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Cody walks down the street, when he gets distracted by the sweet, powerful sound of rock music that came from the soul.
It’s raw. It’s full of soul. It’s kind of shit, but, you know, the good kind of shit that means that you’re pushing music past its boundaries. The lyrics are kind of unintelligible, from far away, but Cody doesn’t need to hear the lyrics to know that the song is impactful. It’s exactly the shit that Cody likes to listen to, and it rocks him right in his soul- or it would have, if he still had one. Still, the music is powerful, man. And it leads him down a street, and then down another street. Cody isn’t even really sure where he ends up, but he sees the busker, and that’s what matters. Cody rushes towards him, chasing the music-
And then he’s finally close enough to hear the lyrics, as well as the guitar.
“I ain’t no IOS troll emoji!” The busker sings, nearly screaming. “I ain’t IOS no troll emoji! I am the onion! I am the onion! I am the onion!”
“Holy shit,” Cody says, unable and unwilling to stop himself. “That was deep. Raw. Real.”
“Thanks,” the busker says.
He’s sitting on a rollator, electric guitar perched on his legs, guitar case open and filled with a few pieces of change. He has dyed silver hair, half grown out, and an amount of spikes and belts on his outfit to nearly- nearly- match Cody. The most striking thing, though, is the sunglasses, sitting on the busker's face, even though the sun is nearly entirely set.
“You play?” The busker asks.
“Nah,” Cody replies. “But I listen. Go to shows, too.”
“That’s why I’m here, actually,” the busker says. “There’s this super cool metal band I’ve been dying to see, so I made my way to New York. And I thought, hey, while I’m here, might as well bless the city with my music.”
“Consider the city blessed,” Cody says. “Or- not blessed. Cursed. That was dark music. Good, dark music.”
“It’s literally cursed,” the busker says. “I’m a dark wizard. My songs are curses.”
“That’s sick, dude,” Cody answers. It’s nice to meet someone like himself. “I made a deal with the devil. A devil, anyway.”
“Seriously?” The busker asks, deeply excited. “A devil?”
“Well, yeah,” Cody says. “But that’s not as cool as being a dark wizard, so-”
“I’m also a doctor,” the busker says. “And a ventriloquist. And I have a cooking show.”
“For real?” Cody asks. “And you’re a musician?”
“With ten albums,” the busker says, quickly. “No, eleven albums. And I’m working on a musical. A rock musical. A real rock music, not a pop rock musical.”
“Sick,” Cody says, immediately. “Did you use your dark wizard magic to do all that stuff?”
“Nah,” the busker says. “This is all talent. My talent. Homegrown, real, talent.”
“What’s your name, dude?” Cody asks.
“Dust,” the busker says.
“You even have a cool wizard name,” Cody said. “I’m just Cody.”
“You could be Cuss,” Dust says. “Not that I changed my own name, or anything. I was just such a cool baby they had to give me a noun for a name. But if you wanted to change your name, you totally could.”
“Cuss?” Cody asks, with a raised eyebrow. Cuss didn’t exactly sound… cool.
“I mean, you can’t exactly be Cust, now can you?” Dust asks. “That would just sound stupid.”
“I could name myself something that doesn’t rhyme with your name,” Cody says, slowly.
“Why would you want to do that?” Dust asks in reply. He wrinkles his nose. “You may as well keep being Cody at that point.”
“Right,” Cody says, slowly. “I just don’t think Cuss shows off my internal darkness, dude. It sounds like I’m a ten year old who just learned what swearing was.”
“Maybe you are a ten year old,” Dust says. “Or- you will be. When I hit you with my magic dark wizard powers.”
“If you’re gonna curse me, make me a sick ass dragon,” Cody replies. He didn’t feel all that threatened, though. “Or, like. A skeleton, or something. Not a ten year old. I wouldn’t even be strong enough to lift my swords, at this point.”
Dust gasps, eyes wide. “You have swords?”
“Twelve,” Cody says, smugly. “How many do you have?”
“Thirteen,” Dust says, immediately. “And I made them all. Myself.”
Cody raised an eyebrow. “I call bullshit.”
“Well, I call bullshit to you calling bullshit,” Dust says.
“What?” Cody asks. “What does that even mean?”
“It means that I think you’re just jealous of my thirteen swords,” Dust says. “And my dark wizard powers. And my robot hand.”
“You have a robot hand?” Cody asks. “I can see both your hands. Neither of them are made of metal.”
“No, not like a hand that is a robot that’s on my body,” Dust says. “Like a hand that used to be on a robot that is now in my closet.”
“You killed a robot?” Cody asks.
“Yes,” Dust says, quickly. “Obviously. How else would I get a robot hand?”
“You could have, I dunno, befriended a robot,” Cody said. “Or robbed one.”
“I would never befriend a robot,” Dust says, blushing bright red and grimacing. “Robots are dicks.”
“And that’s why you killed one?” Cody asks.
He has no idea when this conversation stopped being about music. Or, anything that made sense at all.
“I’ve killed ten robots,” Dust says. He pauses. “No, fifteen.”
“You don’t sound all that confident,” Cody says.
“Because I’ve killed so many,” Dust replies. “Kill ten robots, kill fifteen, either way you’re covered in motor grease and vengeance.”
“Now that’s metal,” Cody says. “You should use that as a song lyric, or something.”
“I already have,” Dust says.
Cody raises an eyebrow. “So you were quoting your own song?”
“No,” Dust says.
“Then what?” Cody asks.
“I wrote a song in my head, as soon as I said it,” Dust says. “The song called to me, and I had to let it out.”
“Are you gonna write a song about that, too?” Cody asks. “Cuz, again, metal ass line.”
“What is a metal line, if not a sword?” Dust asks in reply.
It makes absolute zero sense. Cody digs it anyway.
“You’re deep, man,” Cody says. “Are your albums on sound cloud?”
“They’re in my heart,” Dust says.
“And on CD!” Another voice yells, from across the street. “Dust, promote yourself!”
“I still think we should just be breaking into cars and leaving the CDs in them,” another person says.
The pair cross the street and stand near Dust.
“Who’s Dark and Brooding, then?” The first one asks.
He’s wearing bright pink, bedazzled, camo pants, a crop top that says ‘I went to NYC and all I got was three STDs’, and holding an iced coffee larger than his head.
“I’m Cody,” Cody says.
“Cuss,” Dust says, at the exact same time.
“I never agreed to that,” Cody says.
The second one sighs. She’s wearing a slightly more normal outfit of jeans, a massive rainbow cardigan, and a Matilda t-shirt. “Dust, we’ve talked about this. You can’t change people’s names without their permission.”
“You said I can’t rename kids,” Dust corrects. “And, besides. He made a deal with the devil, why would he have such an awful name as Cody?”
The pair stare at Cody. “Did you tell you made a deal with the devil, or-”
“Yes,” Cody says. “I did. Because I did. Do you not know about-”
“We met ghosts,” all three say, at the same time.
“And I’m a werewolf,” Dust added, sounding far less truthful.
“Right,” Cody says, awkwardly.
“Now, come on,” the woman with the cardigan says. “We need to get to the stadium so we can make it on time.”
“If I miss Ke$ha because of you,” the camo pants one threatens. “I will end you.”
Cody pauses. “Didn’t you say you were going to see a metal band?”
“Bye!” Dust shouts. He puts away his guitar and amp in record speed, and puts them on his rollator, balanced precariously. “See you around, devil guy!”
“What-” Cody starts to say, but all three of them are already running away from him.
He honestly has no idea what just happened. Or who the hell he just met. Or- or anything, really. Because, seriously, what?