charity gala / ratmas day one

Charity do do the body good.

"Come on girls, you heard the man," Sampson claims a table for his posse just by strut alone. Cluster of about eight bad bitches behind him -- Miss Mortem, Laffy, Romeo, Frida was back there somewhere and you already know Jem's by his side somewhere. Last time he checked Tulip was taking photos with Olivine Ford and he hadn't seen her since. 

She's a goner, your honor. "Do good deeds, spread your- that's right, cheer," he says, making eye contact with Fenta Nyl - the D.D. of the night. Sampson puffs his fur coat over his red latex shoes, boot scooting his way away from his cluster and towards the bidding station. The Holiday spirit got lost somewhere along the way two blunts ago, Sampson's here to do what he does best: win.

"You know, Midas, I was just talking to Hades Mutts trying to get a designer spinosaurus. All I'm saying is this mystery egg would look so good in my sun room," you know what I mean?

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"*"

Finally, the games were over, the lights had come up, and the world could go back to being about Marsha and not a show about children slicing each other to bits. It was a living, and honor, all of the pleasantries Marsha could muster – but mostly, it gave relevance to this crowd, which was worth more than its weight in gold. You could be richer than God and hotter than all get out, but it wouldn’t mean a damn in the capitol if you weren’t what people were talking about.

Which seemed incongruous with a charity gala, at first glance. Purposefully giving of oneself, laying out offerings for those in need – volunteering meant not getting paid, and no, Marsha didn’t do a lot of that these days. But then, the right sort of gift could get everyone talking, and if you were wearing the next big thing? Well – you’d better be ready to be the only thing that anyone would remember from some charity auction, whether it was about raising money for limbless orphans or whatever. Marsha hadn’t bothered reading the card their publicist had handed over.

“An egg? It’s not even Fabergé.” Marsha let out a laugh, knowing full well how hungry everyone would be for some dinosaur to pop out in due time. Most capitolites seemed more flush with cash than sense. “I’m sorry – but I think it’ll look a whole lot better in my conservatory, Sampson.”