"Bitch I don't want no dirty fuckin' hats." Marshmellow remarked off-handedly as he followed along. "I want a--" There was a pause while Marshmellow took a moment to consider exactly what item he wanted from the surroundings. Finding nothing of interest, he tapped into his fragmented memories. "I want a samwich. A big-ass triple-meat samwich." He seemed amused by this decision. "Aha, das' why dey call me Marshmellow, yeah."
As Chrys, Tabernacle, and Marshmellow approached the apartment building, a velour tracksuit came out of the office to meet them. Inhabiting the tracksuit was a short, fat man with grey sideburns, a thick patch of chest hair, and enough gold jewelry to start a smeltery. It was the apartment building's owner and superintendent, Vino Zagliozzi. Tugging at one of the straps of the tank top underneath his track suit, he pressed a pair of cheap sunglasses over his dead green eyes and called out to the approaching tenents.
"'Aaaay, Chronis." He greeted Chrys first, then moved on to the other two, "Robutt, Marshmellow. You guys, eh--" He gestured to the passing patrol car, "You, aaaah, get any help from the bacon? I called for 'em, but you know how I gotta stay out of the public eye and whatnot."
-----
"I'm often told that I know far more than I should." Alex replied slowly, leaning forward on his cane. His eye panned across Amelia's face for a moment before he leaned back and explained, "Never the less, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintace-- and to hear that you will be attending this meeting. It's important for the neighbourhood, you know? Your establishment stands to benefit as well."
-----
When Ana got back to her store, there was waiting for her an unfortunate and farmiliar face. Tall, broad, brick-like and stupidly dressed was Yigor Kuznyetski-- a dirty-blonde youth with dull brown eyes and a jaw square enough to act as a line-guide. He'd been Anatevka's intended husband-- or rather would've been if her parents had been given their way. Instead, she'd struck out on her own and opened up a shop on Vance Bridge Road, halfway across town. And now, here he was in front of her store with an oversized leisure suit underneath his rough brown Kuznek coat. A pair of visor-like sports sunglasses were pressed up over his forehead as she approached and he waved.
"Privyet, Anatevka." He said with a bashful grin, trying to look casual-- trying to look as if he'd just come halfway across town for some other reason and this was just some sort of incidental visit.