Lines Converge

Cynthia curled her hair and strapped her tits down (not much to strap) and painted mutton chops on her chin. She put on her best cut-away frock coat and cravat and went to the party.

“Oh, hello, Cynthia,” said Amy, when she opened the door. “What an… elaborate costume! You’re, um, Mr. Darcy? You look just like Colin Firth!”

“No,” gritted Cynthia, then forced herself to relax. That’s not what Beau’d do. “I’m Beau Brummell.”

“You’re who?”

“Beau Brummell. I’m Beau Brummell.”

Amy just stared at her. “Gods, Cynthia. You’re so weird. Come on in, everyone’s here.”

Inside, the house was packed and riotous with a thousand exotic species. Cynthia saw the Slutty Nurse, the Slutty Cheerleader, the Slutty Hermione, and, rarest of the rare, the Slutty Zombie. There were a couple of guys in togas, and one who’d covered himself in silver body paint. He was wearing a winged helmet and sandals.

“I like your costume,” Cynthia said, then kicked herself. Beau never would have said that. Beau was clever and mean. “You’re Mercury?”

The guy laughed. “Sorta. I’m the FTE logo. Beau Brummell, right?”

Hot shit, Cynthia thought. “Charmed, I’m sure.”