Whiz-Bang Fantastic
an excerpt

Dashiell sauntered calmly down the rosy row of Market Street, his swagger cane swinging back and forth, his rich blue overcoat flourishing dramatically with his great strides. It was a cloudless summer day, with a strong but unassuming breeze in the air, causing the long red and blue ribbons on Dashiell's top hat to flutter like proud banners.

Along the wide sidewalks, great dozens of awnings and tents stood, with jovial merchants excitedly pawning their wares to passerby. The street, as was usual for this time of year, seethed with activity, the air vibrating with the social heat. Dashiell looked amiably along the boisterous sidewalk, content to be in such grand company.

Dashiell Rather Colourful, for that was his name in full, was indeed a gentleman most becoming to this summer rabble, for his manner as well as appearance was of the most striking sort. His face was chiseled and handsome beneath a bush of short, rich blond hair, concealed beneath his indigo top hat. His eyes were large and willowy, and shone with a steely, almost penetrating grey. His ears were elven, pointed and fairly long, with a small golden hoop earring through the left point. He was a tall man, around 6'2", and had a strong yet svelte build. Corporeally, he was a pillar of aesthetic pleasure.

Besides his agreeable body, his outfit too was most wonderful. Over a scarlet waistcoat with curly golden accents, he wore a long blue overcoat with shining, stylised suns on the lapels, and an intricate, swirling silver detail on the left shoulder. Along the bottom of the open coat was a chain of alternating silver and gold moons, linked together across the lower brim. His relax-fit trousers were inky black (fashion cares not for discomfort) and were covered with purple spirals of many shapes and sizes: circular spirals, square spirals, triangular spirals. The cuff of his pants were tucked into his ivory boots.

On the up-turned cuffs of his jacket were silver and red diamond shapes. His right hand was in a black leather glove and held a polished wooden cane with a bronze knob on the top. On his left were were adorned many rings of various sizes and materials on nearly every finger (and one on his thumb), ranging from elaborate bands to rings mounted with jewels of many colours.

The strapping young Dashiell caught the gaze of nearly everyone he passed, their eyes locked in fleeting affection. Dashiell's stride was so mannered and pleasured, you could tell instantly from his body language what a figure of poise and verve he was. Nearly everyone greeted him as they passed, and the friendly Dashiell returned each greeting with a nod or tip of his hat. Merchants from the awnings called out to him, a brother in mercantile.

"Oy! Dashiell!" cried a brusque, bearded man from behind tables of rich bread and pastry. "Can I int'rest ya in a Long John t'is marnin'? Fresh off t'a fire!"

Dashiell turned to face the baker. "Good morning to you too, Horace! Unfortunately time runs short and people all over the city don't look quite as astounding as they could due to my tardiness! Perhaps I'll be by later today to indulge a bit; keep an eye out, sir!" Dashiell went on his way, waving his hat at Horace the baker.

"It'll be here for ya, gent!" Horace called back, "Guh mornin'!"

"Ah, Dashiell Colourful as I live and breathe!" called out another vendor, running an outdoor café from a glass-walled building on the street. "The morning is young, and the afternoon may be long. Can I interest you in a sampling of Arabian wine?"

Dashiell approached the fair-haired woman in her blue apron. "A quick shot of the good mud seems like a sound order for the morning, yes." He stood before a small coffee bar just outside the coffee bar, and planted his cane in the ground with stirring command. "A light roast with fine cream and just the faintest sugar, my fine barista! And perhaps a spattering of cinnamon as well; I'm in a spicy mood!"

The drink was served quickly, and Dashiell paid his money, tipped his hat at the waitress, and gave her a wink, causing her to blush. He continued down the street.

"Dashiell!" called a young man's voice at random from the other side of the street. "Think fast!"

Looking over, Dashiell caught a glimpse of a baseball-sized yellow thing heading at him from a nearby fruit stand. Spinning in place, Dashiell tucked his cane under his arm and caught the fruit in one swift and graceful motion, happily impressing the fruit stand merchant across the road. Dashiell grinned mischievously at him.

"You'll have to try harder than that, Leeworth!" he boasted, and after briefly examining the fruit, a fine large golden apple, he pocketed it in his overcoat and continued on his way, his gait proud and energized.

Dashiell encountered no other familiar merchants before getting to his own store, Haberdashiell's, a stout but intricately built brick building, with many architectural decorations fashioned into the facade. Arching over the large door, in elegant cursive, was a sign reading "HABERDASHIELLS - Fashion Accessories for Men and Women". As Dashiell looked upon it, he recalled his fondness for the building, how it was fancy but not ostentatious, comfortable but not spoiling, and it seemed like a very personal place to him. He felt fortunate to have it as he stepped up the short stairs to the door.

Standing in front of the door, Dashiell took the knob of his cane, placed it in a recess on the door, and twisted it; the door opened ajar when the lock clicked, and Dashiell walked inside. The Haberdashiell's shop was covered in all sorts of clothing paraphernalia, spreading a wild menagerie of bright colours before Dashiell's eyes as he opened the door. Dashiell casually discarded his cane and hat on a nearby hat stand, tossed his short but voluminous hair free of the binds of the hat, and thrust both doors open wide to the bustle of Market Street, inviting pedestrians to the business. He ambled his way to the small, elegantly crafted desk at the back of his store, and placed his coffee next to the old-fashioned silver register. Standing there, his gaze upon the wide door with summer light streaming through it, he had some time to reflect.

There were some things about him that he tried to take in stride, but society as a whole made him quite aware and proud of it. Dashiell is witty, charming, humourous, intelligent, urbane, a snappy dresser, makes great company, and is a most compassionate fellow. He is a handsome gent, a formidable fighter, as many groups of Toughs can attest to, a dashing socialite, and effortlessly skilled in many useful and interesting (read: useless) ways. To put it succinctly, he is Whiz-Bang Fantastic. Tremendous in a great slew of respects, not intensely or garishly standout in any of them, he is ordinarily extraordinary in his extraordinary world. Dashiell contemplated all of this for a few minutes.

He pulled up a chair, sat down, and with a long, drawn-out sigh, leaned morosely on his desk, his head nested in his arms.