right, now that i know i can post these here......
this is an original work of fiction. it has no name, no known destination (yet) and may be viewed as crappy. but, it's mine dammit and anyone who, for unknown reasons, attempts plagrism, will have their faces ripped off.
kapiche?
oh, and my sincerest apologies if you happenned to find this insulting. it's just not your day.
“KIDDDDDDD!!!”
Doc’s voice is a champion. It’s the kind that doesn’t bother with politeness or the neighbour’s sleep, and echoes after he shouts. Marching commanders worldwide dream of having a voice like his, not that they even consider what it’s like having to share a home with a person who talks in italics all the time.
It used to scare me, but now I just find it extremely annoying. Especially since I happened to be sleeping quite peacefully up to a few screeches ago. Being irritated does wonders for your store of bravery.
There was only one thing a reasonably ticked off teenager could, in good conscience, do.
Scream back.
“You awful old fart!!! What d’you want now?!”
Within milliseconds a reply shrieked its way through the miserable piece of scrap wood I call a door.
“Don’t give me that! Get your scrawny behind downstairs now!!!!!!!!”
Such a lovely, nurturing soul…. Sometimes I wonder why I put up with him.
Lifting my bleary eyes to a smog clouded night sky, a little later, I fumed about alcoholics and the lack of sleep. The good doctor had, as it turned out, wanted a stiff drink. The good doctor was out of any fermented beverages. The good doctor, bless his soul, was also arthritic and more than a little blind at night.
So, in the age old spirit of making use of child labour, a certain little kid was sent out in the wee hours (when members of the dishonest community and the undead were only just beginning to stir) of the morning, on a quest for a good, full bottle of liquid gold. Which, in the kid’s humble opinion, tasted worse than horse piss.
And then… As if to add to my pain and suffering and the general lousiness of my mood….
Something fell directly into my eye, despite the fact that there were larger, more fulfilling targets all along the run down street. Like the drunkard who’d collapsed head first into a drain overflowing with unmentionables.
It was a baby raindrop. And raindrops, for reasons unknown, found it endlessly amusing to temporarily blind creatures with eyes. I was so happy to have helped the little thing fulfill its existence’s goal that I swiped it off my face, fuming in a way that should have evaporated any more mini spheres of water.
There was a momentary interlude, the expectation so thick that the hairs on my arm stood on end. I bent my head, letting out a resigned sigh-
And it rained.
Store owners in the nasty neighbourhood, especially liquor store owners, have a knack for telling when business knocks, it doesn’t matter if business comes in the form of a kid dripping with rainwater. Money’s a universal language, after all.
But what the dripping kid doesn’t get is good customer service, and sometimes even the time of day.
Face it, the kid isn’t as intimidating as a foul tempered, worse smelling fellow with sharp, shiny weapons possibly concealed about his person. Hence, to a shopkeeper, the kid does not have an aura of power and potential danger that results in politeness.
The door opened a crack before I even had a chance to knock and a sliver of weasel faced, balding male could be seen. His beady eyeball rolled, looking from me to the street.
Then the lovely man slammed his door in my face.
I stared stupidly at the ugly, rough wood, my brain frozen in a state of indignant denial.
Come on…. After all that time in the freaking rain and cold? Even scum had to behave with some decency sometimes…..
Blinking, I shook off the numbness, took in a deep breath-
“You horrible piece of poo! Open up now or the doc won’t bother helping you with the muck that’s your bell-“
There’s nothing like a threat for speedy service, here, at least. All you need are the right words, and the rest might as well be magic.
Within an eye blink, I had a bottle of murky liquid in my hands, had handed over a couple of coins and was dashing back to a bed that, even if it wasn’t warm, was clean.
Clutching the bottle by it’s neck, I splashed over uneven paving stones, half wading through curtains of water. The pathetic creations of canvas and rubber that I called shoes were soaked, just like every other stitch I had on. They’d been soaked for quite a while, and the feeling of my toes squishing on the thin soles was nasty.
I was paying more attention to that than I was to where I was going, wincing with every other step. That, I guess, was why I stepped on it.
Retrospectively, I should have been more careful. It would have saved me oodles of trouble.
Because the thing I’d stepped on was a body. And to make matters worse, it was still alive.
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amused
groggy