"Oi, oi!" A weirdly spiky shoulder butts in from your left, with a swing that simultaneously says without words "I know exactly why I'm here and what I came to do" and "I own this fucking place, cry about it" at a level of insufferable one could never fathom to even be possible. "Didn't know we got the peanut gallery all up in my square like it's goddamn encore night. What, no one bother to educate ya poor fools in the art of basic decency? I sure as hell wouldn't wanna force out this bad boy-- or maybe I do. Drama rakes in the views." The source of the voice-- a smug, high-heeled Darkner with a glower like a shit-eating void and an obnoxious floral scent following him like paparazzi chasing a celebrity van-- shoots you a glance so withering you wonder how his own face hasn't shrivelled off yet as he reaches down to tap what appears to be a rapier's hilt in a manner you can only assume was meant to come off as threatening. Unsurprisingly, it just ends up looking more pretentious than anything else.

"'Sides," he quips as though the silence itself had asked (spoiler: it didn't, no one did)-- "next gig's in 20. Still think I got a second more to spare with some randos who call themselves privileged for sitting exactly where they're most likely to get rubbish thrown at 'em?"

And then, casually flicking a clawed hand in the direction of your face as if refusing to acknowledge you in the same movement he actively dismissed your mere existence, he had already shooed you from the street space-- the literal public space where people go to take walks every damn day-- as if he owned it for himself. His electric piano glints smugly in the streetlights as if it somehow matched the temperament of its owner, who simply tosses back his hair and leans against it like he's in a vintage car ad.

What a Prick.