click.. Click.. The sound of his pink stiletto heels made a loud echoing noise on the rotting wood floor backstage as he strutted towards his poison, the thing he had been craving for minuets now; a mirror. Reflective glass was all he needed now, to stare until his hearts content at his carefully applied face. He wanted to be able to see his newly dyed hair, brighter pink then ever before, and the expensive gold grill dressing up his teeth for the evening, diamonds shining and sparkling off it, soon to be even more illuminated by the spotlight that would be following him for the next little while. He couldn’t wait for everyone to stare in awe, and bounce to the beat of his newest songs, the sound of his voice over the loudspeaker, and to be able to remember just how amazing he truly looked in a skirt. The comments would be flowing freely tonight, and anything could happen. With confidence the clicking continued, not ready to stop until they reached the aging vanity in the lit corner, meters away. Manicured fingernails tapped along the wood as it came into reaching distance, the pure brightness of the pink painted onto them made even brighter with the light bulbs surrounding the clean mirror. He raised his eyes to look at the reflection staring back at him, and suddenly there he was, in all his glory. And he came with the name Amethyst Ransom.


The vanity creaked and groaned as a fragile white hand was placed upon it, Ammy leaning his weight into it slightly as somewhat of an escape from the heels. He loved them, but on some days they really could be killer. He batted his long, fake black eyelashes and gazed down upon the shoes which were metallic silver and purple. He wracked his brain a few moments, trying to remember where he had purchased them, but soon found himself shrugging his shoulders passively and turning his attention back to the beautiful person staring back at him from the glass, so clean and pure it was almost like lake water, silver, fresh and cold. It beckoned him closer, and he did just that, leaning in and examining his perfect cheeks and nose for any sign of a blemish or flaw. He nearly seemed airbrushed, a walking magazine add. With a smile so clean yet poisonous, the kind of smile that leaves you craving something you know you’ll never have, and makes straight boy’s pants get just the right amount tighter, he quickly flicked a fresh coat of mascara over his prosthetic eyelashes. Placing the sleek black tube back into his leather Couture hand bag, he placed his weight gracefully back into the heels of his flashy shoes, and turned. The clicking started once again.


Pink hair flipped behind an exposed shoulder and touched his pale skin. Ammy couldn’t help but examine himself once more, his outfit making even him a slight bit impressed. Queen bitch he was, unable to contain his present flare for alternative fashion. A tiny mini skirt, stars hanging off of it and covering just a slight bit more leg, covered the lace beneath. The stars flicked and sparkled as he walked. They were gold, the sweet color of the thing Ammy couldn’t resist. The denim seemed destroyed, burned, and mutated, and a tiny bit of pink could be seen by hungry eyes through a hole in the side. When he swayed his thin hips, the stars made little clinking sounds, like change falling into his countless one of a kind purses and handbags. The one thing that would most definitely be happening by the end of a night. This skirt smelled, looked, and sounded of money, and the crowd would definitely want it for their own. They would crave for it to fly up only a tiny bit, just enough so they could see the surprise between Ammy’s thighs, but too bad for them. Only the best got to see what Ammy had to offer. And oh was that ever a lot.


The stage crew turned and gazed upon the living mannequin, the designer’s dream rack of perfection and vanity beauty. He was looking good tonight, and unzipped the white zipper of his tight one of a kind sweater, produced from the dark lurks of Staci Ranelli, a clothing designer on the rise’s apartment. Made specifically for tonight, this particular sweater was covered and designed with glitter, that matched the blue sparkles above and around Ammy's eyes. On the back in fluorescent pink it read Ammy Ransom; want some, get some. A flattering picture of him, hand constructed into the material with colored beads topped it all off, every feature pulled off to practically perfection. All Ammy asked for, a little bit of perfect. The designer sweater had been shielding a simple t-shirt with his eyes staring out from the chest, just slightly destroyed with a few random rips, and a suddenly plunging neckline. Customization courtesy of Ammy himself. He took a deep intake of breath, smiling and waving at the cute lighting guy, and took to the steps leading up to the side wings of the stage he was about to burst upon. This was his night. Just another typical chance to shine.