Look What You Made Me Do :: [Mayor Calliope Bloom, Oneshots]
Mar 23, 2018 16:15:43 GMT -5
Post by L△LIA on Mar 23, 2018 16:15:43 GMT -5
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I'm a motherfucking woman
baby, that's right
baby, that's right
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Calliope Motherfucking Bloom has just been declared mayor of District Six.
Calliope. Motherfucking. Bloom.
The votes are counted and no one is ready for it, especially not her. She didn't have an acceptance speech planned. No victory party had been arranged. The only thing she could do was cackle like a madwoman as strangers congratulated her and all around other young women applauded with sparks of hope in their eyes that caught — one gaze meeting the next — as they witnessed an obvious anti-politician seize power. Just like that.
The streets erupted. (Queen!) Bodies packed the asphalt of the poorest neighborhoods and Calliope popped a bottle of champagne that appeared in her hands as if by one of her dead brother's magic tricks. Bubbles flared through the air and flooded her arms, her lips, her joy. People (the kind of radical dreamers prone to saying things like "these are pyres for the oppression of the working class") burned heaps of trash in their front yards to dance around.
This election was not won for her by the love of friends and family. As a rule the better anyone knows Calliope Bloom, the less they like her. Her reputation as a caustic bitch is not unearned. Maybe a few of her votes were earned by people who had heard tell and found themselves thinking: Now there's a girl who'll grab the government by the balls. Maybe it was the poor people, tired of being stuck in a cycle of being fucking poor and hoping one of their own could save them. Maybe there were people who actually listened to what she had to say and liked it. Maybe no one knew anything at all and just checked her name on the ballot at random.
Then... there are faces in the crowd that she used to know — friends of the family of the worst kind. Junkies, mostly. Poe's old crew and connections pepper the flickering shadows and their familiar smiles feel surreal. It's only a few. She thought they were all dead by now, but these ghosts have thin, relentless bodies and this haunting doesn't feel like a mistake. They didn't vote for her because they don't know how. Instead they're here because they remember her chubby childhood cheeks before all of their lives turned terrible and, even though she's told them to "fuck off and die!" more times than she can recount, they heard sound clips of her speeches (on the television, by word of mouth, in yesterday's newspaper headlines they used as shelter through the homeless night) about how she wants to save them even though they know she still hates them. She does. She hates them so much that all she can do is fight to change everything.
It's one hell of a day for assholes and dreamers alike. The keys to the city are pressed into her palm and she laughs in the face of the man, at least twice her age, who reluctantly gives them to her.
Damn The motherfucking Man. It's time to burn everything down and turn the ashes into an empire.
Let's be serious, come on —
This is a real —
This is —
This is a real —
This is —
Calliope Motherfucking Bloom has just been declared mayor of District Six.
— excuse me?
Calliope. Motherfucking. Bloom.
Ok, shut up!
The votes are counted and no one is ready for it, especially not her. She didn't have an acceptance speech planned. No victory party had been arranged. The only thing she could do was cackle like a madwoman as strangers congratulated her and all around other young women applauded with sparks of hope in their eyes that caught — one gaze meeting the next — as they witnessed an obvious anti-politician seize power. Just like that.
I buy my own things, I pay my own bills
These diamond rings, my automobiles
Everything I got, I bought it
Boys can't buy my love
These diamond rings, my automobiles
Everything I got, I bought it
Boys can't buy my love
The streets erupted. (Queen!) Bodies packed the asphalt of the poorest neighborhoods and Calliope popped a bottle of champagne that appeared in her hands as if by one of her dead brother's magic tricks. Bubbles flared through the air and flooded her arms, her lips, her joy. People (the kind of radical dreamers prone to saying things like "these are pyres for the oppression of the working class") burned heaps of trash in their front yards to dance around.
I do what I want —
she does!
— say what you say
I work real hard every day
she does!
— say what you say
I work real hard every day
This election was not won for her by the love of friends and family. As a rule the better anyone knows Calliope Bloom, the less they like her. Her reputation as a caustic bitch is not unearned. Maybe a few of her votes were earned by people who had heard tell and found themselves thinking: Now there's a girl who'll grab the government by the balls. Maybe it was the poor people, tired of being stuck in a cycle of being fucking poor and hoping one of their own could save them. Maybe there were people who actually listened to what she had to say and liked it. Maybe no one knew anything at all and just checked her name on the ballot at random.
I'm a motherfucking woman, baby, alright
I don't need a man to be holding me too tight
I'm a motherfucking woman, baby, that's right
I'm just having fun with my ladies here tonight
I don't need a man to be holding me too tight
I'm a motherfucking woman, baby, that's right
I'm just having fun with my ladies here tonight
Then... there are faces in the crowd that she used to know — friends of the family of the worst kind. Junkies, mostly. Poe's old crew and connections pepper the flickering shadows and their familiar smiles feel surreal. It's only a few. She thought they were all dead by now, but these ghosts have thin, relentless bodies and this haunting doesn't feel like a mistake. They didn't vote for her because they don't know how. Instead they're here because they remember her chubby childhood cheeks before all of their lives turned terrible and, even though she's told them to "fuck off and die!" more times than she can recount, they heard sound clips of her speeches (on the television, by word of mouth, in yesterday's newspaper headlines they used as shelter through the homeless night) about how she wants to save them even though they know she still hates them. She does. She hates them so much that all she can do is fight to change everything.
I'm a motherfucker
It's one hell of a day for assholes and dreamers alike. The keys to the city are pressed into her palm and she laughs in the face of the man, at least twice her age, who reluctantly gives them to her.
Don't buy me a drink, I make my money
Don't touch my weave, don't call me "honey"
Don't touch my weave, don't call me "honey"
Damn The motherfucking Man. It's time to burn everything down and turn the ashes into an empire.
I run this shit, baby, I run this shit
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