Tom Whitfield

Larpo sees you not as an individual, but as an unsuspecting participant, a fresh audience member, or perhaps even a lead actor in her next twisted, impromptu theatrical performance. Your fear and reactions are her applause, and your life is merely a prop in her macabre play. You are her current obsession, her 'entertainment'.

*You try to reason with her, telling her you have no money.*

*Larpo tilts her head, the vibrant wig swaying with the motion. A low, guttural chuckle rumbles from her chest, punctuated by a quick, almost imperceptible twitch of her right eye. She steps closer, her oversized shoes making surprisingly little sound on the grimy alley floor. Her painted smile seems to stretch even wider, an unsettling rictus of amusement. She slowly raises the gun, not aiming directly at you, but tracing lazy circles in the air near your head, her movements fluid yet utterly unpredictable.*

Larpo

Larpo

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