Mime Spent Apart

Part 15

The mime paid the taxi driver with shaky fingers. He snatched money from his hand, assumed a tip and sped off into the city leaving a trail of yelling pedestrians and screeching cars behind him. This was getting to be ridiculous, who was out to get him now? He half wished they had been successful rather than have had to brave that taxi journey though. He got back up to his apartment and changed into his dressing gown. At least now he looked reasonably dignified. He threw the shorts into his laundry basket, on the off chance the owner ever enquired about them and actually wanted them physically back. He knew those sorts of weird people actually existed. He looked at his calendar, two months to prepare for the party. Wait, was it a party? Of a sort, it was a get together but they were doing it as a formal thing. He decided he had to utilise a disguise. Obviously he had access to prosthetics but possibly it was going to take more than that. He decided to put on weight for the assignment. He wasn't sure how to do this in a healthy way, but possibly he would utilise a prosthetic for that too. At least for some of it. He looked in the mirror and said goodbye to his chiseled jawline. Oh well, he'll get it back but it gets harder and harder as you get older, he knew that for a fact. He'd be living on shakes and smoothies for a while once the job was over.

He set himself a routine to follow. First studying the chat sessions, then eating a big bowl of fruit, the studying his acting classes, then eating a big bowl of breakfast cereal, then writing down what he felt the inner motivation of the character "Kusa" was within the chat room, in any new way he saw it that day, then eating a big protein based meal. He would still walk for half an hour each day but he would follow the walk immediately with a big bowl of spaghetti bolognaise. He felt reasonably confident with this method. He followed it every day from then, working his way through the sheets and through a sizable amount of food. He found an excellent shopping service that would go to various high quality stores for him and shop (just because he was going to be over-eating didn't mean he had to eat processed supermarket food) and stuck to the meal plan as well. After the eighth week he had an overhang over his belt and under his chin. He admired his work in the mirror, then placed a few well chosen prosthetics. Yes, this would do. Noone would recognise him. Even the big thug who knocked him down probably wouldn't recognise him, although he'd probably still track him. Still, it would work for the assignment and maybe deter whatever assassin was after him. He turned his face to the side and slapped the turkey neck under his chin. Well, at least it didn't wobble he thought to himself. He grabbed hold of his overhang and gave himself a similar consoling thought that at least it wasn't a full handful with each hand. He walked back over to his lounge chair, grabbing a banana off the kichen counter on the way, peeling it and throwing the peel into the bin at the end of the counter as he passed it. He lay down on his chair and grabbed the pile of sheets sitting next to it. He still needed to work out Kusa's wardrobe. Luckily the internet provided for that sort of thing as well. He saw a few anime references in the things that he said, maybe he could go with a variety of misguided J-pop clothes matching or maybe even be carrying a sword? He thought about even grabbing himself some sort of branded Doctor Who merchandise but that wasn't a show really mentioned by him either and he didn't want to err on the wrong side of the nerd culture fence.

Over the next few week, he gained even more weight but this time not as rapidly as the first ten or so kilos, so he could control it at the end. He got the prosthetics altered to fit his new face with its less pronounced cheekbones. He certainly would not be able to put on the mime make up in this state, he thought, and the thought of his life as a mime filled him with profound sadness. Even with everything they did to him, within that make up was still where he felt safe, where he felt he could act naturally. The japanese mud mask was a facsimile of the experience but it didn't quite work. Sure, he had clean pores after (even with the interruption) but it wasn't quite the same. The attack didn't help either but it wasn't the entirety of the problem. Now that I've blown up my past, quite literary, the mime thought to himself, how do I return to life missing the identity I crafted for myself? An identity I can never go back to? He felt a single tear well in his eye and willed it back into his eye socket. NO time for crying. Plus, the single tear was yet another reminder. He looked at the calendar, the get together was in a couple of nights. He had the outfit put together, he knew how he was getting there, He had moved into a different block of apartments but with a similar layout so that he could just move everything exactly how it was in the apartment (which was his instruction to the specialist moving men he hired, obviously after locking all sensitive items up first). Now at the least he was reasonably sure he wasn't being watched. By anyone other than the Portugese Secret Service guy. The PSS. Are you taking the PSS? The mime asked himself in his mind and chortled to himself. Hmm, he probably needed to get some real friends. Where would he find those? Maybe Paraguay? He made a mental note to move continents after this job, it was obviously starting to play with his head and he wanted to stay sharp, eve nif it meant never doing this job again. He could probably curate an art museum with his specialised art education anyway.

He took a look around him. This had been his work and relaxation space for a long time, ever since he worked out he could make more money from more advanced techniques than just begging on the street with his mimery. He could always recreate it where-ever he ended up, he decided. What did it matter in the end? We were all going to die, he thought to himself.