Mardi Gras
© Velluto Rosso
il_tratidori@yahoo.com
Spoilers Up To: None
Rating: G
Status: Complete
Characters: Lestat
Summary: Lestat attends a Mardi Gras parade, as well as exploring items of fashion which ironically should never see the light of day.
Lestat must be forgiven, of course; all his crimes are the product of a seriously disturbed mind, stemming from a poor upbringing and non-existent master. Lestat might be forgiven and reformed of that. His crimes - the exposure to mortals, the flagrant disregard for the rules - are nothing which he can not be absolved from. There is one crime, however, which shall never be forgiven.
Heels. Blue sequined heels. Light blue and darker blue, to be exact, in a pattern of flames. All the way up his calves, coming past his knees. A passersby might shout, "Good God, Garters!" For one might see, if Lestat so chooses to further humiliate himself, that these hand-crafted leather items may attach themselves like the parasytical fashion disasters that they are, to clothing items further up on Lestat's body.
A pair of modern knickers adorns his thighs, metallic blue to match the sequined boots. A light blue ruffled shirt. And his hair? Why yes, elements of blue again; blue streaks. Metallic blue. Not that the hair matters much. A golden head-dress soon covers it, the blue feathers attached to it trailing past his ankles. He endeavors not to step on these as he mounts the metal stairs of his float.
A million lights sparkle around him, reflected off ten times as many sequins. He can not help but think of the old slaves in their reveries, the Keltoi and their ceremonies. This is certainly not so fervant as the rock concert, but it is nearly there. The throng with arms held high, a chaotic mass of people who, drunken as much on delight as on cheap beer, might all be led to a stampede by any number of things. And here is the dear Vampire Lestat, in the center of it all, waiting to incite a riot.
"You love me! Show it!" He addresses this concern to a group of lithe young women, corseted in the fashion of the times - bras that cover just enough, low rise jeans which tantalize with the promise of something more. In unison, perfect twins, they fling their tops at him. Laughing, for who could not find humor in the voluptuous abandon which will leave these girls wandering the streets indecently, he tosses the prize they so covet; purple, green and gold beads with little trinkets on them, some with unnecessarily huge multi-colored balls. The girls scream ecstatically as they jump up and down, further aggravating their nude condition. Positively howling, Lestat tosses more beads before losing sight of them.
The crowd rolls on, mortal beauty tucked into every corner of New Orleans. Effortlessly he tosses the beads, as if they were bread to a starving crowd, himself the perfect portrait of a maniacal despot. Flashing would certainly be an interesting form of taxation.
The ravishment of the lights and the colors is almost too much for him by the time it ends; dizzy and tired, he steps off the float. As he removes the headdress, one of his fellow bead-tossers approaches him. A gorgeous little thing, also clad in knickers and ruffled shirt. 18 - a perfect age; young enough to lack all jaded and concrete experience, but old enough to search for something better. Arm in arm they walk, Bourbon Street calling for them - the one street in all of New Orleans where truly anything goes.
The End