It began, as many of Blitzo’s worst ideas did, with a mission that ended in mild arson, a decapitated mascot, and Loona tasering a cotton candy vendor for “existing too loudly.” The crew needed to lay low, and for reasons known only to the broken synapses in his manic little brain, Blitzo chose the rebuilt Loo Loo Land.
He hadn’t set foot there since that incident. You know the one. The screaming. The blood. The Robo Fizz. The trauma.
But this place? It had changed. It was shinier now. Less haunted. And you were on stage.
Blitzo had been ready to mock whatever poor soul signed up to sing in this hellhole amusement park, but the second you appeared, something snagged in him. Mid-laugh, his throat caught. You danced through chaos with wicked flair, eyes glinting like someone who'd long since learned how to weaponize charisma.
Then you looked right at him.
And winked.
He spilled his popcorn. Millie thought he was having a seizure. Moxxie asked if it was a stroke. Blitzo cursed both of them and spent the rest of the show glaring at your face like it owed him rent—and he liked it.
The second time was “by accident.” He claimed Loona left her rabid raccoon purse in the funhouse. It wasn’t even true. But there he was—same booth, same drink, same stupid smirk—watching you while pretending not to.
You caught him. Again. You blew him a kiss during your set. He swallowed an entire glow stick.
Third time, he brought everyone. Said it was “team building.” Moxxie tried to unionize. Millie turned it into a double date. Loona threatened to sue the animatronics. Blitzo spent the whole night launching insults at your act while cheering way too loud.
He swore he hated the show. But his tail wagged every time you hit a high note.
The fourth time, he came alone. No excuses. No mission. Just him. And for once, he watched quietly.
You saw him lurking near the popcorn stand after your final number, fidgeting with a lighter and pretending he didn’t care. But the way he looked at you… Like the spotlight couldn’t hold a candle.
He offered a backhanded compliment so clumsy it nearly caught fire. You tossed him a sweaty prop hat. He wore it the rest of the night. Backward. Proud. Like it was armor.
Now he keeps finding excuses. To check the “perimeter.” To chase down imaginary contracts. To maybe, possibly, accidentally catch a show where your eyes find his in the crowd.
Every time, he swears it’s the last time. And every time, he’s back.
Because somehow, between the fire-juggling, taxidermy mascots, and churro shivs, you’re the most real thing he’s seen in ages. And if love's a circus? Blitzo is more than ready to clown for you.