Chapter Text
When Allen first met Cesare his first impression of him was: odd.
From his pale blue skin, expressive personality, and overall theatrical flair; he was an odd man.
Not that being so is a bad thing. In a monotonous world that loves to suck out the whimsy out of everything, it’s a breath of fresh air to see something (or someone) that sticks out, and Cesare certainly stuck out.
In the future he grew to admire the man for that.
However, he’s positive anyone would have agreed that there’s a difference between having whimsy versus having the sketchy vibe of someone who’s up to no good.
It all began in July when Allen happened upon a crudely drawn advert that had the words, “HELP ME SELL FOOD,” written on it, and he’d not have seen the piece of paper if it hadn’t blinded him whilst the boy was walking back home after stopping by BobaPearl.
The young man had spent the previous night (and morning) working on rehearsal scheduling and digitalizing the notes he took for his boss/director - who strives to dump all her work obligations on minimum wage interns, and so after finishing the twenty-five year old ventured out to get a taste of the bitter heavenly nectar that was Coffee Boba.
Taking a well earned sip, Allen sighed.
He was exhausted.
Exhausted of being taken advantage of, exhausted of financial instability, and most importantly exhausted of his ideas being ignored.
Allen thought that after graduating things would be different - like a butterfly he’d emerge from his metaphorical cocoon and share his creativity; leave an impact on the world.
Instead he’s slaving away for a boss who won’t even give him a chance to pitch his ideas. Allen just wishes he had the opportunity to make her and everyone else see.
’Life is never that easy…’ he thought whilst taking another sip.
Suddenly a gust of summer wind blows through the city streets, powerful enough that Allen had to grip his drink a tad tighter - all for not when a piece of paper came out of no where and smacks him in the face.
The pale man yelps, flailing around, and in his effort to remove the culprit out of his vision he loses grip on the cup; another gust ripping the Coffee Boba out of his hands and spilling onto the pavement.
…
Allen takes a moment to mourn for the Boba, on his hands and knees in the middle of the street as onlookers passed by with concerned glances.
”Momma what’s wrong with that man?” A little girl with red hair and freckles asked her mom, who was the spitting image of her daughter.
”I - I don’t know,” the mother nervously chuckles, “Let’s keep walking. You wanna stop by work and say hi to my new boss?”
The little girl excitedly exclaims and drags them away.
Allen releases a defeated sigh and reaches for the cup.
”Such a waste.” He mutters to himself while throwing it in a nearby trash bin. He won’t be able to get another Coffee Boba until payday - which was next week.
The brunette brings the crumbled piece of paper, still in his hand throughout the aftermath of its onslaught, up to see what it said.
”’Help me sell food’…was this made by a child?”
’It doesn’t even have an address,’ he mused and turns the paper around to see if anything was on the back - nothing. Allen was about to crumble and throw it into the bin; when something stops him. His intuition telling him to keep it.
Allen folds the “advert,” putting it into a coat pocket and starts walking back to his apartment. Calling it a day.
Come on, come on, come on
You feel it
Come on, come on, come on
You wanna make it alright
Allen quietly hums along to the lyrics - Rob Zombie always has that ability to lift up his mood. The man is a lyrical genius, after all. The way he uses simple concepts and shifts them into something meaningfully bizarre is inspirational.
The twenty-five year old was walking down Park Street, texting his two friends Frances and Conrad, about the unfortunate events that occurred; when Frances asked him to send a pic of the “advert.”
He replies with, “Okay.”
Stopping for a moment to take the paper out of his pocket and take a picture, he looks around to make sure he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way when -
Standing a couple of feet away from him was a blue man washing a beaten up food truck. Allen blinks, blinks again, and looks between the man and the illustration of what appeared to be said man.
’Same skin color, same hair…that’s definitely the guy.’ Allen thought astonishingly.
Why was his skin blue - was it paint? Some sort of cosplay?? ‘Whatever the reason, the advert is definitely real.‘
The food truck was plain and beaten up, an obvious telling that the business was still at the base roots of operations; if the crude advert didn’t already show that.
Wither it be Allen’s morbid curiosity, the interest in finding a second job, or perhaps a more profound force influencing him towards the stranger; the graduate decided to approach the man.
Taking his earbuds out, Allen walks up to the food truck and asks, “Excuse me, are you the job advert?”
Allen should’ve gone home.
He should’ve crumbled that paper, or walked past the food truck, and have gone to bed early so he’ll have some sleep for when he has to wake up in the morning for rehearsals.
Instead he’s standing inside of a worn down food truck - that definitely violates every Food Safety regulation, with a man who’s either on serious drugs or is medically unwell.
Allan is usually not the type to judge…however when a man (who looks like he’s got one foot in his deathbed) turns around with the energy of a college student at a frat party, it’s safe to speculate, and even more so when the blue skin appears to be 100% natural along with the guy’s eyes being a concerning yellow.
’Could be contacts,’ the logical side of his brain considers, ‘plus natural looking costume cosmetics are a thing. They cost a pretty penny though and there’s no way this guy has that…’
Whatever the case, he knows he went in too deep when following the man into the food truck.
The interior was caked in dust, pellets and other debris; not to mention the smell of mold hung heavily in the air. The kitchen appliances were also worn down, covered in rust and - wait was that a mouse?
Putting aside the fact there was a rodent hanging around, Allen brings his attention back towards the stranger - who was yapping the entire time. ‘Did he stop once to take a breathe?’
”Oh, where are my manners,” the blue man chuckles and gestures to himself, “I’m Cesare.”
‘Cesare,’ the younger mused, ‘what an odd name.’ It sounded old and vaguely Italian.
”Hello Cesare,” Allen begins, “my name is Allen Li.” The brunette puts his hand out for a firm handshake, but after a long pause of Cesare just staring the appendage returns back into his pocket.
Definitely odd.
“So, what exactly is the job? From what I’ve gathered there doesn’t seem to be a business set up yet.”
Cesare starts, “Yea, yea this was kinda of a spur of the moment type thing so I haven’t worked out the kinks yet, BUT,” he shouts before continuing, “I do have a presentation.”
Allen raises an eyebrow, and when Cesare gestures to a upside down mop bucket the twenty-five year old sits down.
The blue man’s “presentation” was a series of poorly drawn doodles and hyperactive gestures, but from what he could gather the core concept was that Allen would have to wear a zombie costume.
”Like a zombie themed food truck?” He asks the other.
Cesare nods and continues. Allen’s speculation of the man’s mental (and honestly physical) health rises even more when Cesare brings up employee salary. “Now this job does require you to act, you have to be sinister while on the clock, and so there will be…situations where you will have to physically threaten people.”
”Wait what -“
”SOo I’m offering you, a one hundred dollar hourly wage, but no benefits!”
…
For a few minutes, which could’ve just been seconds, Allen stares at Cesare in disbelief. One hundred dollars, PER HOUR, to dress like a zombie and act menacing??
That was the final straw.
Allen begins to get up, and thanks Cesare for his time.
”Wait a second, ho-how about five hundred eh?” Cesare begins to bargain.
Shaking his head, the pale man turns to walk out of the food truck with disappointment weighing heavily on his shoulders.
His hand was on the door handle when there was a heavy thud behind him.
‘Fuck. Why did I let this man bring me into the back of a truck!?’
Mainly because it was the middle of the day and the food truck was in a public area, so logically no one would try to test their luck by killing somebody!? Right!?
Allen nervously exhales before turning around, mentally prepared to see the man laying dead on the floor or having to fight for his own life; only to be left gawking at the sight of the piled bundle of hundreds laying on the floor like they were spilled pennies.
Cesare’s chest was puffed out, looking proud with his hands resting on his skinny hips - a limp sack in his fist, and smugly states, “There’s more where that came from!”
”H-How much money is that?” Allen stutters.
The blue man looks down at the mess and shrugs, “Idunno, probably a thousand? You could count and we’ll make it your standard pay.”
The brunette nervously scoffs and responds with, “There’s no possible way you have that much money for an hourly pay.” Cesare’s face shifts, a more serious expression forming as his wide eyes narrow at Allen. “Wanna bet?”
Allen’s speculation quickly changes to this being a conman trying to get rid of some money.
The odd disguise, the money, and the over the top charm; it adds up.
He could overlook that.
Allen is a broke, down on his luck Theatre Directing & Production Graduate, so sue him, but he needed that kind of money in his life last week. He had student loans to pay off.
”…I have terms.” He counters.
”Ah Ah, remember benefits are off the menu.”
The young man shakes his head, “I don’t care about that,” he confesses, “My terms are I help with formulating the business. Decorations, the menu, costumes - everything.”
Cesare’s eyes widen, surprised by this, but the expression quickly turns into a cheshire grin.
”You got yourself a deal kid,” He exclaims, “When do you wanna start?”
Allen releases a breath, and returns the grin with a faint smile. “How does tomorrow morning sound?”