miss Sarah out of range, Ripplemagne turned to the woman with a cautious stance as she waddled over to him.
Hobo Woman:
"You be de hot shot boy wit' de hot shot record, right? De name is Tituba."
Ripplemagne:
"Ahem. De hot shot mayun. Das right, das right."
Tituba:
"Always sharp wit' de tongue, aren't ye, boy?"
Ripplemagne:
"Comes with the price of admission. But, lookie here, Rafiki; de Ripplemagne ain't got no monies for you to be wastin' on no vodka. So, best ta be resumin' yer nap now."
Tituba:
"I ain't after no Eart'ly currency, boy! De big man sent me here to help ye."
Ripplemagne:
"You're going to help me? With what? Learning the best way to chug a brewski? Deepest apologies for not wearing x's on my hands, but the Ripplemagne is straight edge."
Tituba:
"Ha-ha! It is dat, exactly. Ha-ha... and ye are supposed ta be de one. I be overhearin' ye wit' de Candlestick boy. Shittin' all ova' de past and neglectin' where de sport ye hold so dear come from.
De irony of it be makin' for laughs to come wit' de family. But dis may be de best ting for ye. De future is bright for ye, but how be de past?"
Ripplemagne:
"I don't have a deep, troubled past or a long line of heart breaks. Not everyone born into this world makes a federal case about the obstacles they overcome in life."
Tituba:
"Mm. Ye still don't understand. I be supposin' ye will dough."
Jamming her haggardly fingers into the pocket of her dashiki, Tituba yanks out a sparkling blue and golden badge of sorts. The border of it is solid gold and conjoins in the center to form the etching of what looks like a dragon with an extended wing. The royal blue is completely unhampered in contrast to the worn woman as she raises her tired, old finger over it.
Tituba:
"Deflagrate muri tempi et intervallia."
Ripplemagne:
"Uh huh. I love pretending magic exists as much as the next guy, but can I go now?"
Tituba:
"Ye are free to go. But dis ain't no magic. Dis be destiny. De incantation have no powa' if ye weren't meant for it. Ye go have fun playin' wit' de Kangaroo girl's endowment."
Raising an eyebrow, Ripplemagne steps back to rejoin himself with the lovely Miss Sarah. Turning away from the cryptic woman, Ripplemagne snickers to himself to the displeasure of Miss Sarah, who doesn't appreciate him making fun of the woman while she's still in range.
Tituba:
"Have fun, boy."
* * *
The following storyline is untelevised/unfilmed.
* * *
In the years passed, the Frontier Arena has seen better days. Gum is lodged underneath the steel chairs littering the arena from years of misuse. Since the golden pinnacle of eighties wrestling, Virtue, went under, the Frontier Arena has been the home to many low profile matches. Half of the light fixtures were never even repaired after they went out, the wallpaper is half torn from where it once proudly plastered and the plumbing has been backed up for a couple of years now.
In the olden days, the Frontier Arena would have been the gathering spot for showdowns for the heroes of that time. Now, it was a dog house for low class, trash bred backyard wrestling punks to botch a basic clothesline with a meager fan attendance. Though, realistically, the crowds were so minuscule that the place had been quarantined for termination for a few months now.
Even the four roped, short ring that epitomized the Nineteen Virtues was dilapidated and worn to the point of rust and decay. It was a wonder how the ropes didn't snap every time someone was Irish whipped or how the steel post didn't topple over whenever someone took a stinger splash.
It was clear that the heir to the Virtue fortune and former owner of Pure Frontier Wrestling had better things to do than worry about the Frontier Arena. It was, to him... a burden and one that would be ended sometime in the next few years. As soon as the paperwork cleared up, that is.
But, today, there was a reasonable crowd in attendance at the Frontier Arena. A welcome home celebration for the hometown hero and overseas, overnight sensation -- the King of Hearts, Ripplemagne. After management canned him in Global Extreme Wrestling, the Patriarch of Pretty departed from his cast and friends that he toured the world with. A prodigy in his own right, Ripplemagne made the folks back home proud with the highest win percentage in the company's history, among a plethora of other highlights.
It probably wouldn't have been too hard to line up employment with another company and become an overnight sensation again, but the nineteen year old was nostalgic and wanted to return home. And what better way to make a grand entrance back into the Empire State than to fill up seats for a low budget auditorium in a squash match against a forty-five year old has been?
???:
"Kind of ironic. After years of this place seeing the lowest of lowly matches and being on its last leg, the last match the ol' place is going to see actually has a bit of prestige to it."
The balding, grayed man in his well tailored suit and sunglasses epitomized Italian New Yorker. There was audible cheering coming from the auditorium, but the corridor they were in was vacant of yells and hollers. Besides the guido was the Suicide King, himself, clad in simple pair of faded 1969 bootcut jeans and white tanktop. Well, in addition to the typical accessories he wears to the ring; a pair of long white dress gloves, mismatched sneakers and set of sterling dog tags.
Ripplemagne:
"The place is getting ransacked after this, eh?"
The porcelain skinned lad swaggered over in an effeminate strut and took a swig of his pink Focus vitamin water. His wavy champagne locks jingle jangle jingled around his model-esque features as the groomed pretty boy smeared an inkling of cherry chapstick over his lips.
Guido:
"It's a shame, really. I used ta take my sons to see Virtue back in the day. Man, those shows were really something. Made wrestling what it is today, in my opinion."
As the man kind of wept at the idea of the Frontier Arena being demolished, a lion roar could be heard over the PA, masking the cheers of the fans in the auditorium.
Are you ready!?
"Remember the Name" by Fort Minor began to ring throughout the arena as Ripplemagne flipped his hair and made way for the door.
Ripplemagne:
"Touching story, but the stupendous Ripplemagne has to go make wrestling what it will be ten years from now."
The curtain sprawled open and nearly toppled off of the entrance way as pounding and screams for GEW's Sexiest Male of 2009 stepped between two security guards with his ever lovable smirk etched across his face. Characteristically, Ripplemagne was a whiz at ensuring that the male:female ratio of fans was never as machismo favored as it usually is at wrestling events.
Announcer:
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please join me in welcoming home a Global Extreme Wrestling all-star from the great white north! Weighing in at one-hundred and forty-five pounds. Standing at five foot, eight inches tall. He is the inaugural winner of the GEW Breakout Superstar, Funniest Superstar, and Sexiest Male of the Year.
Leader of the GEW Stable of the Year, Matinée Unlimited. Undefeated Sterling Champion of the company with 0 singles competition losses. The Patriarch of Pretty, the King of Hearts, the Genitalia of Professional Wrestling, the Suicide King... and about fourteen other nicknames he wanted me to use as he made his way to the ring -- the magnificent Ripplemagne!"
Stepping through the masses of clamoring fans and being sexually violated by every female in his path, Ripplemagne licked his lips as he approached the ringside area. His opponent, "The Candlestick Maker" Dory Roberts, had already been introduced and waited patiently in the ring.
The older gentlemen was wearing his candlestick maker gimmick outfit from the mid-eighties. But it had... clearly seen better days. The gentleman's gut stretched through the thick white fabric of his smock and he just looked... awful. He stilled rocked a neck-long mullet, but it had receded to the center of his crown and the next inch or two of his hair was so thinned that you could see right to his scalp. A rich plaster of stubble blanketed his face and the muscular physique he once had had faded to flab.
On the other side of the situation was the Patriarch of Pretty; perfect hair, perfect physique, soaring blue-green eyes, a clear complexion. A to-die-for appearance and he knew it. Mr. Fucking Perfect. Flickering his lightning quick tongue to the ladies in the front row, Ripplemagne smirked and stood back for a basking taunt.
Dory Roberts visibly sneered at the young man and resented how the fans were cheering for such a cocky kid. In his day, such an ego would be met with sharp jeers and a swift kick in the ass. And the worst part about is that he was pint sized! Weren't wrestlers supposed to be at least 6'3" with a bicep circumference of 50 inches?
Well, admittedly, Dory Roberts didn't have the latter bit, but he was standing at 6'5" and this 5'8" kid was fluttering around the ring like a butterfly with no care in the world? Fuck him.
As the show of love for the youngster died down, the makeshift bell on the outside was sounded. Already detesting the lad, Dory edged in for the pint sized superstar, but missed the grapple. Spinning to catch the kid with a hard left, the Candlestick Maker misses again! Capitalizing on his swiftness, Ripplemagne ducks the left and springs back up for a serious backhand across the rugged face of the 1980s superstar.
The fans wince as Ripplemagne hams it up, bowing from side to side and mouthing "thank you, thank you". But the arrogance catches up with him as Dory spins around and locks him in a headlock! But the slippery Ripplemagne squeezes right out and springboards off the second rope and locks his legs around the neck of Dory Roberts for a 540 headscissors takedown!
Flailing to his feet, Dory leaps for Ripplemagne, but sees stars abruptly when he meets with the black DC sneaker on Ripplemagne's foot across the side of his head. The roundhouse kick known as the Ataxia In Medias Res hits smoothly, sending the has been down to the mat. With a hearty laugh, Ripplemagne lays his back against his knocked out adversary and hooks the leg.
One!
Two!
Three!
* * *
And it was over like that.
Dory slumped over the water cooler with a paper cup in one hand and an ice bag in the other which he firmly pressed to his swelled temple. As his glazed over eyes glance up, he locks eyes with the young, cocky kid who just embarrassed him.
With a beautiful, fair skinned girl locked on his arm and rippling pectorals, the older gentlemen sneered at the boy. Crossing down the corridor, Ripplemagne caught wind of his fallen adversary and paused.
Dory Roberts:
"Congratulations, kid."
A smirk appeared on the champagne haired boy's face as his glistening blue-green eyes locked on the ice bag like a honing device.
Ripplemagne:
"How's your head?"
Dory Roberts:
"Seen better days. It's a shame that this sport has turned to so many theatrics and fancy twists that it doesn't even resemble the sport I once knew. You're a talented acrobat and maybe even good enough for MMA... but you're no wrestler."
Ripplemagne:
"It's funny. Because from where I'm sitting, you've got the ice bag on your head, the fans are still screaming 'We Believe' and no one even knows who you are."
Dory Roberts:
"See, this is why professional wrestling is on its last leg. Punks like you telling Wilde Tanke that he has no place in this business. In the old days, we didn't have all of your fancy theatrics and we still put on a damn good show. You'd never be able to hang with that crowd."
Ripplemagne:
"Seems to me like you're Going Green."
Dory Roberts:
"That rat trap sh--"
Ripplemagne:
"Because after that performance, you're green with envy. It scolds you to know that the talent of today makes your little atomic leg drops and body slams look like paper weights.
At that point, the young girl slapped Ripplemagne on his shoulder. Her brunette locks and delicate features took the lime light as her Australian accent broke up his diatribe.
Miss Sarah:
"Easy, Rippie. If he wants to think that he's better than you to shelter his fractured ego, let him. He's not hurting anyone."
A smug look appears on the face of Ripplemagne as he begins to walk by the Candlestick Maker with his voluptuous manager, Miss Sarah, rubbing up against his chiseled bicep.
Dory Roberts:
"One day, you're going to learn the value of listening to your elders."
Throwing his hand up behind him without even turning back around to face the man, Ripplemagne seemed to have completely dismissed the old koot. As they turned the corner of the hallway, a screech was heard from the lips of the the voluptuous vixen.
Her pearl white teeth were reflected from the gleaming overhead light as her mouth went agape. A platter of newspapers littered the floor and the ominous stench reeking through the hallway permeated from the lifeless carcass slopped against the ground.
The voluminous, ebony-skinned woman's head was mounted up against the wall with her neck contorted, so that her body lied motionless along the raggedy newspapers. They seemed to be all wrestling fliers and articles dating back quite some time. The dung beetles buzzed around her grime covered face and crawled around the cap of her greasy dreaded scalp through her haphazardly worn bandana.
The woman's faded dashiki barely managed to cover her no-nos, but thankfully, the shadows obscured sight of any such thing. Littered with beads and jewelry, the woman looked like an off-the-boat immigrant from Jamaica. And not Jamaica, Queens.
The woman's foot was probably a good few sizes bigger than even Ripplemagne's and he was a ten. Probably about the same height as him too. Her yellow-tinged nails were beginning to lose their consistency as one could even manage rat-bite-like holes in them.
Miss Sarah:
"Oh my God. We need to call 9-1-1."
Ripplemagne:
"Why would we do that?"
Miss Sarah:
"Do you not see that?!"
Ripplemagne:
"...Do they not have hobos in Australia?"
Miss Sarah:
"What?"
As one of the dung beetles sprawled over head closed eye lid, the woman's oven mit-like palm came down, swatting it away from her. Seeing this made the hair on Miss Sarah's neck stand up as her tear ducts began to fill up and she wrapped around the back of the King of Hearts, grabbing him by the waist.
Ripplemagne:
"Frisky, are we?"
The woman began to rock from side to side, stirring herself awake as Ripplemagne gripped his manager by her wrist and began to walk her around the prone woman. But before they could edge around her completely, her strong accent flickered from her tongue.
Hobo Woman:
"Ay, boy."
Having lived in New York for the better part of his life, Ripplemagne reacted quickly and pulled Miss Sarah in front of him. Moving away from the haggardly dame, Ripplemagne swiftly to keep Sarah out of harm's way by keeping her in front him with his back to the hobo.
Hobo Woman:
"Don't be ignorin' me, mon."
Shoving Miss Sarah out of range, Ripplemagne turned to the woman with a cautious stance as she waddled over to him.
Hobo Woman:
"You be de hot shot boy wit' de hot shot record, right? De name is Tituba."
Ripplemagne:
"Ahem. De hot shot mayun. Das right, das right."
Tituba:
"Always sharp wit' de tongue, aren't ye, boy?"
Ripplemagne:
"Comes with the price of admission. But, lookie here, Rafiki; de Ripplemagne ain't got no monies for you to be wastin' on no vodka. So, best ta be resumin' yer nap now."
Tituba:
"I ain't after no Eart'ly currency, boy! De big man sent me here to help ye."
Ripplemagne:
"You're going to help me? With what? Learning the best way to chug a brewski? Deepest apologies for not wearing x's on my hands, but the Ripplemagne is straight edge."
Tituba:
"Ha-ha! It is dat, exactly. Ha-ha... and ye are supposed ta be de one. I be overhearin' ye wit' de Candlestick boy. Shittin' all ova' de past and neglectin' where de sport ye hold so dear come from.
De irony of it be makin' for laughs to come wit' de family. But dis may be de best ting for ye. De future is bright for ye, but how be de past?"
Ripplemagne:
"I don't have a deep, troubled past or a long line of heart breaks. Not everyone born into this world makes a federal case about the obstacles they overcome in life."
Tituba:
"Mm. Ye still don't understand. I be supposin' ye will dough."
Jamming her haggardly fingers into the pocket of her dashiki, Tituba yanks out a sparkling blue and golden badge of sorts. The border of it is solid gold and conjoins in the center to form the etching of what looks like a dragon with an extended wing. The royal blue is completely unhampered in contrast to the worn woman as she raises her tired, old finger over it.
Tituba:
"Deflagrate muri tempi et intervallia."
Ripplemagne:
"Uh huh. I love pretending magic exists as much as the next guy, but can I go now?"
Tituba:
"Ye are free to go. But dis ain't no magic. Dis be destiny. De incantation have no powa' if ye weren't meant for it. Ye go have fun playin' wit' de Kangaroo girl's endowment."
Raising an eyebrow, Ripplemagne steps back to rejoin himself with the lovely Miss Sarah. Turning away from the cryptic woman, Ripplemagne snickers to himself to the displeasure of Miss Sarah, who doesn't appreciate him making fun of the woman while she's still in range.
Tituba:
"Have fun, boy."
* * *
