GQ, or “Keanu Reeves watching the bonfire of the vanities that is minime setting fire to all the shoes in this shoot.”/ #Globalboho

(Decent GQ article.)

“Stop looking at me like that~” he growls.

Minime narrows her eyes at so fresh & so clean-clean Keanu and chucks another $1100 boot on the barbie, hissing.

“I didn’t pick the-“he starts to fuss.

“S I L E N C E!” The innerchile of the Angel roars, processing. Keanu sits back, waiting for at least one aspect of the Angel to simmer down.

“Decompress,” he growls.

“It’s just she’s bewildered by the polish, never seen that Mob Boss, Al Capone aspect of you before-” a nearby guardian murmurs-

“…Yes she has. Once.” He mumbles to no one in particular. “And she didn’t trust it was actually me-”

“Shut up.” The Angel grunts like she’s been struck all over again.

But she shakes it off. Does some crazy assed taichi-walking meditation around the bonfire minime is tending on his back porch to get it off her as he walks away.

He comes back with a brand new army green bomber with bright orange lining and stands beside her, technically close enough to be closelined. They don’t look at each other as he chucks it into the fire.

They both clumsily jump away from the explosion caused by the burning of the bizarre bad blood soaked into the synthetic fabric upon hitting the flames and look awkwardly at each other, faces respectively streaked with burnt gore and plastic soot.

The Angel shrugs.”Breakfast?”

“What’dya make?”

“…The last of my beef ribs slow-cooked all last night that imma sautee some spinach and garlic with and put an egg on top of,” she grins hedonistically.

“…You’re having ribs…for breakfast?.” He whistles.

“…Wouldn’t you if you could?” The Angel chuckles.

The animus of her decompression flicks the Angel in the ear and yowls “Are you fn okay now?? Geez! Can’t a mofo clean up every once in an fn while?! Fuck!”

“Not without warning, after 30 fn years of public Wolfman-Jack rabbiting-” she growls.

“You’re an Ex menswear designer!” He fusses as they amble towards spiritual food, leaving their inner kids tending weird-assed fires overlooking the backyard.

“That’s why I didn’t burn the Tom Ford boots~or that Coat by Hilditch & Key-”

“You burnt the boots And the loafers!”

“Fuck the loafers-” she grunts.

“YOU have cheetah calf hair loafer slides!!” He fusses back.

“…don’t change the subject-” the Angel chuckles.

“…I clean up Nice, don’t I ?” He grins at her. The Angel howls.

“Omg! THIS is your kryptonite isn’t it?! Omg it Is!” He chortles.

“No it’s not-“she yells and hits him.


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