14204/To make a Leprechaun

To make a Leprechaun
Date of Scene:	17 March 2022
Location:	Little Costume Shop, Flatbush
Synopsis:	Mr Kent needs a costume! Luckily, some are still in stock...
Cast of Characters:	Red, Superman

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Red has posed:
With St. Patricks Day looming and the parties coming in mere hours, costumes for that occsaion are in heavy demand, and in many costume rental places, supplies are dwindling. Similar in the Little Costume Shop in Flatbush, but they still do have a few, or so their catalogue on the website claims. And their door's open early to late, though they don't open all around the clock...

Superman has posed:
Clark Kent is not the sort of man who gets invited to many parties. He's too innately unfashionable to merit an invitation out of anything more than pity -- Clark with his awkward lead-footed gait, clumsy and destructive; Clark with his bull-like body, all hunched and broad like the world's a china shop; Clark with the ill-fitting suits and the pinched, nasally voice and the glasses that make his eyes appear faded and swollen. There's little desire to spoil any festive mood with this dweeb...

... yet, he's been invited somewhere now, and it wasn't an offer made in sympathy with the secret shameful hope he'd decline in the back of the inviter's mind. His presence is welcomed and encouraged.

Such an affirmation of his self-worth has the dweebish reporter floating on clouds, all a-glow as he enters and the Jaws theme plays instead of a bell. He pauses, lips pursed, and looks up above himself, admiring the cornucopia of props. "Oh, that's quite well done," he mumbles to himself. He walks forward, slow, careful. This isn't a large store and he doesn't want to topple into anything. "Um, h-hello?" He calls out.

Red has posed:
As the deep recurring badams with their speeding up rythm play, a red haired head pops out behind the doorframe to the workshop. "One moment please, just putting somethign down, I'll be with you in just a moment!" a young woman answers, possibly 20-something or such.

Indeed, it only takes a minute before Alice slips from the back room, tossing a pair of dirty rubber gloves into a bin under the counter as she gets behind it. The ginger hair is tamed with a bandana at the moment, while her red blouse and the jeans skirt do their own. It's not indecently sjhort, but it does put emphasis on the Boots that go all the way to end possibly mid thigh, hidden under the skirt.

"Sorry for the wait, just had to put something away. What can I do for you?" she asks, offering a genuine smile as she eyes over the wide shouldered but slightly awkward moving reporter in the ill fitted suit. "Something for a St. Patrick's party?"

Superman has posed:
Men are simple creatures, whether they're from Kansas or Krypton -- when a pretty young woman slips out from the back and announces herself to the view of all his senses, Clark can't help but steal a glance, trailing the ample chest squeezed by the blouse, the short skirt and the long boots. A faint twinge of color rushes to his cheeks as he realizes where he's been looking, clearing his throat and turning his gaze away. His hands rise to adjust his tie in a pointless gesture or nervous tic; he clears his throat, opens and closes his mouth as if to speak. When at last he pipes up, he's still not making eye contact, having found himself enthralled with a prop foam sword nearby.

"Ah, erm, yes," he declares, keeping her in his peripheral lest his eyes be tempted to wander. "Hello! It's no worry, really. I'm not in a rush. I mean, I do need it for tonight, but that's hours from now, a few minutes won't hurt me." His smile is awkward, lopsided, only the left side of his mouth moving. It's like he was never taught the right way to do it. "This is fine craftsmanship," he compliments. "Do you make it all yourself? Because I'm -- well," and now he turns back to her, leaning in conspiratorially, "I've been invited to a party, you know. For the holiday."

His chest swells with pride and then he deflates, sagging into himself. "I've never been to a party before. I -- you dress up for them, right? So I need something green. I don't own any green suits."

Red has posed:
Following the eyes once they start to roam the room, Alice moves over to pick up the blade and giving it a little spin through the air with a hiss. "Mark Three Munitorium Pattern Energy Sword, as is the favorte of the Krieg Death Corps Commisars." she explains as she puts it onto the counter for inspection.

"Oh not everything, I just work here, but I do quite some of the propworks. What can I interest you in this St. Patricks Day? Leprachaun or just generic green? Or do you fancy yourself something different? I could get you the rest of that uniform, but it'd be rather odd to appear in a gasmask and Leather coat and all to a party where people celebrate life and drinking."

Superman has posed:
The man's eyes widen as he watches the sword twirl. There's a grace to the aesthetics of war, one his heart has always appreciated even if he never admits it; as ugly as violence can be, the blade is a wonderful tool, and mankind's myriad fantastical reimaginings of it never cease to inspire. "May I?" He asks, gesturing to the prop sword. He reaches out to grasp it by the hilt and gives it a few practice swings. With the length of his arms and the surprising strength of the barrel chest beneath his suit, he almost looks like a proper warrior -- he can smite and dominate all around him!

Or he would, if on one practice swing his arm hadn't smacked into a nearby mannequin and knocked it all over, sending the cosplay outfit displayed on it -- a rather well-made hot pink number from something Clark doesn't recognize -- toppling to the ground.

"Oh, gosh dangit to heck," he gripes, quickly placing the sword back on the countertop and crouching down to pick up the false humanoid and its treasured fabric. He leans forward and dusts it off as if that makes it all better. "Guess it's a little more cramped than I realized," he says, laughing it off in a nervous voice. "I'd like something... festive, please. I want to make a good impression. Surprise me? It needs to be green. And -- and proper, I'm not a cad."

No, he's just the sort of man who says cad and gosh darnit.

Red has posed:
"Sure, please yourself. It's lighter than steel, but quite a bit wider than a real sword. Just like Warhammer 40K makes everythign just a little more Grimdark than everythign else there is." Gesturing at the prop with its painted on chips and metallic sheen, ony when lifting it it becomes apparent, that it is a foam object in a thin shell of flexible material that carries the paint.

As the mannequin goes down, she sighs with a little shrug, but gestures for him to stand down. "I will pick that up in a little."

"While you do have the handling down almost, you might want a different style to be an office warrior. Maybe something less overdesigned and more slender to go with your suit. Maybe..." Spinning around and searching for the right binder, she finally pulls out a thick folder in which she opens up a page, then flicks over once before pointing on an exhibit photo. "Westpoint cadet saber, 1922 edition. Quite more elegant, and works quite nicely to a suit. However, you'd need to get it tailored. That is, unless you want to go all Conan. I got one of that in the back."

A little chuckle escapes her throat as she reaches out to put the prop blade back, scanning it for damage with the eyes. "Something festive? I still got some of the costumes of the day. Not many, but I might find something in your measurements. What's your suit size?"

Superman has posed:
"Oh, I'm no office warrior," Clark replies with an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his head. He's tall and broad, sure, but size isn't everything. The whole of his body language screams beta male in an almost comical fashion -- nerd, dork, pushover, doormat, the terms simply roll off the tongue with ease when one appraises him. "My suit size? I don't know. I just bought this off the rack, honestly."

His suit does not fit well at all, too loose in some places, too tight in others, its wrinkled fabric doing much to conceal the sturdiness of the body beneath. It's the ideal suit for a nebbish pencil-pusher looking to not stand out. His gaze drifts over the lovely lady once more, and then flickers to the prop energy sword as she takes it. "Um, sorry," he finally apologizes. "For the mess. Sometimes I'm a little clumsy, is all." He offers her his hand. "Clark Kent. I work for the Daily Planet. I'm going to a party on Tony Stark's yacht."

Those are definitely social circles that do not normally overlap. Tony Stark's handsome, cool, famous, rich. Clark Kent looks like he spent the first twenty years of his life eating corn and moving bales of hay then tripped and fell into his father's old suits.

"Do you need to measure me? Do you take measurements? If not, I'll just -- take whatever you think would fit. I don't mind if it's not perfect."

Red has posed:
Alice sighs as he doesn't know is suit measurement, and then reaches for a tape measure before slipping out from behind the counter. The movement also reveals how she can endure with the boots all day: they are flats. There's a sticker reading 'Hello, my name is Alice' on her chest. "To get you one that fits? yes, I need to. And you need to hold still a little, ok? I'll get your measurements and look up what suit size that is, but I hope you're not squeamish, I need to wrap the tape aroound your neck and get my hands pretty much all over your chest. That also means, off with the jacket, I need to get the right measurement and not whatever the rack had for you. Because whatever size that is, it's not yours. You do know your trouser size I hope?"

She does wait for the Jacket to come down before she uses the tape to get neck and chest circumference, shoulder width and arm length. The standard for a suit. In a rather professional way, even as she is rather close to get the sizes.

Superman has posed:
"Oh, um, okay," Clark stammers, scrutinizing the woman's name tag as she speaks. The mere thought of having to take off his jacket and be strangled by a tape measure has him grow pale and wilt like a dead flower, going all slope-shouldered as he sighs and begins to extricate himself from the sleeves of his beige jacket. Politely, he folds the jacket, holding it in one hand as he rolls it around his arm with the other. It's not the world's neatest fold, and the sleeves are dangling, but he can at least place it on the nearby counter and not take up too much space.

Beneath that jacket, the man's body is easier to measure -- both with the tape and the woman's professional eyes and hands. He's got shoulders for days and back muscles galore, demanding whatever suit he has accommodate men who are both tall and wide. His torso is long and sculpted into a rather heroic V taper, which even the wrinkles of his unironed shirt can't hide. Put simply, Clark Kent's built like a farm-bred bull... and possessed by the spirit of a mouse. He doesn't fuss as he's measured, but he does bite his inner lip and shift nervously during it.

"Sorry, I'd -- I'd just expected a man to do this," he admits. "Not that a woman can't do just as good a job! If you try, you can equal any man!" He pauses. "I'm sorry, is that -- that came out wrong, didn't it? I meant you obviously work hard and know what you're doing."

Another pause, and then: "Erm, yes, I know my trouser size. You don't need to measure that." The total embarrassment at the mere thought of that happening has his face beet red and his eyes looking anywhere but Alice.

Red has posed:
The Fingers press on some spots on the back to try and get Clark to give her the right length of the torso, the fingers demanding that he uncurls from his slouching form. "You should get back into sports, you still got a footballer's back. Quarterback? I'd need to look if I got something in that size. What's that shirt size? Whatever it is, it's no wonder you fix your tie, you need half an inch more for a comfy seat. I will write down that size for you so your next suit will fit though." It's in part rambling, as she works, finally letting go of him as she got his sizes down to the hip, but skopping on taking pants measurements.

"That's probably the one measurement most men know, because otherwise it quickly gets uncomfortable. "So what's it?" she asks as she goes back to the counter, scribbling down the numbers on a little notepad that is pretty much a form that she'd also use for custom costumes. "Lemme look in the system if I can get you something in your size while you spill the beans."

Superman has posed:
Moving Clark is surprisingly easy. He's an obedient country boy -- wherever her hand pushes or straightens he adjusts, practically spineless in a figurative and literal sense. She'll manage to get his measurements and he feels a pang of gratitude when she offers to write them down. "Golly, Alice, I appreciate that. It's real kind of you." That lopsided smile comes out again and now he finally does look her in the eyes, having overcome both his awkwardness around a stranger and the temptations of his wandering eyes. "Oh, I -- I loved football back in school, I really did. I had to stop playing after an injury, but I stuck around as team manager. Always tried to keep in shape -- ma and pa can't run a farm all on their own so easily these days. I go back and help whenever I can."

As she reminds him of his pants measurements, he confidently delivers them. He's once more built like an Olympian; politely, his needs are spacious. "I can imagine. Wouldn't want to feel too much of a pinch." He winces as the mere act of voicing that thought births it into the chaotic landscapes of his mind: all he can picture is a mountainous ride-up of fabric and the world's worst atomic wedgie. It'd be a nerd's highschool nightmares all over again.

Red has posed:
Alice sighs as she searches through the database for something that might fit, skipping over a few options several times before she jolts down another number on a little pad, ripping off number and then turning to the back door. "I think I found something. I'll be right back, ok? Give me about ten minutes, I just need to grab this from the storage."

She takes a couple minutes, before she returns with a pair of bags over her arm, and a hat in hand. A typical, conical green one with a huge buckle on the side. "This should fit I hope. One Irish gnome in extra size."

Superman has posed:
Clark is a patient man. He has no problems waiting around as Alice disappears into a back room, fiddling with the props, admiring the fabrics and costumes on display. He glances toward the wall Alice disappeared behind and watches her for a moment as well, and when she finally makes her way back Clark's got his jacket back on and has resumed his comfortable slouch.

"Thank you very much," he declares, paying for the whole lot with his ever-so-fancy (it's actually completely normal) credit card. "I appreciate this on such short notice. It'd be embarrassing if I'm the only one who showed up without a costume!"

At no point did anyone actually tell Clark to dress up. But that's okay. Everyone loves Irish gnomes. "You have a wonderful day now, Alice," he declares with a smile, turning to amble toward the exit.

Red has posed:
"That's what a costume shop is for, isn't it? To provide costumes you don't have around all year." Alice answers, though the price or the costume for just the one night isn't cheap. It's on short notice and extra size after all.

As Clark is about to leave, she starts to gather the strayed parts of the costume that he ended throwng off the manequin to fix it, giving hm a goodbye wave. "You too mister Kent. Hae a good evening. We open tomorrow at six, so you can return it starting then."