Kingdom of Knuffel

Maybe we can append it awkwardly to the end of our normally scheduled conversation?

*Like this.*

[Or like this.]

That could work. Of course, it could be the bulk of our conversation.

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It looks like I'm trapped in a whirlpool zone in Pokemon.

Mara used whirlpool! It wasn't very effective.

You can use whatever weird formatting makes you happy.

Let's RP a scenario! Something mundane and full of tragic angst.

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The sun is just barely peeking over the trees edging the suburban lots and the birds are singing and hunting for worms in the pristine stretches of lawn between the massive, inoffensively beige, single-family homes. A few economy cars are trundling out of their identical garages. A sweaty-looking man in a white polo shirt, khaki slacks, black socks and brown sandals stands in front of the door of the beige-est, most inoffensive of the homes, holding a stack of magazines under one arm, the other hand searching in vain for the missing doorbell.

Steve finally gives up and knocks briskly on the inoffensively door-colored door. His polo protests as his huge biceps flex. He hears what sounds like footsteps (or is it angry dogs? This sweat just doesn't stop) and plasters a company issue smile on his glistening face. He juggles the magazines to reduce the adherence to his massive obliques.

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**

Duncan is halfway through writing an angry Facebook message to the girl from Hot Topic when he hears the knock on the door. He looks up, blinking to bring the world away from the computer screen into focus, and almost rubs his eyes before remembering not to smudge his eyeliner.

He rises and approaches his front door with all the speed of a drunken banana slug. Maybe, he thinks, if he's slow enough, the unwelcome visitor will just go away. He had been in the middle of an incredibly heated exchange with the love of his life, the darling of his heart, the girl who would be his if only she noticed how good he would be to her, when the knock had torn him away. It isn't fair. He peers through the peep hole and curls his lip at the sweaty fashion victim on his doorstep.

Duncan opens the door halfway. "My parents aren't here."

**

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Steve's smile stays firmly entrenched even as his left eye twitches at the sight of the sorry excuse for a potential customer peering through the offensively narrow slice of doorway. The smile grows impossibly wide as he casually leans in, man-hole-cover hand at the ready for a shake. His fingers glisten like moist, muscular sausages.

"Well, but you're just the man I wanted to see! Do you want to impress women?"

Steve manages to control his eye spasms halfway through his opening spiel. The magazines under his bulging arm are surreptitiously pressed against the door, pulpy yet nigh-immovable.

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I really hope your mall goth isn't interested in Steve if he's as young as he seems to be. Steve's not into that

Don't worry, Steve is safe from young Duncan's expert advances. Duncan only has eyes for Hot Topic Girl.

**

Duncan's nostrils flare. This all seems a bit fishy. Polo-shirted Hulk Hogans peddling manly advice aren't the sort of thing a young man should be trusting, especially since their strategies probably only work for--ugh--normal people. But with the way Hot Topic Girl has been responding to his advances, it might be better to hear this guy out...

Duncan lets the door creak open a few more inches and places his limp noodle of a hand into the stranger's giant bear paw. He allows it to be shaken and then wipes it on his pants.

"I do okay. With girls, I mean. I do fine." He picks at his chipped nail polish, hoping he's coming off as nonchalant and that the invader interprets his not slamming the door as an indication to continue.

**

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Steve refrains from wiping the mallgoth germs off on his attractive and practical yet damp slacks. The door opens and he decides to ignore his misgivings and go for it. It's not like he was expecting a sale when Donnie Darko here answered his knock, anyway. He lets his smile slide into the most incredulous contortion he can manage, corrugator supercilii flexing impressively.

"'Fine'? Are you really happy with 'fine'-" He begins to peel a magazine off the top of the stack with flourish and an unpleasant sticking noise, "-when you could be a GODDAMN SEXUAL TYRANNOSAURUS???" Magazine proffered, moist hand waved to forestall comment. "DO YOU EVEN LIFT???" That eye twitch is back with a vengeance.

Steve stops, finally, to let the muscles speak for themselves. The magazine's muscles, that is. His own have done enough.

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**

At the salesman's sudden increase in volume, Duncan cringes backward so far he almost topples over. This, he decides, has all been a terrible idea. He doesn't open his eyes until the spittle has stopped flying.

"No--" He glances again at those muscles and suddenly feels kind of... inadequate. And frightened. "I mean, no sir, I don't lift, sir!" Duncan is aware of his own frail sinews creaking in the sweaty breeze generated by all of this flexing and shouting.

He peers fearfully upward and realizes that a magazine has floated into existence near his nose. He takes it, unsure of whether to be disgusted or bizarrely fascinated by the well-oiled humanoids displaying themselves on the cover. He's never wanted to look like that; the "gracefully emaciated" look has always been more his speed. Yet, he can't seem to look away. He also can't muster the courage to open past the cover.

**

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Steve wonders if perhaps the muscles have said too much. He doesn't want the scrawny kid to collapse, and he's been swaying an awful lot. Probably doesn't get enough protein.

He allows his face to soften (or at least stop actively flexing). "It's not your fault. Everybody needs a friend to keep them from skipping leg day." (or every day, ever, Steve supposes, but he believes his face remains in a very understanding position) "There, in that magazine, is the only friend you'll ever need."

Steve reaches back out, polo straining, trying to avoid causing a breeze that will take the kid out for good, and carefully peels the magazine open to page 34. He taps the page slowly, three times, with reverence.

"I've got two words for you, kid: Trent. Reznor."

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Duncan would totally recognize that name. He probably has all the t-shirts. All of them.