Disclaimer: Sing (2016) is owned by Illumination Entertainment. Any OCs are property of me.

Thank you to those that indulge in this work. Sorry it's been a while, but as you might've noticed, I've been putting Broadway Strays up. I will try to work on both, but my focus may shift from spot to spot. So, be patient. Enjoy, and if you have any marks to say, go for it.

Flash in the Pan

Chapter 7

August 11th, New Moon Theater, evening...

The gun barrel caressed his eye as the Boss reiterated his question to Buster.

"Where. is. my. Money?"

He heard the words, but physics and physiology gummed up the response. Buster wasn't in his twenties anymore, and despite his petite form, he had never been star-athlete material. Even with that in mind, the power of the Boss, flinging him around the room with but new, refurbished wood to cushion the blows, did no favors. He was rocked and pummeled, the differences in weight and might revealing themselves so clearly.

Buster had been in a few fights in his day, but everything about the Boss said that he probably once fought on a daily basis.

"Moon. Oh, nyet. You don't sleep yet."

A massive paw clenched around his head, and hoisted him up.

"You know, I'm quite fond of swimming...had a lot of friends that I meet, when I first came here. They...don't like the water as much as me. I'm upset. I tell them how great the water is. How beautiful and cool in the summer or warm in the winter it is. They still don't like it as much. So...after a while...I bring them to the Bay. They were sleeping. Wrapped tightly in their blankets. Figured they would wake up. They didn't. I was sad."

The paw closed on his head.

"You actually gave me a swim when I brought your friend last time," The Boss continued. "I liked that. Didn't like losing the mouse, but...my debt's been settled. Met a new friend. Likes the waters just as much as me, though he likes the weak Atlantic more so. So he tell me you still have my money? And then Sweets sees your little theater built back as new."

Bone rumbled and gurgled and cringed. Claws pierced his dome, but a feat of some pride kept him from screaming.

"You were holding out on me, Moon. Where's my money?"

"It was never yours!"

"Mike said otherwise. My new friend said otherwise. So..."

The barrel whipped his face.

"Where-"

Pistol-whip to the face.

"-is-"

Pistol whip to the face.

"-my money?"

Degrees of wits came and went with each snapping strike, with death's hint just behind each blunt impact. Buster tried to figure why, why now of all times, did this bear have to roll into his theater when he was trying so hard to get his next show taken care of. Wasn't a rival enough? Wasn't Mike's absence enough? Wasn't a very lamentable roster of talent enough? Was this bear's burning of his script enough?!

He struggled for the words. The truth wouldn't satisfy the Boss. The truth simply was that he didn't have bricks of money lying around so ursine gangsters could waltz in and promptly beat the tar out of him in order to gather the money. The truth was that every penny he earned now, at least until his next show, was carefully guarded by Nana Noodleman, who would undoubtedly blanche if Buster threw her under the bus to appease these three bears. The truth was he had no freaking idea why these bears would be stomping in his home and occupational space for cash when the person in question that led them here simply wasn't around and had been more and more rarified in his sightings.

But a lie…a lie could get him killed. Yet the truth wouldn't be accepted either.

"Who…told…you…I had your money?"

"A dear, new, reliable friend. Better than you or Mike."

Too smart. The Boss, despite the hulking frame, belied some intelligence, or at least general purpose suspicion. He wasn't going to reveal anything, Buster realized, if he asked too obviously.

"Well, he's not much of a friend is he?" Buster guffawed, in spite of himself. Acting might just save his life. Or it might earn him a bullet for his troubles.

"I told you, he settled a debt for me. Ever felt money between your fingers? No feeling like it."

"Well, actually…I like the touch of coins in my pocket as much as the next, but…you haven't really met me, have you? Buster Moon, daring and maverick showman? Has as much sense as a power-walking whale? More duds than the Iraqi missile project? More shows falling apart than plans and protection at prom night?"

"You have bad luck. So what?" The guns pressed into his forehead, unmoved by his self-deprecation.

"Well, if I have such a rep for bad shows, what makes you think I still have your money?"

"Hmm. You were running a show. Surely you still have it?"

"Maybe your friend should've told you that?"

The gun remained where it was, even as Buster kept his best stage-face on. Breaking character now, losing the dandy maverick that played fast and loose with his money and drastically overestimated his chances…that would get him killed just on principle. He had already hurt the other two bears, and if either of them woke up, his escape routes and his chances would be burned like his script.

"My friend isn't stupid."

"Maybe he thinks you are."

A slab of doubt smashed onto his face. Buster forced all of his self-control to hide his triumph at the little victory. The deception might not last for long, but he got the Boss doubting himself. The Boss turned away, allowing Buster to string an eyeball around, trying to get a sense of what he could work with.

He needed to get away: That was his first priority. Even if he wrestled the gun from the Boss, even if he legitimately could defend himself and shoot the Boss for basic home invasion, the act of killing sickened him. He couldn't bring the act to fruition, couldn't visualize standing over the Boss and 'busting a cap', as it were. Escape was the only option, and so that had to be.

They stood at the foot of the stage, part of the front row destroyed under the Boss's earlier jump. He still remained literally in his hand, but the Boss had lowered him slowly, matching inversely the doubt that Buster had slowly supplanted in his head. The grip was still too tight, but maybe he could squirm out if he remained slow on it. It was a warm night, after all.

Defense, however, seemed a little less forthcoming. The other two bears remained on stage, and the bat that 'Sweets' favored was above his weight class. He could probably escape to the rafters or hide in the practice rooms, but the night was long, and still full of terrors. Until he got the boss removed, he was still in mortal peril.

A single finger slip under the claw.

"Hmm. What of it?" The Boss barked. "So what if he tries to use me? He paid me still. So what if he attempts to screw me? Mike himself learned that problem with that! And you? What are you going to do? Pay me to make me forget? With that money you said doesn't exist?"

The Boss carried him up, one hand on his gun and the other on Moon himself, as he went up on stage. Buster noticed a certain namesake symbol still held aloft, carefully defiant of gravity by virtue of ropes and pulleys. The light bulb appeared on his head.

"Moon. If I have to tear this entire theater apart of get my money, I will."

Just a little closer…

"The question is whether I should leave you alive first."

The gun dived into his mouth.

Buster garbled a few words, the gun barrel obstructing his phrasing.

"Hmm?"

Buster garbled again.

"Speak up. Do you need some iron to clear your throat?"

Buster almost rolled his eyes.

"No? So, where would you keep your money?"

Buster took his eyes off of his adversary for a moment: Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Did this guy recruit since they last saw them? Buster managed to find his watch, seeing that he was still in the vortices of the popular night, with not even the late cops rolling through.

"Everything here looks new…are you sure you're not like Mike? You send all of your money so no one can collect?"

The words curdled in, as Buster worried the flashes would come back. Lord knows he already dealt with that theme once, one that being his own flooding of his abode. Wood replaced glass, unfortunately, and it was sturdy enough to hold more than just the Boss. But was it sturdy enough to grasp a bullet?

"Sweets! Damn it get up! Can't do everything here!"

He leveled the gun next to where Sweets head was, and aimed.

Buster saw his chance. Limited as it might've been, he saw a chance to break free. Though the gun looked pathetically petite in the claws of the Boss, firearms still had a recoil. There would be a moment where the gun would kick, and suddenly the grip wouldn't be as firm. Perhaps he had a chance.

"Sweets. Don't move your lazy ass so I can wake you."

Buster thought he saw something move in the shadows, but he still couldn't put a finger on it.

"Sweets…"

He squeezed the trigger. Instantly the roaring boom cut into Buster's ears, whining and dicing his nerves so much he almost forgot to push against his fingers. He grunted in pain, both for his ears and for his fear (cause no one gets used to a gunshot) and for his repaired theater. He didn't care to see if the Boss had stupidly shot his own henchman or not, struggling out in the brief moment and rushing the seats.

"Running?!"

Sweets forgotten, Buster could feel the gun turn on his head. He leapt to the chairs and squirmed under them, just in time. A bullet whizzed past his elbow, eating upholstery and cushion trying to get at him. A guffaw, confidence belying the most predatory and primal instincts, resounded after the missed shot.

"This reminds me of old movie. How many shots you think I fired, Moon? Four? Five? Six? Doesn't matter. This isn't ending like the movies!"

He heard the gun click again, ready to vomit another fatal volley. Buster kept crawling under his seats, trying to escape his invader.

"Come on out! If you give me my money soon, maybe I won't take you swimming!"

He couldn't see the Boss, or his jacket, or his hat, or his gun, or his ocean of fangs. What he could do was hear: He heard the Boss stomp down the steps leisurely. He could hear the Boss sink his claws into one of his posh chairs in the front row. He could hear him rip it out of the floor, defying screws and nuts and bolts, with but a single twitch of his wrist.

He could hear the chair fly through the air, smashing onto one of the farther rows. Buster hastened his crawl.

Another chair flew by, and then another, and another. Rather than strike him, they bounced on the balcony above, missing with such humongous margins of error, or just bouncing on top of the seats he crawled under, attempting to crush him, pin him, and place him at the mercy of the Boss. Underneath the whooshing and swooping of the chairs, Buster could hear the Boss lumbering closer, taking chair by chair with him. The Boss probably knew where he was going, and why he elected to prolong the chase, to pursue so assuredly when he could've simply sat at the main entrance to the lobby, awaiting with his gun in hand…Buster could only conjure dark reasons for that. That the Boss was bad news, that Buster figured on their first encounter, when he took a bat to his treasure box holding his "prize money". That he was a persistent, greedy sadist that took some degree of joy in playing with his victims…that was new.

How did Mike even survive this guy? He was going to kill Mike if he saw him again.

I still have promises to keep…and miles to go before I sleep…

The old ditty playing in his head, he pushed himself under another row, just as the Boss ripped the chair he was hiding under. If he had something to distract him…

He heard a scraping noise…of a bat being patted on the hands. Like a slugger ready to slam the ball into outer space, with bases loaded and a terrified pitcher at the mound. Buster's expression turned cold.

He hesitated, just as The Boss ripped another chair, the one he hid behind, and threw it away like broken dreams and glass. The Boss could've been the Devil himself, grinning with the victory that one expects, when it was only a matter of time. Buster could even see Sweets darkened figure slowly walking, creeping up, the bat bouncing in his hand. Up and down, ready to send another fly ball into the ceiling, with the fly ball this time being Buster Moon himself. Buster couldn't escape them both…

"There it is. I've seen that face before." The Boss said, ignoring the closing figure of Sweets entirely. "Despair. You've lost. And now you're dead."

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap went the bat. Buster looked over, wondering how his new troop, his troop of hopefuls and dreamers would react, seeing him gone the next day. Would they lament and try to find him in the Bay, or would they be targets for the greedy bears? The last thought curdled him to action.

"Wait!"

The Boss and Sweets stopped.

"If I take you to the money, you'll leave my friends alone?"

"See! You did have money!"

"If I take you, will you leave my friends alone?!"

The gun pressed in his face, and Sweets inched closer. Buster wondered where the heck Sweets got a leather jacket, or white sneakers, or why his face was so dark for a brown bear, but the gun demanded more of his attention.

"No. You lied to me. You take me to the money now!"

"Then no deal."

The Boss curled his snout in such a way that fire would've died.

"Sweets. Swing away."

"Ok ya wanker."

The Boss's eyes widened instantly, failing to recognize the East London accent that emanated from the shadows. He raised his gun only slightly, before a thunderous crack, of wood striking and breaking and splintering on skull, pervaded through the theater. The Boss's eyes rolled into the back of his head, unceremoniously, and the loaded gun dropped. The Boss's mammoth form crashed and destroyed more of the back row chairs, consuming the upholstery as if his brown bulk were a blob. Buster reached out and caught the gun before flicking it back to safety, before he got a good look at his savior.

As if I haven't heard that voice before…still standing as always.

"Hello, Mr. Moon. I think you yanks call this the home stretch, right?"

Buster laughed in spite of himself, looking back at the stage before looking behind Johnny, seeing the two bears not only still unconscious, but also tied under the curtain. Sweets's bat remained in Johnny's hand, hoisted over shoulder as if he were an amateur slugger trying out for a scholarship. Johnny's face portrayed all the things Buster would've expected, and some that weren't. All the kindness and relief and tension of the situation decorated the gorilla's face as if it were a cake, but his eyes gave a reluctant hardness one could only obtain from experience in criminal heists.

So, being the son of a criminal has its advantages after all…

"Mr. Moon. You doing all right?"

"Never better. I almost got killed today."

If Johnny could sense the self-deprecation, his frown might've resulted from that.

"I already called the police, Mr. Moon. Was going to wait for them, but I heard gunshots, so I snuck inside. Couldn't bolt out there immediately-don't have a gun and all-but couldn't leave you high and dry either. That, and your locks were picked. See?" Johnny pulled from his jacket a small, bone-like key. "Skeleton Key. My Uncle Stan always kept one on him."

"Let me guess…You've done this because of your family?"

"No. Never went in. My Dad and Uncles never did home invasions. You'd get shot doing that."

"Well, this is a good a reason as any to get a shotgun." Buster grimaced, laughed, then checked for any greyer hairs on his head. All this excitement was going to make him age right into his coffin. "So, not that I don't appreciate you coming by, but what brings you by this late, Johnny? You want to throw me more ideas for the back-up show?"

"Mr. Mo-"

"Because the guy you just hit a home run on burned my script with a cigar."

He didn't bother hiding the bitterness in his voice. Johnny's face fell, but blossomed another smile, an attempt to see the silver lining in a failed home invasion. Buster, despite the optimism that normally pervaded his being, and despite the fact that he got out of this in one piece, could only look around and see the mess fortified about him. His entire first and second row on one side were gone, hurled around like clothes in a college student's dorm. A curtain would need to be repurposed. Bullets imbedded his artistry. Thank goodness he didn't have to use the Moon symbol in the back, or he'd have to replace that as well…

"Mr. Moon," Johnny's polite tones cut through his melancholy. "Help me tie this guy up, and we'll wait for the cops."

I don't think Johnny would say those words, but…

Finding rope was easy. Getting Johnny to hogtie the Boss, Sweets, and Mikhail took persuasion, but Buster's stress had crested to a point that being gentlemanly and polite long flew for the winter. He had almost been shot and he had been pummeled for a debt one of his performers still had yet to pay. Politeness would require superanimal strength at this venture.

"It's a good thing I came," Johnny absently admitted.

"Yeah. Thanks Johnny, I, uh,…I really haven't been myself recently. Too tied up in work."

"Pinky?" Johnny inquired.

"If you mean Donny-Jo Vici, then yeah."

"Well, that's where I came from."

Buster rounded on him so fast the koala's eyes almost bugged out.

"You came from his show!?"

Buster, to be fair, had rarely if ever shouted or raised his voice at his talents. In general, he conducted himself as a benevolent boss, understanding the need to nurture and support the talents that could be great and to make mediocre talents as good as they could be. He took no joy in being a jerk, despite being accused of it when confronted with individuals that grossly overestimated their talents. However, tonight bent him to straining points, and in the minutes past, Buster would hope Johnny would understand. He had been challenged privately and publicly by a dandy that made no bones about his enmity and openly insulted him on television. He had to keep favor with Nana after said televised insults, reminding her that buying the Moon Theater was a good bet, not a poor decision. He had to contend with a crop of talent that made him long for the first batch, which gave him his current roster. Ash and he probably were on the outs after he told her not to come to rehearsal. Mike still wasn't accounted for. His planned show literally went up in flames. His rival's show was starting today, earning such attention that even the cops couldn't be bothered in a timely fashion. And the biggest issue of all, presently? Almost got shot and maimed for money that Mike apparently still owed!

Buster could only swallow his stress so far. Johnny didn't deserve it. He saved his life. But he literally was standing right there.

"Why did you go to his show?" He asked, trying to control his temper.

"They were paid for. I went back to check on you before the show started. By now, I guess its over, but the rest of the crew went. 'Cept maybe Ash. I didn't see her."

"And Mike."

"Yeah, still don't know where that bugger went, either."

Buster ran a hand throw his face, even after all of this. Everything seemed to be falling apart. What use was a stage if he had no players to perform on it?

"Boy, I am getting chopblocked here."

"Mr. Moon."

Buster looked up. Fatigue was starting to catch up with him, and the urge to fly to his bed only bellowed in the back of his skull.

"It'll be all right. We're with you."

"Just…tell me. How many people were at his show?"

Johnny didn't answer immediately. Couldn't, because his face spoke volumes. But his reluctance to give an answer gave all the words he needed to hear.

"Packed house, eh?"

Johnny nodded solemnly, even as the cops finally rolled in.

"Well…darn it."

He took his little victories for the moment. Being alive is always a good victory.

-Sing-

August 11th, Blue World Assembly Hall…

The clock read 2:59 went the water engulfed him and the tank locked shut.

Ash had climbed down to the base of the water tank as she watched, and saw him morph into a mix of watered-down cloth, slippery metal, and gleaming, confident eyes. He rolled and rolled in the water, dipping up and down, up and down. Shoulders buckled and cuffs jerked him towards the base. The tiny links scraped at the water as he maneuvered, and even his quills began to eject, slowed by the water and bouncing pathetically on the glass wall. In the background, the flamingo paraded on his piano, laboring suspense like a chef caretaking a soufflé. Not weak notes prancing as a ballerina, but heavy chords like pallbearers shouldering a newly presented casket slammed into everyone's ears.

Aware as she was on stage, she resisted the urge to wring her hands. Lord knows she would get enough on the social media sites for all of this.

Even with his obvious struggle, the masked minions crept out onto the stage, frolicking and dancing in a macabre way, keeping in time with the chords of the piano. They raised their hands as if they were praising some deity for the safety of their master, their species hidden under linen and mask. Within the case the porcupine struggled still, not getting any of the cuffs off despite his obvious trials.

Ash thought about shouting out the day, but she remembered two things: That ruining a magician's trick on stage, in front of the audience would create a hell of a stir, and second, that all seven of his cuffs were on his person. Which meant-

He's going to have to try each one to figure out which one is which.

He banged his head against the glass, positioning himself to where he was in a sit-up stance. The minions outside, obscured slightly, and one even went as far as to place a tarp over the entire tank. From being in the public eye, all of a sudden, Morty dove into darkness in addition to bondage.

She bit her lip, and wrung her hands. A temptation to break the guitar on the glass, to put an end to the dare and the charade, blossomed in the back of her mind. The clock had ticked now to 2:10. He had only been in for seconds, but all that frantic movement underneath had to mean he was experiencing difficulties, right? He was so confident when he was telling his tricks, but Ash knew a thing or two about being submerged under the weight of water. A shower was nothing, but seeing a veritable flood- the kind the insurance company encourages you to buy for- hammer you around makes you a little edgy around water. To willingly be locked in a death trap for another two minutes exorcised the blood from her face.

She wrung her hands again. The suspense was drilling into her stomach.

Then the minions started doing weird things, still content on keeping the attention of the crowd. Hands waved like a party at the drug rave, three commanding center stage, while a fourth brushed past her, knocked on the tank. The tank, obscured as it was, answered back, and the minion moved for some help while keeping Ash at bay.

The pair pushed the tank onto its side. Perhaps out of desperation, or part of the act, the tank collapsed with a thud befitting the piano's might. Amazingly, the tarp remained obscuring the inside, despite the clatter that could clearly be heard from within. Gasps emanated from the shocked crowd, Ash among them, but the minions still seemed obsessed with the box and their master. Another minion stopped dancing and lumbered over to the tank, knocking on it and then helping heave it up. Up was down and down was up, and yet the tarp remained perfectly wrapped.

The fourth minion stopped dancing, and instead frolicked over to the water tank. Again all four knocked it down, forcing it to its back, then two grabbed each side, and started spinning and spinning and spinning the tank. It looked so heavy, but it appeared absurdly light in their hands.

The clock, meanwhile, read 1:25. Honing closer and closer to the bet. Twisting and twirling at the fancy of these minions. And not a peep out of the case yet.

She realized the piano melody stopped. Instead, clapping boots reached her ears as Donny-Jo, perhaps covetously concerned, stomped over to the water tank. His cane reached up as if to try and break the tank (despite Morty's earlier warnings), but the minions actually moved away, using their own bodies to block any incoming attack. Ash could see the rage and impatience on the flamingo, but she herself couldn't blame him. She almost wanted to jump in herself.

Do you trust me?

He had said that, hadn't he?

"Hold it!" Ash stepped in front of the minions, pointing much like a video game lawyer.

"Out of the way," He hissed. "I will not have my star drown."

He was already moving to strike again with his cane. Ash saw it coming, and grabbed it, wrenched it, plucked it out of his feathers.

"Let him do it, he's still got time!"

"You wench!" He hissed. "Move! Do you know how long a porcupine can hold their breath?"

The urge to smack Donny-Jo on his own stage surged, but she backed up with his cane. She felt a need to smack the minions, but uncertainty about the whole affair did nothing for her nerves. What would she do? Where the minions a mere part of the production, choreographed to perform brute strength at the will of Mr. Mephisto himself? Or were they clever drones that used the situation to their advantage? She couldn't tell, even as they turned the water tank back to being fully erect. Even as the clock dripped to 0:45.

At a point, a fifth minion arrived on the scene, hunched over as the rest, demanding they get the tarp off with sigh language, while also ushering Donny-Jo back to his seat. Ash silently agreed on both counts, and motioned as well.

One of the minions shrugged, then clambered on top and started to fiddle with the tarp. Its burlap clothes got caught in knots, etching the seconds longer even as the others danced. The clock ticked down to its final minutes, reaching to the final countdown of 11 and down.

At 0:05, the tarp fell down.

At 0:04, everyone in the theater gasped in surprise as they noticed nothing of Morty remained in the tank save his cuffs, his mask, and his straitjacket.

At 0:03, one of the minions looped an arm on Ash's, and pulled her forward.

At 0:02, the minion removed his mask, revealing a porcupine with a crazy but lazy smirk.

At 0:00, Ash felt relief and shock at the switch, as her eyes looked back to the tank, and back to Morty- dry, unfazed, unbound Morty- as he basked in the momentary shock with a simple "Ta-Da!"

The piano stopped its cadence, and the audience applauded Morty for the sheer reversal. For they could tell what he did, but for the life of them, they couldn't figure out how he pulled it off.

Morty's lazy smirk, sitting across the bow, revealed no secrets, but instead a delightful confidence. Waving and bowing and gesturing to Ash herself (for what reason, she hadn't a clue; All she did was look like a worried suitor), he stripped off the linens to reveal his dual-colored magician's suit, also as equally dry as the rest of him.

"So, are you entertained? Did you miss me?"

Applause answered his hail.

"I said…did you miss me?"

A thunderous roar answered him. Ash resisted the urge to respond back.

"Well, my friends, place your heart's desire in front of you, and there is no limit you can't accomplish, and no devil I won't counterfeit, to get to it. Ash, I believe I win the wager here, so…here's my number…so call me maybe?"

A few whoots and guffaws answered his transparent romantic ventures.

"But let me write you a card first." He pulled back out the Moon tarot card, but kept the World card nearby. A red and a black marker seemingly appeared in his hands, and he walked to her, handing her the World card and the red marker.

"Write your number here."

Still unbalanced, still trying to figure out what was going on, she focused on his almond eyes. She did as she was told, jotting it down without ever turning from his gaze.

"Now, open your mouth, please."

She complied. He responded by placing the bent card in her mouth.

"Now, bite down."

She complied again, aghast at the myriad cameras taking pictures.

"Now, 'cuse me…"

As she stood like a fool, holding the World card in her mouth, he pulled out the Moon card, and jotted something down with the black marker. Rather than usher words, he stuffed the card into his mouth, and added the marker as if it were a cigarette.

He motioned to Donny-Jo, who jumped to the stage.

"Ladies and gents, for my star's last little trick, he's going to perform a teleportation between the two magic cards in his and…his cohort's…mouth. No kissing involved, folks, this will be a transfer of space without crossing distance…and how might Mr. Mephisto pull this off?"

Ash watched as he mock-chewed his mouth, as if he had something there. He quickly broke the distance, where he was literally nose to nose, eye to eye, with his hands outstretched. A little confused at the obvious pull, she felt the temptation to do the same, but realized she already embarrassed herself enough today as it was.

Then smoke started rolling out of his mouth.

Although she had already had her mind blown on a guy willing enough to set himself on fire and nearly drown himself, smoke rolling out of his mouth as if he was taking a drag from his marker just added to the crazy. His hands remained far out despite the infinitesimal distance between them, but his eyes never once shifted from hers. Morty remained aware that he was on stage, aware that he was putting on an act, yet not once did he break eye contact.

The smoke disappeared, and he stepped back. His hand pulled marker and card out of his mouth, and he showed the card to the audience. Motioning to her, she pulled her own card out of her mouth.

It was the damn Moon card, with his number in black.

What the f-

Meanwhile, Morty danced around like an amateur ballerina, showing the red-marker pasted World Card…the same one that had been in her mouth.

"Should I call CSI for a DNA match? No no, I'll take my bounty here…and my bow."

Donny-Jo jumped up. "Give it up for Mr. Mephisto!"

He nodded bowing low, before pulling Ash to the front. Instead of forcing her from the spotlight, he pushed her towards it, gesturing to her, winking and performing a dual bow. Cameras of all sizes flashed and flickered at the jubilation. He nodded, then had one of his costumed minions escort her back to her seat.

"And that's a wrap for me. So, if you're interested, well, there's always the after party!"

Ash could've sworn he winked at her as he said that, even as he pirouetted himself off the stage, and Donny-Jo resumed his duties as emcee.

Ash remained a bit spellbound by wonder, unaware of Lance's existence trying to get her attention, unaware of the spiteful look the flamingo gave her, unaware of Mike returning to the stage for another song and the feelings of betrayal bubbling from that. She held the Moon card in her hands, lamenting that she forgot again to get his deck to him, but at peace with it all the same.

The Moon card disappeared into the folds of her pockets. The troubles of what came with it could suffice until later. It's not like she had any intention of coming up there…right?

It wasn't like she needed him…her last mistake literally behind her…right?

-Sing: End Chapter-

AN: Just a funny note. That last trick was an actual magic trick performed on (I think) Jimmy Fallon's talk show with Scarlet Johansson. Given the obvious degrees of connection, I couldn't resist putting it in myself. Hope you enjoyed.