[ Does Marcel look like a guy who owns a pet shop? No. Is Marcel a man who now owns a pet shop? Yes.
Doggy Style is a medium-sized pet shop with an evident dog theme that stores everything from delicious, beef-flavored snacks in natural rainbow colors for your pup(!) to dog beds, toys and equipment. If your dog needs it, it's here. If you need a dog, he's got phone numbers for a wide range of breeders and rescues, too, though there never seems to be anyone on the other end of the call.
He offered, though, right? So now you owe him. ]
I.
option a. [ Does he get the whole mall thing? Nah. He used to shoplift in places like this when he was a kid, working here now in what's obviously shady business but otherwise a pretty standard job? Fucking weird. And being around all that dog stuff makes him kinda miss his own dog, you know, if Marcel came with a normal human heart. Since he doesn't, he just hangs out at Bernoulli's, eating pizza and only thinking about his dog when there's no one to stare up at him pleadingly for leftovers. Like that, he might not look it, but he won't actually punch you in the face if you join him. Not right off the bat anyway. ]
option b. [ The Lemniscate Lifestyle Center is more his thing, yeah? Even devoid of people - or, hey, maybe especially devoid of people. No one to keep an eye on. For fucking once, he can focus on his own shit. Most hours a day, there's a good chance you'll find Marcel parkouring in the gymnastics annex or doing taekwondo forms by himself. Currently, however, he's doing push-ups and general warm-up for a lap. Disturb him or join him, if you dare. ]
II.a
[ It's been a day. It's been uneventful, like fucking always. Marcel needs a smoke. Standing beneath the stars and craning his head to look up, he sucks on a cigarette and runs his hand over the back of his head, cropped hair coarse against his palm. Catching the smoke between his fingers and licking his lips, he says to no one in particular, maybe himself, maybe some innocent bystander who better think about running now: ]
You think dogs care that we named some fucking constellation after them? I think they'd be fucking psyched, if they had the brains for that crap.
marcel verlinden | doggy style.
[ ooc; Marcel comes with some warnings, please mind them. ]
[ Does Marcel look like a guy who owns a pet shop? No. Is Marcel a man who now owns a pet shop? Yes.
Doggy Style is a medium-sized pet shop with an evident dog theme that stores everything from delicious, beef-flavored snacks in natural rainbow colors for your pup(!) to dog beds, toys and equipment. If your dog needs it, it's here. If you need a dog, he's got phone numbers for a wide range of breeders and rescues, too, though there never seems to be anyone on the other end of the call.
He offered, though, right? So now you owe him. ]
I.
option a.
[ Does he get the whole mall thing? Nah. He used to shoplift in places like this when he was a kid, working here now in what's obviously shady business but otherwise a pretty standard job? Fucking weird. And being around all that dog stuff makes him kinda miss his own dog, you know, if Marcel came with a normal human heart. Since he doesn't, he just hangs out at Bernoulli's, eating pizza and only thinking about his dog when there's no one to stare up at him pleadingly for leftovers. Like that, he might not look it, but he won't actually punch you in the face if you join him. Not right off the bat anyway. ]
option b.
[ The Lemniscate Lifestyle Center is more his thing, yeah? Even devoid of people - or, hey, maybe especially devoid of people. No one to keep an eye on. For fucking once, he can focus on his own shit. Most hours a day, there's a good chance you'll find Marcel parkouring in the gymnastics annex or doing taekwondo forms by himself. Currently, however, he's doing push-ups and general warm-up for a lap. Disturb him or join him, if you dare. ]
II.a
[ It's been a day. It's been uneventful, like fucking always. Marcel needs a smoke. Standing beneath the stars and craning his head to look up, he sucks on a cigarette and runs his hand over the back of his head, cropped hair coarse against his palm. Catching the smoke between his fingers and licking his lips, he says to no one in particular, maybe himself, maybe some innocent bystander who better think about running now: ]
You think dogs care that we named some fucking constellation after them? I think they'd be fucking psyched, if they had the brains for that crap.