Peter "Starlord" Quill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
puddledancer) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
revivalproject2021-05-18 04:02 pm
puddledancer) wrote in revivalproject2021-05-18 04:02 pm
Caps For Sale
((OOC: Will match format if you're not feelin' prosey!))
The kitschy stall sits at one of the busiest corners of the city. No one knows how he's managed to keep it there for so long without being ousted by more ... er, lucrative ... businesses, but P.J.'s Emporium and its owner have been a questionable adornment on the street for a couple of years now. The racks are filled with old used issues of comic books and pages with ads featuring hero memorabilia, preserved in plastic bags against sheets of cardboard cut from produce boxes or reused manila folders. There are toys and figurines, too: cheap plastic or tin knock-offs of the city's heroes - you know the sort.
The eponymous owner, Peter Jason "P.J." Quill, can always be found sitting in a lawn chair in front of or beside his booth, reading a magazine or comic book, oldies music drifting up from a static-y radio chained to the leg of the booth. That band t-shirt he's sporting has seen better days, and the hems of his shorts are fraying. The soles of his canvas tennis shoes are starting to come detached. Clearly the money from that merch is going to rent and not too much else.
Once in a while he'll wet his whistle from a gallon jug of Country Time Lemonade and holler into the metropolitan abyss... "HERO MERCH, GET YER HERO MERCH HERE! I got'cher Pyrite Man, I got The Sheriff, E.T., Corporal Anglo-Saxon! Brand new Princess Lighting! Pretty sweet stuff, come check it out!"
Familiar faces on their way to work or coffee runs will get a broad grin, a tip of the head, and a "Hey, how are ya?" Otherwise, he has two modes: selling and slacking, and not much in between.
The kitschy stall sits at one of the busiest corners of the city. No one knows how he's managed to keep it there for so long without being ousted by more ... er, lucrative ... businesses, but P.J.'s Emporium and its owner have been a questionable adornment on the street for a couple of years now. The racks are filled with old used issues of comic books and pages with ads featuring hero memorabilia, preserved in plastic bags against sheets of cardboard cut from produce boxes or reused manila folders. There are toys and figurines, too: cheap plastic or tin knock-offs of the city's heroes - you know the sort.
The eponymous owner, Peter Jason "P.J." Quill, can always be found sitting in a lawn chair in front of or beside his booth, reading a magazine or comic book, oldies music drifting up from a static-y radio chained to the leg of the booth. That band t-shirt he's sporting has seen better days, and the hems of his shorts are fraying. The soles of his canvas tennis shoes are starting to come detached. Clearly the money from that merch is going to rent and not too much else.
Once in a while he'll wet his whistle from a gallon jug of Country Time Lemonade and holler into the metropolitan abyss... "HERO MERCH, GET YER HERO MERCH HERE! I got'cher Pyrite Man, I got The Sheriff, E.T., Corporal Anglo-Saxon! Brand new Princess Lighting! Pretty sweet stuff, come check it out!"
Familiar faces on their way to work or coffee runs will get a broad grin, a tip of the head, and a "Hey, how are ya?" Otherwise, he has two modes: selling and slacking, and not much in between.
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"Sweet, I don't have that one. Definitely." As if Peter didn't know about 90% of his collection by heart at this point. "I met Captain America. Like...real and in the flesh, and not at some convention. It was so cool."
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"Wait, seriously?! Get the heck outta town with that, man!" P.J.'s jaw drops in a broad grin. "How'd you manage that? I need details!"
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"I mean...it might have involved almost getting run over- not on purpose, but uh-...worth it," he admits with a flustered laugh. "He was super nice, and cool, and he just swung in out of no where on his bike and saved me from getting flattened, it was amazing."
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"How's your brother? Did he blow a gasket when you told him, or what?"
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"And you can't either, okay? Swear it. I'll bring you more donuts- or whatever, but you tell no one, deal?"
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Sure, it had been illness that took his mother, but that hadn't stopped Milton Quill from trying to keep his nephew away from anything even remotely dangerous. So of course he'd made friends with the bikers who hung out outside the local barbecue shack. Of course.