-
It was nine o’clock in the Marsh household and the sound of pacing footsteps echoed in the marble kitchen as a man walked back and forth between the dining table and the island counter. Reagan, dressed in a cashmere sweater and expensive slacks, stood on the other side of the counter with her eyes on the small plasma television screen mounted on an opposing wall. Something was going on in the news, some dreadfully tragic story about a family in Arkansas, she thought. She couldn’t really seem to focus. She continued to nibble on her wheat bagel as her eyes stayed glued to the screen.
“I’m telling you, this isn’t normal.” Her son’s voice cut through her daze. She looked over to where he was pacing a trench in her kitchen floor. “You know that, right? This isn’t something you can just sweep under the rug, Mom, not something you can pretend never happened.”
“Don’t work yourself up.” She muttered distantly.
“What should I do? I-I mean we have to tell Dad.” He stopped at the counter to stare at her.
“Don’t bother your father with this nonsense, Deacon. Everything is just fine. No one got hurt.”
“No one got hurt? No one?” he threw up his hands. “Mom, I think you’re forgetting about someone. And how many of those have you eaten in the past few hours—six? I think you’re in shock. This whole thing is…maybe you should see a doctor.”
“For what?”
“For what happened out there.”
“I don’t know what you mean, dear.”
“Mom,” Deacon slapped his palms down onto the surface of the counter and stared her down, lowering his voice. “you turned into a werewolf.”
Reagan purposefully dropped her bagel down onto the counter and gave him a scolding look. “Really Deacon, now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Mother.” Deacon gaped at her incredulously.
“There you two are.” A robust male voice came from the entryway. A man in his early sixties with small spectacles and gray hair swept back into a ponytail wandered into the room with his eyes down on a palm pilot. He looked up with a smile. “Thought I might’ve missed you at this hour.”
“You’re back awfully late.” Reagan remarked, purposefully avoiding her son’s accusatory stare. “Did something hold you up?”
“Oh, you know how it is with Dayton.” The man came to the counter and set the device in his hand down with a dismissive huff. “When he says he wants to sit down and talk business he means he wants to sit down and talk about anything but business. I swear if I have to hear about that man’s divorce one more time. It happened fifteen years ago for God’s sake. How you doin’, son?”
“Fine, Dad.” Deacon said hesitantly.
Reagan spared him a glance at last before setting her eyes back on the television.
“Well, anyway, oh—“ the man paused, raising his white eyebrows. “And another reason I was late. The main road was closed, I had to take the side road home. And that road turned out to be closed too, if you believe it.”
“But we just took that road.” Reagan chimed in.
“Oh? Did you two get held up by that horrible accident, too?” He looked between his wife and son expectantly.
Deacon tried to get his mother to look back at him, to no avail. “No. Must’ve happened after we got back…what was it?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. Someone just mowed down a pedestrian up there. Beats me what he was doing wandering all the way up on that road, but whoever hit him didn’t even stop. Gruesome. Took me an hour just to get home altogether.”
Deacon paled slightly, but Reagan didn’t seem to be listening anymore. Her face was turned out the window, eyes distant, for the first time in years suddenly yearning to leave this place. How odd. She’d always loved it here…
-
If there was anything Creighton Bruer could do, it was get to the bottom of things. He’d made a pretty decent career out of it, after all. The first thing he had done was to attempt to investigate the remains of the creature he had killed, but it’s body had reduced itself to vapors before he could make a single real assessment. He didn’t know what he was looking at to begin with. With all of the evidence gone now, Creighton had only his own enormously transformed figure to prove that he wasn’t completely delusional. Today was one of his off days, which gave him ample time to launch his own private investigation. His actual job was the last thing on his mind right now anyway.
His second course of action was to get a professional opinion on the body he now inhabited. It couldn’t be healthy to drop two-hundred pounds in ten seconds regardless of how out of shape you were. The analytical part of his brain grasped at explanations for this phenomenon, but he was nonetheless dumfounded—and what, pray tell, happened to him to induce this? For a brief period, he was neither in this body nor the one he remembered as being his. He had been a different creature entirely. He was certain of this. Surely he couldn’t be crazy; look what it had done to him. When he walked into the doctor’s office (accidentally slamming the glass door into the adjoining wall in an unintentional show of newfound strength), he half expected the doctor to write him up as the first victim of some unheard of disease or disorder. But when his exam was over, the young doctor, casual as ever, waltzed in with nothing more than a smile.
“Well, checkup’s over Mr. Bruer. Everything checks out a-okay.” He announced, pulling up a chair to sit across from his patient.
Creighton stared at him with trepidation from where he sat in a chair in the examining room—one he would have found much too small to be even remotely accommodating just a day ago. “What do you mean everything?”
“I literally mean everything.” The doctor repeated, shuffling through his file before setting it aside. “And I can honestly say I’ve never said that. You are in the best shape of any man your age…hell, maybe otherwise too, that I have ever treated. I’d like to know what your secret is to tell you the truth.”
You and me both, son. Creighton thought in amazement. “That’s uh…that’s good.”
“It’s more than good. Medical schools should use you to show students what a flawless, ideal human being looks like.” He paused, leaning back in his chair for a moment. “Was there some particular concern that brought you in here today, Mr. Bruer?”
Creighton shifted, leaning forward and throwing out a massive hand. “Look, there has to be some mistake. I’ve suffered from diabetes for years. I’ve got a heart condition, asthma, recurring ulcers. My cholesterol is higher than the PCP addict I caught last week tearing car doors off their hinges; you’re telling me that you didn’t find any indication of that?”
The doctor offered a pensive frown and glanced over at the nearby chart. Clearly he was confused. “If…you’re worried about the effects of steroids—“
Creighton waved a hand, shaking his head in dismay. “I don’t take anything but insulin.”
“Well,” he turned, picking up the chart again. “We can run more tests if you’d like. But from what I’ve seen it seems like those issues were a gross misdiagnosis on your practitioner’s part.”
Creighton nodded, feeling it best not to suggest that this was a supernatural occurrence if it wasn’t obvious. He already felt crazy; he didn’t need to look it, too. “Yeah. Uh…run ‘em, then. Better to be sure I guess.”
“Alright. We’ll call you with the results.”
As Creighton left the doctor’s office, he couldn’t help but continue to stare down at himself. So there was no medical explanation for this change. If he had told the doctor beforehand that last night he weighed over four-hundred pounds he would have been redirected to the psych ward. Part of him was perplexed and somewhat wary of this new body, while the other part was frozen with fear—afraid to breathe too deeply lest this all be a temporary state. He should have perhaps mentioned the strange feeling in his gut. The one that made him feel as though he were starving, even though he had eaten less than two hours ago. Not to mention the one that told him to move…move east. Keep moving east. He chalked it up to strained nerves and decided on his next destination. As he turned the street towards there, however, he caught sight—and scent—of a bakery on the corner. It was morning. Morning meant fresh pastries. Morning meant donuts. He nearly slapped himself, but the fiery rage in his stomach remained unrelenting, insisting that he go in.
He slowly trudged in through the door and stared at the front counter. It was mercilessly lined with every kind of fresh, hot pastry he could imagine. He lumbered up towards the register like a zombie, staring at the food trapped behind glass panes.
“What can I get for you today?” the woman he had barely registered asked.
Nothing. He almost said out of habit. Nothing, that’s what he should say. Again the scenario of a fat tub of lard downing donuts in plain public view brought him shame. But then again…he wasn’t a tub of lard anymore. “A dozen.” He said before he could take it back.
“Of what?”
“Surprise me.”
-----
Creighton headed down the street feeling strange in clothes that were suddenly much too big for him. He had just murdered an entire box of donuts and his stomach wasn’t even distended. He hardly even felt full. Even in his old obese body half a dozen made him feel exhausted. He hadn’t even been tired since last night, come to think of it. He couldn’t make sense of this. Never mind that though, he had other modes of investigation in mind. He walked briskly to the building across the street and began climbing a set of rickety iron stairs up rows of apartments. He didn’t dwell on how miraculous it was that he could fly up three flights of stairs without even being winded, with mountains of energy to spare. Instead he focused on the goal at hand. He looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand and matched it to the door in front of him. He pounded on it with his fist. At first there was no answer, but he persisted, pounding again. “Kida,” he called gruffly. “Open up.”
There were some faint sounds inside, followed by a loud crack of something hitting something else, followed by plenty of cursing. After some fumbling with the locks, the door cracked open and a short, young, Asian-featured man stood staring up at him. There was a moment of awkward silence between them before the younger swallowed. “Uhh, I think you have the wrong place, dude.”
“Kida, you…” Creighton paused, considering his changed appearance. “It’s me, kid. Bruer.”
The man stared at him for a moment before blinking repeatedly. “Oh…okay, uhhh… Are you Detective Bruer’s…brother? Sorry, I don’t really know anything about—“
“No, you half-pint, it’s me.” He stared down intently, trying his best to look familiar.
“Right.” He said blankly.
Creighton rubbed his face with a hand. “You’re name’s Mattie Kida, you’re a sketch artist down at the precinct. Last week you helped me interview Laura White about the suspect in her son’s disappearance, you were drinkin’ a Dr. Pepper, any of this gettin’ through? I know it doesn’t look like me, but…take another damn look.”
Mattie blinked again, narrowed his eyes, then stepped back with a huff. “Holy shhhit. What th—how—you’r—hell happened to you, you’re—“
“Yeah, I know. Look, something happened to me last night.”
“I’d sure as shit say so!” Mattie fell back, taking in his appearance with disbelief.
“Alright, don’t lose your head, kid.” Creighton demanded. “I tried calling in, but the boys downtown said you were still out sick.” He eyed him up and down suspiciously. “I gotta say though, you don’t exactly look sick.”
“Yeah, well…” Mattie trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared, still awestruck at the man before him. “I’ve had a…rough…couple of days, why are you here? What…happened to you, wh—how do you know where I live, anyway?”
“I looked you up. Listen, I need a favor from you. Sorry it’s short notice but it’s important. Can I come in or what?”
Mattie looked around him. “Uhh…sure. Yeah. I guess, come in.”
Creighton ignored the fact that he was being gawped at as he made his way through the small apartment’s living room and looked around, whirling about and crossing his arms—something he hadn’t been able to do without rolls of fat getting in the way for some time. His eyes raked the surrounding environment and he noted that Kida’s apartment was more or less trashed. Soda cans were everywhere, pizza boxes and cartons of Chinese take-out littered every surface amid flattened and crushed paper fast food bags. Poking from every corner of the disaster were charcoal sketches and rough pencil drawings.
“It’s not usually like this.” Was all Mattie offered as he stumbled into the room, eyes still glued to Creighton’s transformed stomach. “The uh, the apartment I mean. Like I said, it’s um…been a crazy few days.”
“Relax kid, you’re not the first guy in the world to call in sick so he could throw a party.”
“Party?” Mattie’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Trust me, uh…well look, what do you need, huh?”
Creighton narrowed one eye at his co-worker’s odd demeanor, but dismissed it for the time being. “I need you to do a perp sketch.”
Mattie groped around for a drawing pad and a pen, flipping through the book for a blank page. “Who am I interviewing?”
“Me.” Creighton sighed, sitting in an armchair.
Mattie looked up quizzically for a moment before wandering over and turning another chair to face his guest. “Okay.”
Creighton suddenly felt skeptical of the soundness of this plan, but Yamato Kida had a pretty good knack for this, if ensuing arrests were any indication. “Alright. It was a man. About…five-ten I guess. Naked.”
Mattie raised an eyebrow.
“Pale skin. Real pale, almost uhh…what’s the word, it’s like… it was like a corpse.”
“You’re looking for a corpse?” Mattie pressed, hesitantly lifting his pen.
“It wasn’t dead when I found it. Believe me.” Creighton paused. “Look, just listen and draw. It had wounds. Torn up skin all over, like it was just in a cat fight with one mean son of a bitch cat. The skin all around its mouth was gone, almost like it chewed it off. Something gouged out its eyes, but the wound must’ve been old. It um…it…it wasn’t totally solid. You know…it seemed to uh…well look, forget it, I don’t know how you’d draw that. Narrow, sunken face. Patchy beard coming through. Defined cheekbones and a widow’s peak. It had thin, stringy hair. Dark hair.”
Mattie was quiet for a minute as he pen went over the paper. “It? You keep saying ‘it’. I thought you said it was a man.”
“I don’t know what else to call it.”
Mattie kept drawing, shaking his head. After about ten minutes he handed the book over, shrugging and sweeping a hand through his black hair. “Looks like something out of Hellraiser. So what? What is this; you said I was sketching a perpetrator. Is this supposed to be who you’re looking for?”
Creighton stared down at the sketch and was momentarily at a loss for words. He merely closed his mouth, setting the drawing on the table and ignoring how eerily and wonderfully Mattie had captured the thing he had destroyed. “I ain’t lookin’ for him, kid, he’s dead.”
Mattie tossed his pen down. “Well now that that’s all cleared up…”
“Look, I said it was hard to explain, alright? Damn near impossible.” Creighton rubbed his temples and stared into the eyeless gaze of the sketch. “Something happened to me.”
Mattie sat back. “You mentioned that. Maybe you should give me some kind of clue.”
“You wouldn’t believe me. I hardly believe it.”
“I don’t believe that you’re really you looking like that, but hell.”
Creighton grumbled and nodded, rubbing at his forehead with his palms. “It was last night. I was sittin’ at the diner down the road from my apartment and I hear this scream. So I go out to see what’s the deal and…I don’t know how to tell you what happened after that.”
“Well…that’s when you saw this thing, right?” Mattie gestured towards the drawing.
“Yeah. I saw it, and…something happened to me. I…changed.”
“Changed?”
“Into…” Creighton looked up to see Mattie’s blank expression and decided hell, he had to tell someone. “into something else. I-I wasn’t even human for God’s sake, I don’t know what I was. And I went for that thing, I mean I really let it have it—almost like I couldn’t even help it. When it was dead, I was back…no, I wasn’t back to normal. I was this.” He lifted his arms.
Mattie’s face didn’t have its normal blank, skeptical look anymore. Now he looked frozen in his spot, hand stopped in the middle of scratching his beard. “You mean y—wait, did you just…? You weren’t…”
Creighton waited in silence as Mattie floundered, wondering what he was suddenly so uppity about. He rubbed his suddenly aching stomach and felt hungry again, unable to deny it any longer. He glanced around at the graveyard of take-out trash and his eyes briefly caught a hazy sketch lying on the floor. It wasn’t like the rest. It wasn’t a human figure or an object in space, it was something else entirely. A monster. Creighton’s brain snapped two and two together and he sat up straight, eying Mattie with both shock and suspicion. “Kida, why’d you say you called in this week?”
Mattie looked up, drawing his legs up into the chair to cross them. “I uh…I’ve been…sick…”
“You been hungry lately? Real hungry?” Creighton stood up and snatched a handful of receipts off of the coffee table to thumb through them. “Two double cheeseburgers and fries, a large pizza, a family size order from Wok King? These are all for one night. Seems like you’ve been eating a lot for a guy who I usually see force down half a ramen packet a day.”
“It’s just that I—“
“And now that I think about it, you look different, too. Yeah. A little bit leaner. A little more toned. Nah, Mattie. I don’t think you’re sick at all.” He tossed the receipts, grabbed the drawing off the floor, and leaned over him with it hanging in the artist’s face. “And I think you know exactly what happened to me.”
Mattie sank down and ran a hand along the side of his face. “I was hit by a truck.”
Creighton paused. “What?”
“A truck. On my way home from work a few nights ago. It ran a red light and took me off my bike at a crosswalk. Or it…it would’ve.”
“But it didn’t.” understanding donned on Creighton and he straightened up in amazement. “What happened to me happened to you, didn’t it?”
Mattie was silent for a long moment, staring into space. He suddenly shook out of it. “Sure, but…I didn’t see what you saw. I didn’t attack anything, at least I don’t think. It was just…I knew I was going to die, you know? I mean when you’re that close to the grill of a moving semi…I knew I was dead. And it hit me. Full on, hit me. I remember flying into the intersection, but I…I caught myself. With claws, God damnit. Dug right into the asphalt. And I saw…saw my reflection in a window pane… It was late. There weren’t a lot of people out, but someone screamed. It drew the attention of others, but, you know, I was…I was me again before anyone else saw whatever I was. And the truck was totaled. Fucking totaled. I just…ran. I ran home. And I haven’t left.”
Creighton took the story in and put his hands on his hips, breathing out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. “Damn, kid.”
Mattie nodded, eyes distant. “Yeah. My bike’s all fucked up, too.”
-
-
"Is that them?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I could see my cousin tense when we saw them. He turned to go but I grabbed him. "Hey come on, this'll be fun." We got some food and sat at a table close to my cousin's tormentors.
"Can we just go?" I didn't have time to answer as someone, a big guy, picked up Joseph by the collar.
"Look at this fool, couldn't stay away." The other guy's fist was flying but I quickly stopped it. "Who the hell are you?"
"Don't worry about that right now Tubby." I poked fun at his weight. "Please release my cousin." He did, but now his hand was free and went towards me. I moved out of the way and punched him in the face then kicked his knee. The big guy went down in pain, clutching his shattered knee.
"That was awesome." My cousin said as I pulled him up off the ground. I was going to go after the others but they cleared out quickly. "Fuck it I'll get them later." The drive home was driven in a much happier mood then when we started.
~
It was on a walk I took after dinner that my time in Weest Seneca went down south. Those guys from the mall were out, drinking apparently and recognized me. I was grabbed and thrown to the ground and the blows started coming. Pain, again ran through me. I felt my bones snap and reassemble themselves as I took my feral form once again.
I stood amongst the bodies, starring in horror at the body parts and pools of blood everywhere. "Fuck." I ran back to my aunt's. "Hey Joseph, I'm leaving buddy."
"Where you going?" He asked.
I paused at this. "New York City I think would be nice. Call my parents and tell them I'll be there and not to worry." I exited and made my way out. "I'll call soon." I yelled over my shoulder.
~
The flight was quick. I left my car at the airport so my aunt could pick it up later. For some reason my hand never left the handle of my 9mm. I knew the guy working from security. He was an old friend of mine and I told him I was in some deep shit, he didn't ask about the rest. I thanked him for that.
The only thing I had was a backpack with clothes, my cellphone, passport and wallet. Feeling my stomach call out I decided to get something to eat. I quickly found a restaurant, took my hoodie off revealing my black muscle shirt and tattoos, and placed it on the chair behind me. I ordered two chicken sandwhiches and a large coke. Downing it quickly I asked for the check and paid but didn't leave right away.
I starred at the tv as the news shifted to footage of local news from Buffalo. "Oh fuck." I said, hopefully not to loud. The news anchor started speaking.
"Last night there was a brutal attack at Caz park in West Seneca. Six teenagers were savagely dismembered, this attack has a connection to the one two days before at a Buffalo High School dance." There was a speaker box next to me and I hit the button for tv seven. I could here the news report better now as it was coming through my speakers and I turned it up a little.
"At the Caz park scene all the bodies have been identified. Though there was a blood sample at the scene not belonging to the victim." Thats the part I hated about being eighteen, they could release my infrormation to the public. "Michael Stone is wanted for questioning." They showed my picture on the tv, my height and weight, then listed off my tattoos as identifying marks. Even mentioning the bullet wounds on my leg.
"Damn it all to hell." I pounded the table, not in anger but frustration. Letting out a deep sigh I stood up from the table. Grabbed my hoodie and put it on and zipped it up. Leaving the restaurant I focused only on the sound of the chains on my jeans. Blocked everything out as I went and picked up the rental vehicle I would use for the day. I knew that if I'd want to take a plane again it would have to be soon before my ID got around or my passport frozen.
I straddled the Harley motorcycle. It was dark red and black leather. Reving the enigine a bit I took off quickly. I had atleast a day to spend here so I went to ground zero. I promised myself to go there atleast once to pay respects.
Last edited by Ushima; 11-05-2009 at 11:44 PM.
-
-
Buck walked up to Deoiridh, still munching on his brot, “you know I’m pretty sure they arrest people for that around here, hehe. “but you know that man, he… he smells funny, sounds crazy, I know.”
-
They both knew it was crazy. They didn’t even know where they were going, but neither could they deny that it seemed like the thing to do. Creighton tried telling himself that it was merely part of his investigation into the matter—that he had to see what it was that was pulling his gut in this direction. He didn’t even think about what his colleagues would say when he never showed up for his next shift or what would happen to his apartment when his rent was late. But hey, why shouldn’t turning into a goddamn animal take top priority on your list of worries? He looked down at Mattie where they stood at their arrival gate, whose eyes were off watching some young woman strumming on a guitar down the way. “Sharpen up, Kida.”
Mattie looked up. “What are we doing here?”
“You think I know more than you do?”
“Well look, we were trying to shake this feeling, right? It doesn’t feel gone to me.” Mattie shook his head and collapsed into a chair in one of the rows of waiting seats and sighed, blowing a chunk of hair out of his face.
“Yeah. I’ll give you that.” Creighton looked out over the runway and rubbed the back of his neck. It had felt different on the plane. Almost like the further east he got the more at ease he felt. But now that they had stopped, the pulsating urge was back, same as it ever was. Wherever they were going, they weren’t there yet.
“We’ll both be fired if we don’t turn back you know.” Mattie piped up again.
“Yeah?” Creighton eyed him.
Mattie shrugged. “I need to eat.”
Creighton sighed, nodded as he looked toward a restaurant near the gate. “Alright. Let’s fuel up before we decide what to do.”
The two of them walked out towards the restaurant in search of food. Creighton went in first, ignoring Mattie as he lagged behind to fish a five dollar bill out of his pocket and drop it gently into the musician’s guitar case outside. He smiled as he half-glanced at her and turned back inside to follow the smell of cooking food, brushing off the strange feeling of familiarity he had felt with her.
----
Reagan sat wringing her gloves in her hand, wondering how on earth she’d ended up here. What would her family think, her having uprooted in the middle of the night and outright fleeing the city the way she had? There would be a padded cell waiting for her when she got back home. Provided she ever intended to go back. She blinked, tucking her gloves into her coat pocket. Of course she did. Of course she would, wouldn’t she? Never see her husband again? Her children? It was unthinkable. But then what was she doing here? She didn’t understand it one bit. Perhaps she should call them…
No, she decided. They probably didn’t even know she was gone yet. She didn’t want to panic them and she didn’t know what to say if she did speak to them. That she was at JFK airport all the way down in Queens without a clue in the world as to why or to what end? They would call up her daughters and drag them out here to try and talk sense into her. She couldn’t have that. She merely sat at her terminal and watched the people walking by. Where to go from here? She hadn’t even left the state in thirteen years.
She looked up at the flight roster above her head and wished that one of the names would stick out to her in some way, but they didn’t. Maybe she really was crazy. She would have to be, wouldn’t she? She had half a mind to forget this nonsense and catch the first flight back home. She stood quickly and gathered her things, deciding to make her way back down to the ticket desk. At least it was better than sitting here trying to alternately convince herself that she was and wasn’t insane. She barely registered the time that passed by as she moved through the line. When she got to the front of it she was taking out her checkbook without knowing why. The young woman on the other side of the counter mysteriously handed her a ticket with a smile. Reagan blinked, opening her mouth as she looked down at it. It was a ticket to Bradford, U.K with American Airlines. One stopover in Brussels. It was an eleven hour flight. Why would she have handed her this? “Uh, miss…” Reagan attempted.
“Yes?” the woman leaned over to her and smiled obliviously.
“I…why did you give me this ticket?” Reagan held it out.
The woman frowned briefly with a confused expression and glanced down at it. “I’m sorry, did I get you the wrong one? You did say Bradford, didn’t you, Ma’am? …Or did you mean Bradford Pennsylvania?”
Reagan stared. Said? She hadn’t said anything, had she? She was sure she hadn’t. But she was already folding the ticket into her coat.
“I can change it for you if you’d like.”
Reagan slowly backed away, shaking her head. “No…no, I…this will be fine.” She quickly turned away, rubbing her head. Truly she must be insane. Why was she leaving the country? She couldn’t. But nevertheless, she headed for her gate. Her flight left in an hour and a half.
-
I sat on the bike and just starred into space. This place was a sad day in America's history, and unfortunatley like most of that history it involved blood. But there was nothing I could do really, just sit here and say a prayer for the departed. "Sad isn't it?" I didn't look at the person who spoke to me. "Michael Stone?" This caused me to look at them.
"Yeah?" My hand went behind my back as I starred at the large man before me.
"Hand off the gun lad, I ain't turning you in." He was a large black man, scars on his face made him stand out. "Names Brick." It was then I firsted noticed it, a distinct smell and sense of familiarity. "Noticed it eh? I'm like you." I relaxed and took my hand off the pistol. "Go to England."
"Why are you helping me?' was curious.
"Why wouldn't I? Anyway I'll see you over there, I have some things to do here first. Til then." We shook hands and I hopped back on the bike and returned to the airport.
-
As the last chords of the song fell of the strings, Deoiridh felt it again. That rolling scent of familiarity. She looked up towards Buck, wondering if he felt it too. She stood, hands still on the neck of her guitar, and watched as a pair of men, both in prime physical condition, entered the restaurant, the smaller of the two pausing to drop a dollar bill in her guitar case and offering her a small half smile.
It hit her like a tidal wave, the aching restlessness stilling for a half a moment as she relished in the feeling of familiar, of nearly home. She couldn't just let them walk away, so she snatched the dollar up.
" Excuse me," she started nervously, voice trembling just so. " I wasn't... I mean, I appreciate... I was just playing... just cause, you know?" She hoped her accent was dripping through too badly. Belatedly she offered the dollar back, raising her dark green eyes to meet the smaller man's again, hoping maybe he had the answers, or maybe he knew where she was going, or why.
Last edited by The Gypsy Queen; 11-09-2009 at 01:38 AM.
The Queen is back and rocking out. 
-
“What my friend here means is that she was playing for herself not for charity.” “And unless I missed my mark, you’re gonna walk into that restaurant and order a shit-ton of meat just like we did. Am I right? By the way the brots are delicious.” “Oh and before I forget my names Buck.”
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