Post by Jack Chapman on Dec 26, 2008 19:09:57 GMT -8
Jack rolled over in bed, clutching the pillows around his head in a vain attempt to prevent the pervading racket of the alarm clock. It was a cold winter morning and there was precious little that would drag him out of bed right now and there was nothing around that he knew about that was pressing enough to not let himself have five more minutes. The alarm eventually gave up, giving him a few minutes of respite.
‘There, now back to the nice warm bed.’
In what seemed like an instant later the alarm blared to life once again, pitilessly invading the world of his dreams. “Shut it!” He shouted at the annoying machine, a grimace appearing on his face at the tinny noise emanating from the small box. “I’m warning you, I’m serious!” The appliance went on shouting electric noise pollution in his direction, oblivious of the peril it was in. Finally, Jack’s eyes flew open as a cavalcade of obscenity spilled from his lips.
“God-damned cum-gargling motherfu-“The tirade was washed as a hammer appeared in the irate man’s hand. Jack went to work on the annoyance, shattering the plastic entirely with a few solid swings. After a minute all that remained were wires and mangled circuits. He stood there panting for a few minutes, looking down at his work before his head poked up, looking into the sunlight.
“Oh…it’s morning…how about that.” The hammer slipped from his fingers as he stretched, landing on the floor and quickly beginning to decay. To someone unfamiliar with Jack’s magic it looked as if the hammer was a sugar cube dropped in a glass of hot water, the edges becoming rounded and the rounded parts…doing something you weren’t quite sure of. In under a minute it was gone, the only signs of it ever being there the ruined alarm clock and the divot on the carpeting where it landed.
“Now…” Jack began, looking out the window. His voice still had a hint of a British accent, something he had purposely tried to keep all these years in the States. His diction was shot to hell with American slang but somehow it sounded different coming from an Englishman. “Where the hell am I?”
It was a question asked considerably more than most people would imagine. Even on night when he hadn’t been drinking there was a good chance that he wouldn’t immediately know where he had wound up. Places and people, beds and a good night of fun, they all seemed to run together a bit when he first woke up, called away from the bouts of madness most call dreams.
‘How long has it been…five, six years? How long has it been since I had trouble remembering who I was, where I was, what I had done.’
As he shrugged off the last remnants of sleep it started to come back. Fractured thoughts and broken pathways healed as the majority of his madness left him. He was in Portland in a shitty motel room. It would suffice for now, until he managed to find something a bit more permanent. That was of course assuming that he was going to be spending a lot of time here. He hadn’t called a place home since New York and he hadn’t stayed on place in that time either.
‘Why am I here?’
That was a far better question, one he wasn’t even sure of rationally. He had needed a change, that was sure. San Fran had been a bit overwhelming where everyone and their mother was an enlightened liberal and struggling author. It was considerably harder to find his kind of work…at least the legitimate kind. Money really wouldn’t be a problem. If necessary he could use his contacts to set him up. Whatever he couldn’t beg or borrow he certainly could scam and steal. He’d get clean away with it as long as he was smart and didn’t go around.
But why choose Portland? Why not some place warmer like LA or Las Vegas? If he had to guess, it was the stories. His father had always brought him up teaching him about demons, educating him on how to identify them and to recognize signs of danger. Demons didn’t kill like this. Killings related to Avandrya cut it awfully close to a blood hunt, something that was feared as much as desired. They were moving north and rumors, whispered in hushed tones by his contacts said “Portland”. And he would be damned if that damned tattoo on his arm didn’t whisper “Go.”
At least it would be entertaining.
He yawned and dressed, pulling on a pair of new jeans and a gray T-shirt over which he fitted his favorite black leather jacket. “Let’s see what I can find in this place.” He fumbled, reaching through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out with his teeth. He rummaged through his pocket until he found a cheap plastic lighter, holding it near the tip while he attempted to light up. The flicked for a few minutes, cursing at it failed to light. “Aw, damn it!”
Jack looked around the room, hoping to find some other way to make a flame. Finally, after a few minutes of searching he sighed, bringing the tip of his finger against his cigarette and creating a flame. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, SHIT!” Jack shook his finger, extinguishing the flame and shaking his finger to ease the pain. “I’ve got to get a new damn lighter.” He took a long drag, ignoring the no smoking sign in his room, stopping only to grab his helmet off the floor.
“Alright, let’s ride.” He crowed to no one in particular as he stepped outside into the parking lot, slinging one leg over the side of his stripped down Honda. “I wonder if there’s anything fun to do.”
(Closed thread)
‘There, now back to the nice warm bed.’
In what seemed like an instant later the alarm blared to life once again, pitilessly invading the world of his dreams. “Shut it!” He shouted at the annoying machine, a grimace appearing on his face at the tinny noise emanating from the small box. “I’m warning you, I’m serious!” The appliance went on shouting electric noise pollution in his direction, oblivious of the peril it was in. Finally, Jack’s eyes flew open as a cavalcade of obscenity spilled from his lips.
“God-damned cum-gargling motherfu-“The tirade was washed as a hammer appeared in the irate man’s hand. Jack went to work on the annoyance, shattering the plastic entirely with a few solid swings. After a minute all that remained were wires and mangled circuits. He stood there panting for a few minutes, looking down at his work before his head poked up, looking into the sunlight.
“Oh…it’s morning…how about that.” The hammer slipped from his fingers as he stretched, landing on the floor and quickly beginning to decay. To someone unfamiliar with Jack’s magic it looked as if the hammer was a sugar cube dropped in a glass of hot water, the edges becoming rounded and the rounded parts…doing something you weren’t quite sure of. In under a minute it was gone, the only signs of it ever being there the ruined alarm clock and the divot on the carpeting where it landed.
“Now…” Jack began, looking out the window. His voice still had a hint of a British accent, something he had purposely tried to keep all these years in the States. His diction was shot to hell with American slang but somehow it sounded different coming from an Englishman. “Where the hell am I?”
It was a question asked considerably more than most people would imagine. Even on night when he hadn’t been drinking there was a good chance that he wouldn’t immediately know where he had wound up. Places and people, beds and a good night of fun, they all seemed to run together a bit when he first woke up, called away from the bouts of madness most call dreams.
‘How long has it been…five, six years? How long has it been since I had trouble remembering who I was, where I was, what I had done.’
As he shrugged off the last remnants of sleep it started to come back. Fractured thoughts and broken pathways healed as the majority of his madness left him. He was in Portland in a shitty motel room. It would suffice for now, until he managed to find something a bit more permanent. That was of course assuming that he was going to be spending a lot of time here. He hadn’t called a place home since New York and he hadn’t stayed on place in that time either.
‘Why am I here?’
That was a far better question, one he wasn’t even sure of rationally. He had needed a change, that was sure. San Fran had been a bit overwhelming where everyone and their mother was an enlightened liberal and struggling author. It was considerably harder to find his kind of work…at least the legitimate kind. Money really wouldn’t be a problem. If necessary he could use his contacts to set him up. Whatever he couldn’t beg or borrow he certainly could scam and steal. He’d get clean away with it as long as he was smart and didn’t go around.
But why choose Portland? Why not some place warmer like LA or Las Vegas? If he had to guess, it was the stories. His father had always brought him up teaching him about demons, educating him on how to identify them and to recognize signs of danger. Demons didn’t kill like this. Killings related to Avandrya cut it awfully close to a blood hunt, something that was feared as much as desired. They were moving north and rumors, whispered in hushed tones by his contacts said “Portland”. And he would be damned if that damned tattoo on his arm didn’t whisper “Go.”
At least it would be entertaining.
He yawned and dressed, pulling on a pair of new jeans and a gray T-shirt over which he fitted his favorite black leather jacket. “Let’s see what I can find in this place.” He fumbled, reaching through his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out with his teeth. He rummaged through his pocket until he found a cheap plastic lighter, holding it near the tip while he attempted to light up. The flicked for a few minutes, cursing at it failed to light. “Aw, damn it!”
Jack looked around the room, hoping to find some other way to make a flame. Finally, after a few minutes of searching he sighed, bringing the tip of his finger against his cigarette and creating a flame. “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, SHIT!” Jack shook his finger, extinguishing the flame and shaking his finger to ease the pain. “I’ve got to get a new damn lighter.” He took a long drag, ignoring the no smoking sign in his room, stopping only to grab his helmet off the floor.
“Alright, let’s ride.” He crowed to no one in particular as he stepped outside into the parking lot, slinging one leg over the side of his stripped down Honda. “I wonder if there’s anything fun to do.”
(Closed thread)