Okay my writing brain is simultaneously extremely exhausted/borderline burnt-out and also working on several different ideas at once, so there’s a HOT chance I’ll never get to this concept, but I’m writing/rambling the (extended) idea here so it’s out there—
Consider: You’ve repeatedly had terrible luck with auto mechanics, to the point where you’re absolutely desperate for genuine help. You’re sick of having to fight through the hoards of lying salesmen who are trying to trick you into paying exorbitant prices just because they can tell you’re not car-savvy. You want someone who doesn’t even look at your face, someone who can just figure out what the fuck is going on with your vehicle and can fix it for a reasonable price. That’s it.
Cue your friend telling you that they’ve heard from a friend of a friend who’s heard of someone, a reliable source tho, that there’s a guy who can fix anything, and fix it fast. He’s just weird. And abrasive. And rude. He doesn’t sugar coat or extort, and he barely even pays attention to you if you bring him something. The problem is, he doesn’t have a phone, and he doesn’t work specific hours, or even specific days. Also, his shop is in the middle of nowhere. If you go there you’ll just have to hope you catch him, and if you don’t, sucks to be you.
So you take the address from your friend and drive your shitbox down increasingly abandoned looking country roads until you arrive at what looks like a very large, run down garage. Scrap metal litters the yard outside, everything from old iron bathtubs to what looks like the shell of an ancient military tank. Youre desperate enough at this point that you’re willing to risk the potential rabid serial killer who might live at such a place, and you knock on the door as instructed.
You’re in luck—someone grunts out a curse from inside and drops what sounds like a steel suitcase full of metal door knobs. More clattering, then you hear the mystery mechanic yell, “come in!” You contemplate turning back, but no such luck. Your car has been making the worst noises lately, and the entire last mile to this place it was screeching bloody murder.
So you go inside. It’s dark and there’s metal everywhere, including piled up on the wooden crates that look like they might be a makeshift front counter. The cash register balances precariously on top seems convincing enough.
You nervously say, “hello?” toward the darkness through the door in the ramshackle wall, but there’s no reply. Then, lights flick on in the back room, and you hear very heavy footsteps stomping toward you.
“Cash only,” a rasping voice snaps from behind a pile of scrap nearby. You flinch, but you came prepared, so you yank a wad of bills from your jacket and slap them down on the teetering crates. Be short and to the point, you remind yourself. He doesn’t like ramblers.
“My car is fucked,” you blurt out. “Heard you can fix it.”
Silence follows your words, then a figure emerges from behind the mountains of metal. It’s a man—an extremely tall and broad man with shaggy, disheveled gray hair. You’re struck for a moment by what he’s wearing, curious about the choices he’d made while picking out his work ensemble. Usually mechanics wore coveralls to keep the mess from staining their clothes, but this man is dressed in a plain white t-shirt and jeans, both carelessly smeared with oil, dirt, and rust. What really confuses you, though, is the pair of dark, round sunglasses settled on the bridge of his nose. How can he see in this shitty, dim lighting?
He really doesn’t look at you as he moves forward, his gaze apparently already trained on the part of your car that’s visible through the outside doorway. You’d forgotten to close the door. The man doesn’t seem to mind, though. He passes you without so much as a glance, then leans against the door frame and starts muttering to himself, still apparently focused on your vehicle.
“Haven’t seen you around before,” the man remarks suddenly, turning his shoulders slightly toward you without actually looking at you. You jump, having been convinced he’d forgotten you were standing there.
“I had no other choice,” you say, then you bite your lip. You’d been surprised into blunt honesty, something you would’ve preferred to avoid. Instead of seeming offended, however, the man lets out a raspy, barking laugh.
“Well aren’t you just the smartest little cookie that’s waltzed into my shop in ages,” he drawls, the words making you bristle with anger. He finally turns back toward you, taking a few steps closer, and—much to your rapidly rising displeasure—he looks you straight in the face. His gaze, while hidden behind the dark glasses, is almost tangible as it rakes over your features. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. You’re pinned under his invisible gaze, suddenly terrified. You really shouldn’t have come here.
The cash register behind you makes a very loud dinging sound, and you nearly start out of your skin.
“Alright. I’ll fix your car, little cookie crumb,” the man says, moving past you to pick up the stack of bills you’d put on the crate. “You can wait in here.” He doesn’t even count the money before shoving it into his back pocket. You’re frozen again, insulted beyond belief by the incredibly patronizing nickname he’s given you but relieved nearly to the point of tears that he’s willing to work on your vehicle. The man apparently doesn’t notice your conflicted state. He walks toward the back room, then pauses in the doorway to send you one final glance over his shoulder.
“Don’t bother me while I’m working,” he drawls, and you see a flash of a strangely silvery-green eye behind the dark glasses as he turns back around. “If you disrupt my process, you’ll regret it dearly.”
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Cue shenanigans, you peek and see that he’s telekinetically manipulating metal, then he catches you and sexy shenanigans happen—extra plus if you’ve got a septum ring, which I do so I’m giving this reader one too lmao😂😂
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I think one of the weirdest thing to me about Helluva Boss is how they keep proving that Striker is right but at the same time they refuse to let Striker himself be right.
Someone on twitter pointed out that in Oops Striker talks about it being an embarrassment to imp kind that Fizz is a purse-dog to his over-bloated master, and then, while Striker might’ve been referring to Ozzie (although the use of over-bloated makes me wonder if he truly meant Mammon), the entirety of the next episode is all about Fizz saying fuck you to Mammon (his master) and quitting his job because he doesn’t wanna be exploited or abused anymore.
And this just reminded me how in the first season they had Striker say to Blitz “Starting with the one that treats you like a plaything.” about Stolas’ treatment towards him in Harvest Moon and then in Truth Seekers (the next episode) they literally had Stolas say “Who dare threaten my impish little plaything.”
I don’t know if this parallel is on purpose but that’s twice now where in back to back episodes in each season Striker has a made a point about the hierarchy in his episode and then the following episode goes out of its way to prove his point.
I just think it’s odd how they prove that he is right in other character’s storylines but in Striker’s own storyline he’s like not allowed to have a win despite everything around him saying he should.
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