The beat is muted, almost non-existent, and the loss hits Bob hard. He’s used to living his life in a constant thrum of sound, sensing those around him, the rhythm of the universe a constant companion, but here there’s almost nothing. He can feel the sound that’s been pulling him for weeks now, but little else. This place is dead, almost silent, and Bob aches with the feeling of being cast into nothingness.*
Bob is a good personal assistant (the best) and he definitely knows better than to fall in love with his boss. But when your boss is the goth-pop comic master of our time, Gerard Way, there’s more to the job than keeping a datebook. There are appearances to shepherd him to, showers to make him take, and deadlines to remind him to meet. And, really, he’s so earnest, it’s not that surprising that a crush might develop. Just at tiny one.*
Gaslights burned steadily along the street, lighting patches of overnight fog a sickly yellow-brown. A few streets over the music halls and bars were roaring. Business was just drunk and rowdy enough to be spilling into the streets, but hadn’t gotten bad enough that the police had been called in for the nightly roust.*
The magician falling for his attractive assistant is such a cliche. Even if the attractive assistant is a grumpy pessimist who refuses to wear sequins.* Sequel to The Flaming Box of Fiery Doom.