Vic's Nonsense Points Shop

[victorianflorist]

@skinstealer

[Equation-type]

The equation-type sets down next to you on the veranda bar. "I'm what they call in the biz, a fixer. You see those gents playin' down there? I got a job in today, and that job gave me explicit instructions that the lad with the cabbie on his head ain't supposed to know something he got rattlin' around in that head o' his." The TCP pulls a strange device out of its trenchcoat pocket and gets up. "Now, I'm goin' to do my job and I like when at least somebody knows what I did. You watch close, champ. Watch as I make that poor lad and his buddies forget all the things they ought not to know."

[Cloud-type]

Witless, that's how all the new ones are. This cloud type that just drifted through your door is just like the rest of them. Or so you thought, till it pulls out a little ball and looks you right in the eyes. "Duck!" The cloud type throws the ball and it explodes into a cloud of thick smoke. Your convenience store is suddenly filled with the sounds of crashing and banging. When the smoke finally clears, all that remains in your store is a note on the counter before you. A scrap of paper really, inscribed upon it in a crisp script in blue ink is a curt 'Sorry!'. 

[Bird-type]

The diner isn't the nicest you've been to; the seats are ratty as hell, the windows filthy, and the dead bugs swept into every corner paint a clear picture that the health inspection poster up on the wall is at least a few months out of date. Maybe months are a bit generous, taking into account how much force it takes to pry your shoes from the sticky floors. A bird type comes up to your table in a dirty wait staff uniform. "You want coffee or tea? They're both terrible."

[Dog-type]

The show must go on. You turn towards the band you scheduled for tonight. They look at you dumbly, completely unaware of where their lead singer is. You tear off, completely fed up with the whole affair. This pop group was the worst choice imaginable to book. Your advertising director told you it'd be a bad choice. You storm into a back room and shove a donut in your mouth. You hear quiet whimpering once the door slams shut. You look around the room as you chew, lifting up a blanket, you find the dog-type lead singer of the band you booked, cowering. "P-p-please don't m-make me g-g-g-go on. I-I-I-I can't d-d-do this anymore."

[Love-type]

Another day, another filming assignment. You shove onto set and set yourself down behind the camera. A gruff looking Love-type shoves its way out from the dressing rooms a moment later. It puffs on a TCP cigarette as it yells at the crew bustling around it. "What the hell do you mean I can't smoke in here! I keep the damn lights on! I can smoke wherever I damn please!" The love type puts the cigarette out in a bowl of the catered soup set out for the cast and crew. "Where's my makeup crew! I need these damn marks covered up so I can film this episode of the Giggletime show."