"what on earth are you doing, miss. johnson?"
"fixing my lashes,"
"and why, miss. johnson, are you fixing them as yushikamov's men are currently fucking firing at us?"
"so that if i die, at least i die cute,"
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Angel Johnson is an aspiri...
Marie's Movie Magic: this is one of my favourite movie scenes ever. it's from Now You See Me 2 and somehow, my brain knows it's fake but it was done so freaking EFFORTLESSLY that I was in absolute awe the entire time i watched it in 7th grade. the best scene ever.
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"Come on, Michael B. Jordan. I believe in you. I have been with you for almost a year. Don't give up on me now," The young girl pleaded desperately, feeling her leather-clad legs shift uncomfortably. An intense feeling of deep regret filled her being at the present moment as she hated her decision to wear a tight corset crop top and a tighter pair of leather pants, an outfit she outsourced from a thrift store.
Her dark brown eyes were lined with heavy kohl, making her resemble someone from a punk rock concert with her thick, brown curls braided into tight cornrows. She said a quick prayer once more and attempted to ignite the sad sputtering engine.
Yes, 22-year-old Angel Johnson did indeed name her gray 2010 Toyota Corolla after Michael B. Jordan.
She was always a sucker for the cute ones.
But now, Angel was just a sucker because her car, her sweet, darling vehicle decided to quit, die, stop breathing, give up the fight, kick the bucket, etcetera, etcetera. Therefore, leaving her stranded on the busy 101 freeway and late to her biggest audition yet.
Angel knew that it was partly her fault for this horrid situation. She had refused adamantly of getting a place closer to Downtown Los Angeles (that was more expensive than getting an organ transplant) and chose to stay with a terrible roommate in a cheap flat in the Valley. Also, she had fallen asleep watching The Originals at 3 am and fawning over the enigma that was Nicklaus Mikaelson and slept through all her alarms.
LA traffic + sleeping in = very, very late.
Sighing dramatically, Angel pulled out her phone and dialled Triple-A, dreading the bill they would send at the expense of her bank account. Then, she turned to her silent car with a groan.
"Sometimes, MBJ, I just wanna drop you off at the pound to be crushed,"
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"Thank you again, for all your help," Angel said in gratitude and Triple A agent simpered and nodded severely, giving her a nervous smile. He looked no older than 18, skinny, scruffy, and shy, and even as he serviced her car, his bony fingers shook in nervousness.
"N-no problem," Chad? No Brad? Tad, that was his name, stuttered, sweating profusely. Damn, white people named their kids the weirdest things. Though Angel was unaware if his sweat was due to the harsh California sun or her. "H-here's my number. I-in case your car breaks d-down again,"
Angel's gaze moved to the business card in Tad's hand to his sweaty face with a grimace. She put on her best smile as she entered her car, hoodie wrapped around her waist. Then, slowly she rolled her window down and cheerfully replied, desperate to be on her way.
