Realistic or Modern Under the Moon

[Panzer]

​

The show is just beginning...
The distant warning sirens roar above the normal calming town ambiance, as the lights shine through the blinding dark hour. The moon hangs amid the stars of the sky. Beneath the young night's dormant sheets, the townsfolk still carry through their busy day...


The old' complex bathes in the night life's light, glazed in a darkened yellow paint across its old walls. The complex tower meets with its neighboring building, painted in the pale moonlight.

The stage is set...

 

[Elephantom]

Käng (Q.1)
​

Segment #1

An orange Volvo trained on the East-Central pass to Foghorn— 2018, sometime close to fall season—, the FM boombox inside crooning Autobahn and Die Maschine Mensch from a diluted 80s network, interspersed with commercials for Serbian products (i.e. generic labels of Old Spice and Tunnel Vision) with a 'no export' disclaimer on countries USA, Japan, and China. The driver of this vehicle, a maschinenmann himself, was one Mr. Käng of North Glasgewian blood, heading there for business reasons. The wingman riding shotgun was a seedy-looking Hispanic journalist— on account of his pornographic moustache— who worked for the Nashville Examiner and identified himself as Peyote Kelly, and was coming along for business reasons too. They were both on business, on a vacation, or a geschäftsreise; the trip took the left-hand shortcut from the sea past the Sailor's Grave, the Tallic port towns of the Jewish American Italians and the upward rise from the coastal kingdom to the central hills, to a ghost town in the middle of nowhere. There would be the trees, the point-60 stencil graffiti curses (rural teenagers mimicking urban teenagers), termite hills, hippies, etc, draped in southern gothos and obscurity. What people called a scenic detour from life; what Crowley called a Pinto death-trap in the wilds, zero rapid response, all on your fucking own.

This fact was straight: they had long since passed the point of no return.

Channel Kine's weatherman, Mr. Candace Heller from Wyoming, had predicted 16 °C through the radio earlier in the morning— he had nothing against the winds outside spewing hate now, sub-zero and black. The first man, Käng, told himself he was used to this cold— his companion slept on a bottle of Broglio wine— yet he knew he was lying. A rabbit caught in a snare, a deer frozen by headlights, a fish out of water, a Pinto death-trap taken out for a stroll in the woods, oh gods; many ways to put it, not many ways to avoid it, like the stock sneakers from K-Mart that was always three or two sizes smaller than advertised but the clerk would never offer a refund. When asked, he'd say it was the Japanese way of life, to conserve, observe, and steal. Käng would retort with a well-put fuck off! but the sneakers'd leave the rack anyway.

There was the second man, sleeping, his drooling mug reflecting an abzocke of H. S Thompson but lazier across the rear-view mirror. Käng fixed it to his direction and stared at himself. This was, perhaps, an overwrought instrument of the devil; he had that kind of depraved, starved look: shrunken cheeks, squinting eyes, lips glued tight, eyes streaked red— the impact of a night spent driving—, reeking of world-weariness, and anger. Käng ( known briefly as Dr. Caligeri, Francine, Drift, Wood, many other names) was an odd ned, a no-ned— suede jacket and nubuck boots, Kentucky Carver & Co. half-gallon, and two driving gloves, a notch too American even for his own tastes—, with a good six feet on him, being awkwardly intimidating, and a one-in-hundred pretty-boy face: steel blue eyes, perfect nose, pale skin, and jaws chisel straight. Born that way, never acted the part.

Käng flipped the mirror back. He remembered: he used to be off the center when he was young, part of the so called punkism, but he'd grown leery of the other side of life at some point. That didn't mean he had a conscience— he had, but it was spacious enough to accommodate his own machinations. He didn't feel a pang of guilt when he'd done the work, nothing as he paid his dues, and not even now: sitting in a shit car, on hard as cardboard leather seats, everything stinking of damp cloth and stale wine, beside a hack who fancied himself a man of truths, hunched over the wheel. The girl, that was what he was looking for, her, her self, but he was concerned with himself, and himself wanted to know more than he did: it involved this Volvo, this trip, and which was a damn sight better than that Pinto Mr. Crowley offered him when they were discussing the geschäftsreise. The conversation went like this:

“I need a car,” Käng said, tugging at at the cusp of his jacket with a hand.

“You need a car?” Crowley was an old man with whiskey hair and long grey whiskers, covered in three layers of clothing: shirt, coat, overcoat. They were in the park square, sitting under a pavilion beside the Geary Lake in Der Gangränös Park, drinking coffee.

Käng took a sip, gritting his teeth against the bitter, caustic taste of US concentrate. There was real American graffiti in it, the urbane form. “Transport.”

“I see.” Crowley crossed his legs. “I'm not the chief of the whole operation—”

“You said—”

“They told me you can have the Pinto in the garage.”

“Why do you have a Pinto— a Ford Pinto— in the garage?”

“It's better than having cardboard cars.”

“What?”

“Trabi six-oh-one.”

“Trabant? They still use them?”

“Post-war is new age these days. That's the only alternative besides . . .”

“Besides . . . ?”

“A Ford Pinto.”

“A seventies Pinto in the garage?”

“Not very plausible, is it?”

“No.”

Crowley leaned close, whispered: “Do you want to hear a confession?”

“I wouldn't mind.”

“We have other cars too.”

“Other cars?”

“For us.”

“Why the Pinto then?”

He went back to his seat. “It's good business,” he said, straightening his coat. “And it's cheap.”

“Is it?”

“We're not the insurance company.”

“I have insurance.”

“Any family?”

“Yes, but—”

“He's in Glasgow?”

“Yes.”

“Good for us.”

“You want me to blow a gasket?”

Crowley laughed. “I want everyone in the world to blow a gasket— what do they call it?”

“Geschäftsreise.”

He smiled. “Schadenfreude.”

Käng frowned. “Is this a farce?”

“It's not. Käng, you see, it's a line,” he skewered the air with a finger, “there is the Pinto, there isn't the Pinto.”

“Or the Trabi.”

“Yes, or the six-oh-one.”

“Do others get that liberty of choice?”

“If we had the agency to do that in the first—.”

“This is a farce.”

“This is reality, Käng.”

“Where's the nearest car dealership?”

A few hours later, Käng was driving down the brush road in a woodland shallow with an orange Volvo and a FM boombox that played unknown channels. A car adventure with a rundown bil fordon that had exchanged three hands before he got it, or rather, it got him. There was a Manta too, but his last-minute companion flipped a coin and the Volvo won.


Segment #2

Käng sucked in a load of that hellfire air, cold as shit— smelled the grass and the mud—, and sighed. This was the very bottom of hell or purgatory, depending on who was asked. He parked the cheap car at the right hand of the small lot behind his new home sweet home! scaring a couple dozen crows away. The vehicle jerked and pulled to a stop; he took off his shades and studied the apartment he was assigned to: one of the few long-haul housing projects in the entire town, sparsely populated, tainted by brutalist architects, but still a notch better everything considered. He supposed it was for the tourists, anyone who'd done just enough wrong to be sent here: the outliers, outcasts and the exiles. People like him.

He cursed under his breath and gripped the wheel of the car. The seat beside him, holding that Peyote from New Mexico, shuddered as the car came to a halt. He glanced at the mirror above: his companion had woken up and was stretching his arms.

“You're awake,” Käng said, not bothering to turn his head. Peyote Kelly, journalist and self-proclaimed stoner and 'drug adventurer' from New Mexico, was a few inches shorter than him, with a horse's mane hanging onto the back of his scalp— tied into a ponytail, trailing a line behind his stereotypical poncho— and a sardonic grin plastered on his kisser. His motto was, he told him when they first met: “Why not make peace with other people?” Käng had answered with a shrug.

Kelly yawned. “Are we there yet?” he said.

Käng nodded. “We're here. You can look.”

He gazed outside. “Finally. Another second in the road and I'm vomiting.”

“Not in the car.”

“I won't, I won't, I promise.”

An awkward silence. Peyote continued: “Why are you here?”

“I am— I think, I'm a type of driftwood.”

“I thought you were Glasgewian.”

“Glasgow is the— no, the people . . .” He shook his head. “This place looks barren.”

“Better than Detroit. It's a fucking jungle there,” he said, scratching his head. “I hope they've got hamburgers here.”

“You like hamburgers?”

“Not really, but they're great with chilli.”

“Maybe.” Who eats a burger with chilli?

“Meat, beans, lemon—”

“Lemon?”

“Fuck, I'm hungry.”

Käng pointed at the compartment cabinet. “There's a pistol inside.”

“Shit.” He slipped out a pack of Capt. Cog— red and blue, limited edition and without a guilt-tripping warning label— from his bag and brandished the lid at him. “Want a smoke, man?”

He exhaled. “Don't smoke in my car.”

“Ah, shit.” Peyote Kelly shoved the contraband back inside his knapsack.

“It stinks.”

“Bummer. Where we shacking?”

He pointed at the building before them. “There. Pop the luggage. Mine too, if you can. I'll follow.”

“As you say, chief.”

“The name's Käng.”

“Mine's Kelly. Nice to meet you.”

“I know. We've gotten over that already.” Käng drummed his fingers on the wheel.

“Käng.”

“The guy's waiting for us. We're late enough.”

“That seems to be it for this journalist,” he said, cranking his elbow. He trussed his bandana— pink with white flowers— around his head before getting off the car.

“The porcelain,” he said after him, “is in the yellow suitcase—”

Distant voice. “Yeah, yeah,” Kelly said.

Käng looked at his watch, at the time. He sat there for thirty seconds, counting the hand, and then got off too to help the stoner with the china carry.


Segment 3

The con was waiting around the parking lot. He introduced himself as Mr. Short-Handle Juilliard Murdoch from Wisconsin. “You're the guy,” he said, furrowing his brow. “Ken?”

Käng eyed him, resisting the urge to guffaw. Here was the man, a tall poppy who smelled of aftershave, wore a pinstriped three-piece beige suit, and had a slab of pink corned beef for a face. And here he thought Kelly was a sleaze with his moustache.

Feeling pedantic, he licked his lips and spoke: “It's Käng. Long a. American a.”

The agent stiffened. “I wouldn't have known that.”

He tipped his hat. “No.”

The con pursed his lips, looking at the building. “Where's the other guy?”

“Luggage work. His name's Kelly. Peyote Kelly.”

“I know that.” Handle scrutinized him. “I was expecting something different.”

Käng grunted. “I'm clean these days.”

“I see, well, there's—”

“What?” Get to the point.

“Why are you here?”

He hesitated. “Another process?”

“No,” the agent said. “There's no particular reason.”

“I'm clean, you know—” you fucking should— “or trying to be.”

“Amen.” He gave him a ring of keys. “I've checked you in, paid the advance rent, settled the documents for you, Mr. Ken—”

He flinched. “Käng.”

He went on unfettered. “These are the keys to the room, first floor, left side.”

“Thanks,” he said, through his teeth.

“Try to settle down.” He grinned. “It'll be an experience, a vacation.”

“Geschäftsreise,” Käng muttered, glancing at the surroundings, at the woodlands sticking out from the horizon of the town's borders. “How long?”

“You mean?”

“How long am I gonna be here for?”

Roland shrugged. “Depends on you.”

Käng wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. “Right.” Shit.

“I will go now. The money is stashed in your room, code oh-one-twenty-four-five-four.”

Käng nodded. “Zero-one-two-four-five-four.”

“It'll probably get you through the next few months.”

“Alright.”


Segment #4

13TH JAN., 2018,

Your name?

—Lono.

Your real name?

—Käng.

Why do you think you're here now?

—To fix myself.

Are you sure?

—Yes, why not?

Indeed, why not?

—Why not?

I said, why not?

—Yeah, why not?

I mean, I'm agreeing with you.

—You don't sound agreeable.

Where are you from?

—Glasgow.

Your family?

—Only my brother's alive.

What's your family name?

—I don't know.

Are you sure?

—That's how it is.

Are you really sure?

—Yes.

Why don't you know?

—I don't know.

Okay, alright— how would you describe yourself?

—A type of driftwood.

Why is that?

—I drift a lot.

And why is that?

—I don't know.

It seems you don't know a lot of things. Don't you have any questions about this extraordinary symptom?

—No.

Do you think this conversation is leading anywhere?

—No, I don't think so

Okay, take a break, let's do this later.

—Sure.


Segment #5

Käng fumbled with the keys. He'd forgotten the directions to their room. “We're apartment . . . ?” he asked.

Peyote Kelly was carrying a box. “What?”

“What's our number?”

“Should be on the keys.”

“There isn't.”

“There isn't what?”

“Any numbers.”

“Huh?”

“Shit.”

“How about we try opening them one at a time?”

Käng raised his hands and fired blanks at the wall. “They'll shoot us.”

“It— why would they shoot us?”

“Trespassing.”

“We're not trespassing.”

“We're trespassing on their sensibilities.”

“What sensibilities?”

“American sensibilities.”

Peyote Kelly laughed. “They're good samaritans, all!”

“I don't even know them.”

“And that's not a prerequisite, my friend.”

“You know them?”

“I know them.”

“How do you know them?”

“Americans tend to follow this pattern—”

“Americana?”

“That's the word.”

“I see.”

“You see?”

“I don't understand.”

“It's a decadent, depraved world, my friend, and only the most decadent and depraved can survive.”

“How does that have anything to do with us not getting shot?”

“There's the added benefit,” he raised his finger, “that libertines support libertines.”

“Do they?”

“It's America, Käng— America, picture it, land of the free!”

“Land of the free?”

“The free.”

“Geschäftsreise.”

“Käng?”

“Fuck.”

 

[RedQueenie]

Katherine "Kitty" Carter​

The scent of sage and lavender danced along the plumes of smoke that drifted around the cozy, two bedroom apartment that Kitty had recently taken up residence in. The soft sounds of lofi hip hop soon joined the dance as Kitty tapped a key on her lap top, currently situated on the counter of her tiny, open kitchenette. Her smudging stick was smoking as she made her way around the small apartment, touching every corner with her fingertips while she cleansed the negativity from her new home. This had become a ritual she performed in every new location, though usually on her first night there.

As the smoke settled into a general haze around Kitty's new home, she came to stand her starting point, the wide double window that looked out onto the small courtyard in front of the building. It was probably early afternoon and the sun had yet to dissipate the heavy fog that had creeped its way through during the morning. Kitty was surprised at how much she enjoyed the large window and its slightly voyeuristic nature. It was as if she was in a box and the entire town of Foghorn had its eyes turned to watch. Kitty chuckled at herself before turning away, smudge stick in hand, and heading to her laptop.

Mysteriously the old, scratched and worn laptop was in complete working order. It had random stickers that made little sense plastered all over it and there seemed to be red peeking out from beneath the art. With a few taps of her mouse a simple, but elegant website popped up. The banner read The Traveling Witch. She scrolled through the comments, only a few since she posted it up two days prior, but it had already garnered her many views.
​

Hello my lovelies! To no one's greater surprise than mine, I have stumbled across a potential home. As you all know I have been traveling for the past 7 years and have never laid my head to rest for longer then three days, but the winds of fate seem to have blown me to a mystical place referred to as Foghorn. I'm sure most of you have not heard of this little town, but the draw was immediate and the tapestry of fate too tight for me move on. I of course will continue to entreat all of you, my darlings, with the same magic filled content you have all come to love. I don't think there will be a shortage of interesting adventures for me in Foghorn. In fact I've already interacted with a few of the residents. There is this man below me who...

Kitty turned away from the screen as a bright flash illuminated her apartment. Her grey eyes widened as she rushed to the window and saw the light fading slowly away in the distance. Her heart beat faster then she surmised it should in such an event, but that didn't stop a wonderfully large small from spreading across her black lips. This truly was going to be an interesting new home.​

 

[jaylen]

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[div class=charactername]Destiny Vira Hixon[/div]
[div class=covercontainer][div class=coverpost]
The pleasing scent of vanilla wafted through the apartment as the bathroom door was opened, revealing a wet-haired and towel-covered Destiny getting out of the shower. Her shoulders were hunched up as she quickly walked to her room, cold as hell from the air. Having sat in the bathroom for ten minutes prior to exiting, her body had already mostly dried. Seeing as it was roughly 10pm and she didn't have to work, Destiny slipped on some gray sweats and a baggy black shirt with dog prints along the front. With a quick stretch, she headed out to the living room and plopped her butt onto the recliner where she was greeted with lots of love from her pup Mocha, or Momo for short. Her lips spread into a smile and she ruffled the pups head in affection. Turning her attention away from her, Destiny leaned back and grabbed her laptop from the side table. Opening it, she put on some AJR and aimlessly scrolled through her social media.

Becoming bored (surprise surprise!), the brunette looked up and checked around for her roommate. No sign of her in the living room at least. "Hey Laika! Wanna order some pizza?" She hollered, hoping for a response as a sign that the girl was home. Though whether was or not, Destiny was going to order that pizza. Having come home at 9:10pm, she hadn't eaten dinner yet and lunch had been hours ago.
[/div][div class=coverphoto][/div][/div]
[div class=charactername]Tags: barine [/div][/div]

 

[Inb4Cloaker]

“If our struggle is cardboard, you will be paper.”
​

So much meaning behind such simple words. Well, to Victor it meant a substantial amount. They were engraved on what appeared to be a wooden, straight instrument. Holding it delicately in his hand, the contractor stood silently in the lobby restroom of the complex he had decided to establish himself in tonight. The latrine certainly wasn’t the best place to do soul searching or take a tactical pause, but that wouldn’t stop him right now.

Distraught, confused, or just tired? He asked himself repeatedly, the question echoing throughout his head for a few moments before dissipating. What took its place was a series of events that Victor had dreamed about one too many times. He saw himself cutting at the stalks of corn with the busted machete.

The contractor twitched slightly.

He saw himself yelling at armed men, who were relentlessly throwing rocks and insults alike at children dressed in near rags, walking back home with blisters on their hands.

The contractor let out a ragged sigh.

He saw himself standing there, holding that god-forsaken rifle and standing alongside his compatriots after the chaos ended. Smoke and fists arching into the sky simultaneously. He remembered the success as he spotted the very same tyrant who attacked one of the children. Then the contractor vividly recalled baring his teeth, lifting the rifle-

putting the stock to his shoulder, struggling with rage to hold it steady, then-

It stopped. Seeming to find a gap in his mind, Victor was able to break off from the trance and re-enter the current moment. Panting lightly, he found himself glaring back into his own eyes through the mirror; with the stock of the small wooden piece pressed firmly against his shoulder. Next, he heard sirens. Freezing up, his eyes immediately locked onto the bathroom door. Had someone seen him? There would be little he could do or say to explain what was going on right now. Thankfully, as the seconds passed, he heard the sounds diminish, and gradually relaxed his body. Focusing back on himself, he allowed a moment to size up the figure that eyed him back from within the glass. Standing tall and dressed from head to toe in grey in black was Victor, still wearing the beret with a pissed off frown as usual. Scoffing, he lazily reached up and removed the wool cap, shoving it down into his cargo pocket before leaning over the sink. After a few splashes of water, he took a deep breath and focused at the task at hand. Get out of the bathroom, get something sweet to munch on, then hit the sack.

Stepping back, the contractor did a quick double take at his surroundings. At his feet was a desert like camouflaged duffle bag, alongside a long, metallic and scuffed looking suitcase. The duffle was not open, however the suitcase was. Before he could relapse into another ‘blast from the past’ as he so affectionately referred to it as, the now silent man crouched down and carefully slid the wooden instrument into the suitcase. Closing it swiftly, he then proceeded to stand up with a quiet grunt, hoisting up both the duffel and suitcase with either arm. Whilst pondering the reason behind the sirens he heard earlier, Victor pushed his way out of the empty bathroom, discreetly into the lobby, and up the stairs to his room.

While walking past the rooms, he heard the norm. Silence, whispered voices, that god awful music playing faintly behind a closed door, and his own foot steps. Everything was going fine until he reached into his pocket to withdraw the key he collected earlier upon purchase of the room. That was, until he withdrew two pieces of brass, heard someone yell something about ‘peat-suh,’ and immediately jolted. Glaring at the door as he passed it, the shady figure kept marching down the hall, completely oblivious to the fact that he dropped something of alarm.

Upon reaching his room, Vic eyed the door suspiciously for a moment before popping in the key, listening to the metallic click as it allowed him access, and pushed it open with a little more noise then he anticipated. Probably should of not used his boot. Shrugging it off, the solem and new resident shuffled his way in and closed the door before lowering his luggage and beginning to unpack. He was still unaware that back in the hall, he dropped a well maintained, brass, seven point six-two round right in the middle of the walk way. It stuck out like a sore thumb, and was absolutely not something a traditional tourist would go hauling around with them.

 

[barine]

Laika Kuznetsov
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A short letter, preserved.

It has been so long, my дочь. I have missed you. The nights are longer without you here. I have gotten nothing still from your отец. I hope you are having a good time in Америка. Have you made any friends yet? I hope they're nice people. But still, I wrote this letter because this is a happy day for you. You might see вещи start to happen. Do not беспокоиться, this is нормальный. Regardless of how long you choose to stay there, or whatever it is you're doing, remember this. I love you. Your отец, wherever the Ублюдок is, loves you too. Write me back when you can. счастливый 23-й день рождения.

- твоя мать


A short conversation, remembered.

>Free me.

- Why do you think I'm here?

>How do you intend?

- Simple, really. I shall build a Ship, gather a reputable Crew, and sail the Sea until I find you.

>They cannot withstand it. Not them.

- They will. As with all things, though, they will need Knowledge first.

>Knowledge and Crew are not so easily attainable.

- And why do you assume as much?

>Not assumption. Experience.

- Hmph. But still, here I am, and here I will remain until the deed is done.

>That place is not what you think it is. Be careful.

- So it is.

>So it is.



Now.



The library was still as Lakia Kuznetsov sat at her personal desk. The time was 10:15 PM. She was supposed to have left work several hours ago. But, there was something about this book that was particularly intriguing. She had gone through the library's records several times over, and yet there was no documentation of this book ever existing. Of course, this brought up the question of who exactly brought this book in. The book, in particular, was seemingly nothing special. The front and back cover was just a dark green, with the words "Cryptids of North America" emblazoned in gold thread on the front. The book detailed the (unnamed) author's supposedly firsthand accounts of encounters with various Cryptids, from Bigfoot to the Chupacabra. While this would all seem relatively normal, the book was dated as having been written in 1866, before any of these legends "officially" existed. To Laika, it was all very fascinating.

However, it was still 10:15 PM, and judging by the circles beginning to darken under Laika's eyes, she'd have to stop staying up so late investigating various strange books. She stood up from the desk, adjusted her glasses, and placed the book into her handbag. This was most assuredly something to study more of later. As she made her way out of the now-empty building, she realized that it was quite late, and figured she should send a text.

jaylen There'd be no answer for Destiny's yell in the apartment, but soon a text would appear on her phone, from Laika's number. [stayed kinda late @ work. omw back now.]

When Laika walked out into the cool night air, she smiled. She was starting to like this little town. It was, if nothing else, extremely interesting.

 

[jaylen]

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[div class=charactername]Destiny Vira Hixon[/div]
[div class=covercontainer][div class=coverpost]
No holler came back in response to her own, signaling that Laika was out. Most likely at the library. Glancing at the clock, Destiny shook her head and stretched out her back."Well I hope she's back before the pizza gets cold." She mumbled to herself, reaching to pick up her phone. In the same moment, she had it unlocked a text popped up from Lai. As she had guessed, the girl had been at the library. Cute.

Lai Lai

them

stayed kinda late @ work. omw back now.

me

Kk. I'm gonna order pizza, so hurry up! What kind do you want?

me

Also, 7 hrs isn't "kinda" late

With her messages sent, Destiny continued on the call the nearest pizza place. By this point, they knew her by name since she called on a regular basis. With a single ring, the phone was answered by the usual man with a gruff voice. By this point, she didn't even have to order. "Keith! Sounding grumpy as ever I see~" She teased, a smile played at her lips. His response was nothing less of amusing. "I'll have the usual please and thank you.... yes.... same place... alright thank you! Bye Keithy." Destiny chuckled to herself as the line suddenly went dead. He hated that nickname she had given him. As she set her phone down she heard a rather loud noise from somewhere down the hall outside. She wasn't curious enough to check it out, especially after the door had been slammed shut. Someone must be in a grumpy mood. "Perhaps we should fix that."

The nice thing about having a sweet tooth is that all sorts of sugary sweets were strewn about the kitchen. Unsure of what to grab, Destiny went for the safe decision of chocolate chip cookies. They were unopened and secured in the container she had bought them in on her way home. Well, here we go. Heading out into the hall, Destiny was surprised to see a 7.62 round. Well kept by the looks of it. She guessed it had come from the same person who'd bee making all those noises down the hall. Rather curious, to say the least. Pocketing it, she stood up and continued on her way. She knew where the other residents stayed but there had been one room where only Drake stayed. Meaningggg, there was room for another! Knocking on the door, Destiny stood still and waited for an answer, cookies in hand.[/div][div class=coverphoto][/div][/div]
[div class=charactername]Tags: barine [/div][/div]

 

[Inb4Cloaker]

Victor had only a few seconds to relax, using that time to withdraw the yellow packet of documents he had within his duffle. Kneeling beside the bag he plopped down, the contractor took a moment to survey the room around him. He would have liked to say the typical, ‘God this place sucks,’ but in all honesty, he had seen worse.

It took a while for him to retrieve the delicate papers, having to pull the usual miscellaneous items one would pack out of the bag before setting it to the side. After withdrawing several very common items such as hygiene tools, clothing, pictures, a kevlar vest and the like, he eventually felt the packet. With a sigh of relief, he straightened up on his heel and began to open the envelope. Then he noticed the ash tray, complimented by a smoldering cigarette.

Strange, thought they would have cleaned this place before... Oh wait.

Victor slowly ceased his action of taking out the papers, pushing the weak clip closed and resealing the information. Without moving another inch of his body, the contractor chose that moment to recall the fact that he agreed to share the apartment when he collected the key. Barely lifting his head out from behind the parchment in his hands, he stared straight into the kitchen where his new roommate resided. With all the noise he created, it was a wonder that he didn’t reveal himself the instant he entered the complex. Glancing over at the kevlar to his left, the packet of official looking documents in his hand, and the beaten up steel case to his right, Victor was fully aware that this was not the best way to introduce himself.

When he eventually made eye contact with his roommate, the contractor stared awkwardly for a a few painful seconds as he sat amongst his possessions. Thinking quickly, Victor shifted his eyes around and shuffled a bit as he waved with the papers still in hand. What he said next probably was not the most elegant way to introduce himself, but it was a start.

“Hola. I am, uh... taking up residence with you it appears.” The contractor spoke as he pushed the case and vest back behind him in a not-so subtle manner. “So, what is-“ A knock interrupted his sentence.

Eyeing the door behind him, Vic placed the packet onto the floor and stood carefully. “Standby.” He said to his newfound comrade-in-rooms, taking his attention off of the man in the kitchen as he began to maneuver over to the knocking sound. When he reached out and grasped the handle, he tossed a somewhat suspicious glance back at the kitchen and at his equipment before pulling the door open with a quiet, decrepit squeak. Revealing the woman that stood on the other side, he stood rigid and did his best to not give off his natural glare. It wasn’t hard, since the first thing he noticed were the cookies. Noticing nothing of ill intent with or around the visitor, he slouched a bit and gave a weak smile, attempting to relax.

“Buenas noches, miss. Are you in need of something?” The contractor spoke quietly, his fatigue from the day showing. Glancing at the cookies once more, he slipped his hands into his pocket absentmindedly to fidget with the round he kept stowed safely and leaned on the doorway.

Jesucristo, I’d take a bullet for a snack right now.
... Bullet.
Awe. Fuck.

 

[Elephantom]

2 Americano Libertines (Q.2)​

Segment #1

There was noise upstairs, banging, footsteps, muffled voices; the neighbours, though sparse in their floor, were rambunctious there.

“They're having a party,” Käng said.

Kelly's eyebrows went up. “What party?”

“Upstairs.”

“A party upstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't think so.”

He adjusted his hat. “I thought Americans liked to party.”

“That doesn't apply to this shithole.” Kelly gestured toward the ground and the whole of the corridor. “If there's one thing all parts of this world share, it's the farmers.”

“I saw woods,” Käng said, “not fields.”

Kelly gave him a mock glare. “You don't need a farm to be a farmer. There's— look, I'm talking about the rural feel.”

“You're saying then, I think, that we're going to live with primitives?”

“About right, and this apartment?” Kelly sculpted an invisible tower with his hands. “This is their mecca.”

“And we?”

“We?” Kelly laughed. “You're the driftwood, I'm the journalist!”

Käng stared at him. “Right,” he said.

They parked the luggage— the yellow hard-case containing the vases, a knapsack of wines (from Côte de Beaune and Castello di Brolio, separated from a few cheap Gallo labels) and bandanas, the green briefcase with the clothes, two satchels brown and black belonging to the journalist, cartons of food and two bottles of Amontillado, packets of drugs (acid, cocaine, weed), five pairs of blue-lensed Persol 0174s, and porno mags from an AVN ceremony signed Peyote, Nashville Examiner, three brown suede jackets, two half-gallons courtesy of Carver & Co., two Leica M3 cameras, and two S&W model 29s (chambered in .44) with a democratic amount of bullet cased within six-shot speedloaders— beside the door as they fiddled with their keys. The guns belonged to Peyote Kelly— Käng's personal emergency revolver was stashed away inside his car, Charter Arms Bulldog, along with one full-lid bucket of .44 special rounds—, and his reasons for having them was this: to exercise his American liberty and to shoot someone in the back as they ran, because it was not trite, not conventional, but still very American. What is American? An excess of everything, of course; Peyote Kelly called himself an excess of everything, if not exactly an American, and that was that— he was an anvil compared to the philosophical Käng (Man, War, Purpose, whatnot), save only for his integrity, pursuit of integrity and half-truths and uncertainty, and his passionate belief in himself, to the point of delusions. The journalist's method, the American method, worked all the same: first try, left side, bottom floor, beginner's luck. Enough to impress Käng.

Crowley had told him their room would be furnished before their arrival. Nothing grand, starting with eight austere vehicles in the form of a bunk bed, two closets, two wardrobes, two drawers and a desk, and a refrigerator stuck to a kitchen module. There would be a coat-hanger too, a technicolor television set, three cheap sofas, a coffee table, flea-market curtains, and a doormat that'd say, ‘home sweet home’ like it meant something.

“Bottom bed,” Käng said after briefing Peyote Kelly on the specifics of their furniture.

“I think I can better access my utilities, friend, if I have the bottom bed,” Kelly said, pausing. “It's absolutely necessary for my work.”

“What work?”

He snickered. “The Nashville Examiner. I'm sure you know.”

“You want the bottom bed?”

“The desk too.”

“The desk too?”

Peyote nodded. “The desk too. I need it to write.”

“I can't say I've much problem with that.” Käng shrugged. “Alright.”

The room was dark— the curtains were closed and the lights were turned off—, enclosed and claustrophobic, leading to a veranda in the front, the living room in the right, the bed and accessories in the left, kitchen stuffed into a corner near the TV set, and the washroom hidden off beside the bed. Käng turned on the lights and looked at the room. First impressions: a giant spewed his guts on a 70s sitcom/comedy-sketch routine setting.

“Vomit green,” Kelly said, examining the walls, the grey ceilings and the single ceiling fan stuck to the centre.

“Wha?”

“The colour, man, look at the colour.”

Käng sucked his teeth. “I see it.”

“That's the most shittiest colour I've ever seen and I've been to a lot of shitty places.”

“What do you think?”

“There's taste,” Peyote said, “and there's this!”

“They had to add something.”

“They ought've gone the safe way.”

“What's the safe way?”

“Keep it white and boring.”

“A loony bin.”

Kelly lugged his share of the luggage inside the room. “This is going inside the book.”

“Is it?”

“Why not?”

“Is this conversation going inside too?”

“Yeah.”

Käng shook his head.

Kelly exhaled and made the food carton his seat. “You say something?”

“No.”

“The colour, dammit.”

“The colour isn't very American.”

“You're damn right, Käng.”

“Why do you care?”

“I'm a journalist and journalists care a lot about everything.”

“Nashville Examiner?”

“About right.”

“Is this even Nashville?”

“This is a trip, my biggest hit.”

“That explains the drugs.”

Kelly smiled. “All kinds of drugs.”

Käng said. “We'll have to live with the paint, like it or not.”

“Shit.”

They settled their portable radio on the bottom half of the bunk bed— it was the kind that played CDs too—, turned up the volume and the music, Led Zeppelin Volume I, then began their work; it was tough work, opening all the containers and cartons and placing them inside the refrigerator. Käng pried the lid off the yellow suitcase, took the vases out— they were made by Kerr & Son, bought when he'd just arrived at the States— and placed them on top of his drawers. There was five of them, whole white with blues and other glazing, varying in size but tall poppy like him and Kelly; he polished the designs, brushed the dust, and rubbed the cabin fever off from the surfaces.

Peyote Kelly cradled one of those wine bottles he'd brought with him, like a new born babe, careful not to drop it. “This is wine, quality wine.”

“Brolio?”

“Chianti Broglio.”

“How did you get it?”

“I have my resources.”

“Does that fit your agenda?”

“They do.”

“Authentic?”

“Yeah.” Kelly didn't stop there. “I'm not going to drink these, though.”

“What are you going to do then?”

“Keep them.”

“I thought wines were meant for drinking.”

“They are.”

“Then—”

“They're too valuable. I'm keeping them for just the right moment.”

“You said— huh, I get it— what's the right moment?”

“Not right now, that's for sure.”

Käng nodded. “Can't say there's anything wrong with your idea.”

“Right.” Kelly finished stuffing those bottles somewhere. He looked at Käng. “Fuck, I need a smoke.”

“If you're going to smoke, do it somewhere else.”

“You want one?”

“Somewhere else.”

“Here—”

“Somewhere not here.”

Kelly stood up and sighed. “Rooftops. I'll be around if you need me.”

“You'll be around if I need you.”

He waved at him. “Farewell.”

“Right.”


Segment #2

My name is Kelly. Big K. Small Lee. Kelly. Peyote Kelly, that's what they call me, back at the office: Nashville Examiner, Home Affairs desk. I'm a handsome young man, and I say this with the reconstructed objectivity, or lack of it, that every journalist ought to have; I'm a man of truths, that's what I look for: truths. Is this objective? Fuck no. This is the New Age, ‘New’ being as far as thirty years back and ongoing I think, but that's not stopping people anytime soon. That's not stopping me, for sure.

He combed the top of his hair with his neon twelve-tooth, grimacing. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. He could smell the wine on him, could feel the drugs rattling around his head; all's well that ends well, but this hadn't started well nor was it ending well. The cocaine he took? His mouth was beginning to taste like Turkish knockoff medicine.

The stairs winded around, a zig-zag, to the second floor. He went up and gasped. He saw there: an Americano couple at twelve o' clock, mumbling words and silent gestures, in the cusps of an IKEA door conversation.

2 Americano Libertines.

Kelly buckled his belt, straightened his overcoat and bandana, pulled his camera-necklace over on his head, hanging down the front like a third eye, and accosted them— steady walk, inquisitive walk, and a neighbour's grin— with the patient, nasty inquiry and nosiness of a journalist.

“Saludos, amigos!” he tipped his head, “I'm the new guy, Peyote Kelly, came here an hour ago.”

Inb4Cloaker
jaylen


Segment #3

Käng got up, did some calisthenics, zipped off his suede jacket and exposed his blue-grey striped shirt, then took off his driving gloves; why am I the only doing the work? he mused. He needed some outside air, a bit of time to slack, bunk reality like it was a Japanese after-school programme, but it wasn't. Well, he was free to do anything— it was America, land of the free, the poor, and those fucking journalists. He went outside, through the entrance, down to the exit of the building— the parking lot could be seen from there— and exhaled. There was the stench of dirt, rocks and trees, the misty air and fresh rainfall, but he could imagine it: 12x12 field, zero people, nine feet fence border, him with Kelly's revolver and two other people trying to run away. Him, the revolver, the trigger: two presses, bang bang! and two dead people.

Fuck. The journalist was getting to his head.