Brutal acts of sapiens leave Jehovah in disgust
creative acts of clever monkeys leaves the devil envious

Plastic red and black dreads sway around her hips. Even on the rugged ground, even in these killer heels that add a foot to her height, she still hasn’t stumbled or fallen over once. In front of her, the blood red coat fan out much like a cape, the bigger boys strides longer and sure, that confident swagger of a brother. Red eyes avert down as she has to keep an eye on the ground, a root might decide that tripping her up in a latex mini skirt would be a fabulous idea, giving the trees, bushes, and animals (we’re not talking about the 4 legged ones here) a lovely view up her skirt. A red nail reaches under her metal eye patch, scratching whole heartedly under her eye.
“Don’t scratch your eye.”
His smooth voice called back, and the red nail retracted from behind the eye patch, wondering how he did it, before soldering on.

Dez chucked his hat back at the younger girl, knowing she’d catch it. He carried on swaggering, knowing full well that even though his stride is twice hers, she’ll keep up. Hell, Spit’ll run if she has too. She’ll follow him to the ends of this miserable earth, and probably far beyond. That characteristically cruel smile spreads over his face, though the pools of tar stay deep and cold. The bottomless pits cast about, shifting coarse slightly, before pausing. He tugs the hat off her, before ramming it on his head, pulling it down further, hiding those dark eyes. His thumb pushes the sword out slightly, ready to be yanked out at the fist sign of danger. Spit tugs out small daggers from their sheaths around her thighs, her left hand flicking the blade around to lie it against her forearm. She waits for the signal form her brother, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he signals for her to put the blades away, before turning and smiling wickedly.
“Go and scout, see what this place is.”
And with a nod, she’s of, wide hips swaying, dreads swinging. Red eyes scan about, small hidden ears listen intently. She sashays back, her voluptuous painted lips speak quickly to the older boy, who stays dripped in shadows.
“It’s a place to find a home.”
Her musical voice pauses, waiting for him to talk.
“You go and find a home. Weasel you way in. Make tracks, earn trust, you know the drill.
And with her mission, she sashayed out into the open again, her child-like face full of innocent wonder. Grease pools watch the latex heels as they make their easy way over the ground. He takes in the daggers, the skirt, the bondage top, the dreads, her facial expression. Damn man, you’ve done well in bringing her up. And you’ve got her eating out the palm of your hand. Congrats. Without so much as a farewell wave, he disappears into the trees once more, that satisfied grin back on his face.

AngelSpit wandered along, runway walk in hand, the daggers tucked neatly back into the garter like sheathes. A confident walk takes her to a ruin that lay abandoned on its side. She sat gracefully, red eyes cast about. The metal eye patch is adjusted slightly; a stray dread knocked out of the way, red lips parted slightly, and a large “lost” sign stamped across her forehead. So she just sits there, in large boots and a small skirt, looking for someone to “rescue” her. Any takers?