Host bar // kazuscara [EDITING]

Scaramouche

He likes to regard himself as the King of all hosts. Leading above in both sales, and popularity.

But things weren't always that way.

"Fuck off, old man." He crossed his arms, protecting himself from further alleged harassment from the man. Scaramouche has a personality as horrid as a goat ever since kindergarten, and his parents have since attempted to contain his irresponsible phrasing to a mediocre manner. Not too polite, but not too violent. Not only had they failed, but it had also only worsened as time passed by; transferring from mostly physical and verbal harassment to body language. He cannot count the many times their parents had fought to settle whose genes Scaramouche had inherited for such vigorous and blasphemy language. 

Both, he thought, both are responsible. His father is more prone to become hot-tempered easily and shows it more on the outside, while his mother is more sarcastic and shows most of her emotions through her expressions rather than words. Which matches well with her motto of; action speaks louder than words. 

"Haha, now, boy, don't be so exclusive." The man jested, "I know a host when I see one." That part was true, no matter how much it hurt Scaramouche to hear. The word 'host' replaying in his mind, he is reminded constantly of how he got kicked out of Takahashi firm, brutally. He had cursed at the front door of the company before dropping a middle finger and leaving. Well, he did make an unforgivable mistake for the firm, but it wasn't his fault entirely. The client who was supposedly meeting up with the CEO had trouble finding his office, so she kept coming back to the front desk to ask for directions. The first time she'd asked, Scaramouche had no issues with helping a lost client. But when it escalated to the fifth time, he threw some vicious comments about her sense of direction. Apparently, that was just enough for Takahashi firm to fire him on the spot. 

Fiery, he retorted, "I am not a host." he never told his mother about his current employment, the only piece of information he has leaked to her was that he worked at Takahashi firm, and had quite a stable income. He didn't want his mother to know he soaks himself within the presence of women every day, catering to their every need. If she knew, she'd most likely strip Scaramouche from his connection to their bloodline. Keeping out the filthy ones, leaving only a clean slate for those noble ones; loyal to their bloodline. Keeping his lie viable and believable was already a difficult task to juggle, he needn't the disappointment of his mother to wash over him; like a tsunami when a dam finally breaks away. 

The man seemed amused, "Do you do biddings for older women every day?" Scaramouche flinched, and the man laughed. "Confirmation acquired." He was mocking Scaramouche for the sake of his entertainment, it made Scaramouche furious. While his job unsurprisingly did include catering to older women whose husbands were too busy soaking themselves in the floating world of hostess bars, his job also consisted of younger women, too. One of his most frequent customers was one named Kanazuka Sakura, a young hostess working at a hostess bar a few blocks away. She'd come whenever her work had terminated at around 12 A.M., which meant she would've had two hours to spare at Sato host bar with Scaramouche. 

Both, seemingly experts at lying, Sakura cannot differentiate between real love, and fake love exchanged with money. While Scaramouche was just providing the service Sakura had paid for, she had inevitably fallen into his trap; almost spending all of her hostess revenues on Scaramouche. When she eventually got too entangled into his little romantic fibs, she'd ask him out on a date outside of the bar; which he had ruthlessly turned down without batting an eye.

Scaramouche let out a dry laugh, "Don't think you're any better than us, old man." a smirk crept onto his lips. He's been making roughly an estimate of 900 USD per day, sucking money out of wallets as if he was a vacuum cleaner, scanning through hundreds of wallets for their precious yen. Perhaps it was his perfect face that had attracted many women to him, making them vulnerable to every seemingly little request he makes. 'Should we drink some whiskey?' he'd say, and they'd be almost too eager to pay for thousands of bottles of whiskey just for him. He adores whiskey as much as the next person, just because it was the most expensive alcohol any middle-class human could afford. 

It was nowhere near the most expensive wine he's ever drunk. 

Roughly a hundred thousand USD, it was Chateau Lafite he had the rare opportunity to enjoy. The blood-red color of its contents would make any vampire crave a glass of it. the smoothness of the liquid, yet a slight timbre brings out the flavor of the wine. The light sourness would brew in his throat; unlike low-quality wine, it outstood a sensation of satisfaction. Catering to a rich daughter of an international multimillion company CEO, she had taken such liking towards Scaramouche that the priceless bottle of wine was dedicated solely for him to enjoy. She watched Scaramouche's expression when sipping the expensive wine like her source of entertainment, which Scaramouche had not failed to amuse her.

The man joked, "Such deafening confidence, I'd assume you top the leaderboards in your bar?" surely, Scaramouche did. Such sleeping beauty that had just so coincidentally landed himself within the realm of hosting, who wouldn't want to have a taste of his presence? Spending money for him to acknowledge their existence sounds like a pretty good deal to him. Even going as far as to gift sacrilegiously costly items to him. 

The watch on his left wrist, a Rolex Explorer. Around the mere price of eight thousand UDS, in the words of the elderly woman who had given him the Rolex that she had bought her husband for their anniversary. She was furious when she discovered her husband had forgotten about their anniversary, and transferred ownership of the watch without batting an eye. To her, it was a token of revenge. To Scaramouche, it was a token of his eternal gratefulness to her. 

"It's hard to be a successful host these days now, eh?" The man sighed, "The bars have only grown ever since." Scaramouche himself had jumped through multiple host bars, not managing to settle into Sato host bar until the age of 23. He still looks back to those days of suffering, when his only source of income was the minimum wage the host bars offer. He's done numerous law-bending actions to survive on the little support the host bars he had stayed at, from shoplifting to not paying after a meal; he's seen it all, he's done it all. 

"I wonder how you hosts succeed to manipulate customers into paying obscene amounts of money," the man inquired, bringing Scaramouche's attention. "I've walked my feet through every hostess bar, and still haven't cracked the code behind it all." Scaramouche laughed, it's not something easy to understand. Even Scaramouche has yet to unravel the secrets behind the methods.

"Daisy... the hostess that I had just visited, she has an average face, like any other hostess." The man exhaled, "But there was a charm that brought me to her, wanting to see her happy when I buy her her favorite drink; when I buy her her favorite food." Scaramouche glanced at the man, he wasn't fond of his looks. A balding head, a grotesque nose, and eyes so tiny you can't see his pupil unless you try hard enough. Scaramouche is in awe of Daisy, being able to survive even a minute talking to the man. He wrinkled his nose at the man, giving him a look of disgust. 

Scaramouche sighed, "We don't manipulate," he explained, "we just keep calm, and smile." 

"You clearly failed to do so when looking at me, young man." The man laughed,

Scaramouche smiled, "That's because we're not in a host bar, sir." 

----

I. CANT. STOP. WRITING. 

HOW TO STOP WRITING 101?? ANYONE??? I can't keep my hands from dancing on my keyboard like maniacs I think I just trained them to have like damn 6 packs or something

1412 words