Definition
1 a : to make (something, such as color or a painting) less brilliant by covering with a thin coat of opaque or semiopaque color applied with a nearly dry brush
b : to apply (a color) in this manner
2 : to soften the lines or colors of (a drawing) by rubbing lightly
The history of scumble is blurry, but the word is thought to be related to the verb scum, an obsolete form of skim, meaning "to pass lightly over." Scumbling, as first perfected by artists such as Titian, involves passing dry, opaque coats of oil paint over a tinted background to create subtle tones and shadows. Although the painting technique dates to the 16th century, use of the word scumble is only known to have begun in the late 18th century. The related noun form soon followed.
As the powder brush whisked lightly over my face, I scrunched my nose in attempt to keep from sneezing - an attempt that miserably failed. the resulting explosive dust cloud coated my clothes, the settee i was currently perched on, the cat on my lap and my most ardent torturer in a fine frenzy of lightly coloured dust.
Indignant, the cat stalked off my lap and flounced away into the shadows. My tormentor gave me a look.
"The only place it didn't go was on your face." He remarked drily. "Try to hold it in or we'll never get done in time."
"I still don't see why I have to go through with this." I sulked.
"Because you're a performer as of this moment and you therefore have to look the part."
"Isn't it a lot more more normal to look all glam and colourful if we're performing." I asked (with a petulant tone I must admit but the damn powder had gone all in my eyes, nose, ears and mouth, giving all of my senses a dusty, coated sensation - like I was observing the world through a thin veil of dust.) "Rather than looking like some sort of mausoleum stature that had found itself lost."
"Yes, if it were that kind of performance that needed to draw every eye to us and hold it. But it's not. We have be hired to be unobtrusive, to simply add subtle flavour to the background ambiance of the party."
"So we're basically moving flower arrangements?" I said sarcastically.
"Exactly." He said. "Except we're not supposed to move and flowers smell much nicer than this skin paint does. Elegant, pottery conversation pieces might be ore accurate."
"Great. We're smelly vases. Remind me why I'm doing this again?"
"For the same reason anyone does anything darling."
"...for the art?"
"For the money."
****
The party was just as awful as I expected it. The greyish white shift I had been given barely covered any of my 'assets' (I suspected that was the entire point of the outfit - to almost but not quite reveal, a tantaliser as it were. All I knew was that I was basically freezing my tits off and, what with the grey power paint and my goosebumps, my skin basically had a severe pebble dash effect.)
The standing around, near motionless, was also not helping. It was actually pretty shocking how people ignored the fact that you were actually a living human being, once they clocked that you were being paid to stand around pretending to be a statue. Several had already tried balancing their plates and glasses on my head without a bye your leave or anything so I now had sticky stuff matting in my hair and a trail of crumbs wriggling their way down my shift.
People had been leaning on me, messing with my shift, shouting in my face trying to make me jump, trying to steal the accessories wrapped around my waist and wrist (and failing miserably. These particular babies were coding directly to my own DNA and would not shift a millimeter for anyone who wasn't me.) and just generally not treating me like someone who would have definite feelings on being treated like an object of play or abuse. They were treating me like someone who, in order to obtain their paycheck, wouldn't react whatever the situation.
Jesus, give them the slightest whiff of power over another and you soon saw their true personalities emerge.
And, almost without exception, they were full of shit.
I caught the strained expression of a fellow colleague, across the way. Some drunken party guest had apparently found it amusing to piss on his foot, despite the shocked exclamations of the crowd. Not for pissing on my colleague of course - but for pissing in public.
There was not enough money in the world for me to consider this a permanent career change.
I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to the witching hour. Ten minutes to go.
Nine minutes.
Eight.
Seven.
Six - some drunken wench tried to balance her drink on my outstretched hand and only succeeding in dousing myself and her with cheap synthetic champagne (you can tell the really shitty stuff simply by smell. I figures at this point in the revels, the host had considered his guests drunk enough that a, it was pointless to waste the good stuff on them and b, they wouldn't be able to taste the difference anyway. I couldn't blame him. I just wished I could at least dry my arm off. There was a weird and frankly quite disturbing chemical reaction going on between the paint and the alcohol which resulted in this freaky looking grey froth bubbling against my skin. At least it made the drunkards back away.
Five minutes.
Four - some tweedy looking pseudo professor came strolling up to me - pretending to take an interest in the still frothing, bubbly matter on my arm, but instead was trying to stealthily peek down my top. Ha, more fool him. In this heat and humidity, my sweat had transformed the paint under clothes into some sort pf paste which had managed to superglue the fabric to my skin. I did not in any way look forward to removing said clothes, but at least it kept disappointing the perverts, which always brought joy to my heart.
Three minutes.
Two.
59 seconds - the drunkard who had so recently relieved himself from the pressure on his bladder on the foot of my friend, lurched over to me. Apparently it was to be my turn now. I didn't like the lecherous look on his face. So far, the guests had refrained form any outright sexual harassment (the boss had been quite clear on that in the initial contract - although apparent lewd comments, subtle gestures and just generally getting all up in our faces was AOK but whatever. I'd deal with him later.) but it looks like this guy didn't get the memo - or was too drunk to care. He wavered backwards and forwards on his feet, hands held at, lets see, exactly the right height where he could 'accidentally' trip and thereby fall right on me and 'accidentally' fondle my breasts.
20 seconds - I kept my face impassive as he meandered closer and closer to me, eyes never leaving my tits and slimy, entitled smug grin never leaving his face.
5 seconds - he 'tripped' and threw his body towards me.
0 seconds - I grinned. Savagely. For a second a confused look shot across his face as some long dormant survival instinct must have kicked in but it was already too late. It was past the witching hour, my current role had ended and my new job had begun. I slammed my shoulder into his falling body, twisted exactly the way my teacher had taught me and threw him over my head and onto the ground, grabbing and twisting his arm as I did so with a most satisfying crunch. Keeping his arm twisted up behind his back i used my foot to slam his head into the ground. All those yoga classes had paid off.
There was a shocked silence. Using my feet hand, I fished around in the secret inside pocket in my shift.
"Special Detective Anders. As of now, you are all under arrest."
There was immediate chaos of course, as guests ran screaming for the exits. however, this event had long been planned for and all of our people had infiltrated the party in various forms. People were being taken down left, right and centre. My colleague whose feet had been pissed on seem to take a rather inordinate pleasure in taking down guests by way of extremely high kicks that smacked them in the face with his pungent toes.
I looked down at my prey. That fall, and the cast amount of alcohol already inside him, had taken its toll. He was going nowhere.
I grabbed the end of my whip (currently disguised as my belt) and flicked it away from my body, the electric current that ran the length of it humming in anticipation. I grinned.
Time to join the party.
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