The Goth Detectives: Bygone and Beaches

Meeting the Marquis of Magic

"...am I bovvered?"

Macabre sighs heavily as he looks at the small green pendent in his hand. The breeze kicks up a bit around them, catching his wavy locks and making him look rather attractive to passerby's. This does not particularly register to him though as he curses the day he found this pendent and curses the fact that it is inexplicably attatched to Lauren's damn near unitelligeble accent. There's not even an image of her face in it or anything, just a dim light that sparks with every one of her butchered syllables.

"Oh not this again," he says.

"Am I bovvered? Look at the pendent! Look at it's glow! Am I glowing bovvered?"

"Lauren, please-"

"Oh look at me and my pirate, tranny outfit! Eyeliner and chest hair! I'm a gof! I'm a rockstar! Let me use Lauren like she's fooking Google maps! I AIN'T BOVVERED!"

Bob seemingly glides over to his partner. He's like a little patch of night the way he's hidden underneath his umbrella. His pale features are ghostly as he brings Macabre under his makeshift dark, peering over the taller man's shoulder.

"Hi Lauren," he says, his voice as sleepy and sing-songy as ever.

"...all right," she responds.

"I think I see the shop over there," he points shyly, taking care not to expose himself to the sunlight.

Sure enough, there's a small two story building with a giant purple sign over the door that reads The Marqui's Magic Market in big swirly text and glitter. Lauren begins to rant again but Macabre shoves the pendant in the pocket of his pants, silencing her under under a wall of tight leather.

Together the two men meander into the building and Bob is immeadiately drawn to the corner to a cage with a little cardboard sign outside of it that reads; Magic Rabbit. He peers inside studiously, his sharp features taking on a razor like prescision as he searches for the creature meant to be in the cage. Meanwhile Macabre sighs at the yes-delightful-but-almost-always-useless innocence of his partner and concerns himself with finding the shop's keeper.

"Mark? You may as well reveal yourself from the shadows," he states almost flatly.

A door is heard opening and Mark shuffles out, the sound of a flushing toilet behind him.

"From the shadows, eh?" he says, his voice booming in a low baritone.

Mark, the Marquis of Magic, is a tall, slender sort of man with a long pink beard and a very bald, very shiny head. Macabre remembers fondly when the beard was dyed blue but he has to admit that the pink does accent the sunset and stars robe that the royal Shaman is wearing.

"It's not always magic and shadows, Coiffure," he says as he takes a seat behind the counter, "sometimes I just have to take a piss."

"But ofcourse," the stringy detective says with some slight embarrassment, "how are you anyway?"

The lengthy Shaman tilts his head back a little, his dark eyes glancing at the ceiling as his fingers muse about his cotton candy like facial hair.

"All well and good I suppose," he answers, "been cutting back on the partying though."

This seems to capture Bob's attention who straightens up from leaning into the cage. His back un-arcs itself with surprising grace and he begins to fuss around with putting his umbrella up and all the meanwhile his cold blues still give lingering, curious glances toward the empty cage.

"Ah, why?" the shorter detective says almost despondently, "You're always such a riot when you party."

The entire store is filled with bobbles and doodads. There were crystal balls, and candelabras, wands and spellbooks, and even magician's hats and all white gloves. It's like a cross between a Vegas magic show and a witch's lair, all laid out in a strangely super market sort of layout.