Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
3 comments:
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Shakka Shakka Shakka.
Someone was trying to enter? No. The warehouse shutter doors were being rattled noisily by the wind outside. This area seems prone to violent weather patterns. Maybe I should pray to the teru teru bozu? I should have enough time to waste to make around 50...
Perhaps this weather is here for a reason? Demons, Magicians, H.P. Lovecrafts fanclub, who knows. If anything, the girl whom walks around speaking in rhythmic tempo seems the most likely candidate for an unnatural occurrence in this vicinity. Mmmf, heavy. I've heard of something like her before...an Ameonna? No weather reports seem to be conclusive in terms of why the skies only become darker each day. Most likely a reference to my brain functions slowly wasting away in this place. Soon it will be pitch black and Dennis Quaid will have to come unthaw us from certain death.
Yes, there is certainly a large amount of materials here. Mr. Machelli really should care more about what and where he keeps his storage. Of course he doesn't have to, he does have a large area of influence. Reporting everything I have found comes for later, this is just one stop in many and I can only help when I'm gone. Only a few more days in this place.
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Yep. Still cloudy and very windy. My shoes have actually left my feet and are being blown down the sidewalk. I suppose I should put a stopper on any other investigation today.
Is that someone laying in the street?...It appears a bike crawled out from a manhole and attacked him, thats always unfortunate. Well, i'm certain there are rules for a situation like that. One of them most likely being, don't go near people bleeding violently in a ghetto. Its not as if I don't care, I am not a police officer. I am a detective. I should never be seen, only heard as a voice which aids with justice. This place isn't boring, you have to be awake most of the day to really know who and what is going to kill you. A mental challenge is what I want, and nothing here has more than a highschool degree.
"STOP! POLICE!"
And of course, there is always something going on. Someone is being chased down the street this very moment...
I wonder if brone bought any blueberry cream cheese with his bagels...
"Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu
Do make tomorrow a sunny day
Like the sky in a dream sometime
If it's sunny I'll give you a golden bell
Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu
Do make tomorrow a sunny day
If you make my wish come true
We'll drink lots of sweet rice wine
Teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu
Do make tomorrow a sunny day
But if it's cloudy and you are crying
Then I shall snip your head off"
Typical
Smoking his pipe on the corner, Holger readjusted his leather coat that he fashioned from a road-kill he found in West Virginia - where it is also legal to eat road-kill. The sleet pelted his animal pelt coat. Suddenly, he viewed a most amazing chain of events where he saw a Lamborghini speeding away from the chasing Cadillacs and coppers. A black van pulled in front causing the Lamborghini to become Kersplatten. There was no need to be riled, this sort of thing was typical. He refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco he got from his friends in southern Virgninia. The sleet began to fall more heavily.
He turned to his left watching the other side of town. The manhole was open but the road workers stopped weren't working. "Typical." The government spends money to pay people for jobs they aren't doing. His hand dug through some keys, a knife and crumpled bills before finding another match in his pocket.
The sleet momentairly subsided as a kid on a bike rode past. Of course that hoodlum had no helmet on – he was too B.A. for that. He was going so fast that he couldn't evade the manhole in time. Holger's deep, booming laugh forced his abs to expand and contract so ferociously that the last piece of dough in his chest popped out and rolled off the curb onto the street into the manhole. "Die Ratten werden keinen Hunger haben."
Black day
It was a black day. It must have been the shadows cast by the ominous sky. Or how the rain reflected the cold basement lair onto the pavement. Or that black van.
As much as Marissa morbidly savored the cold lonliness of Washington Heights, she couldn't helped but be scared to death by the black van. Screeching, zooming, roaring, shooting its way down Baker Street. Then a scorching turn, an icy splash of rain against the basement windows, and it was gone. Again, the early dawn was black.
And black the day would remain. No sunlight to dispel the dark, damp chill of the menacing Baltimore landscape. Concrete, urban, impersonal -- it was all black.
If Marissa had experienced an Emo phase in high school, she might have suffered a relapse. But she didn't -- she was too busy with... too busy, enough said. She didn't have time for sulking and misery. She did, this morning, however, have time to throw on a stark black shirt, durable jeans, and some don't-even-try black pumps.
No black eye shadow. Never. To the residents of Washington Heights, Marissa would never appear in the least bit discouraged. Only Oscar recognized the subtle mood shifts, hidden by her strikingly beautiful presentation. Oh, Oscar. The closest thing Marissa had to a friend in Washington Heights -- the closest thing she had to reliability.
Well, there were the loony late night drunks. She could always count on them. Like Kevin, for instance, one of the usual suspects. He was a fellow Hopkins student, but about as different as Marissa as she could possibly imagine. And never a chance. Some of her university friends thought him cute -- in a creepy, awkward sort of way -- but he didn't exude the odor of success. And as unsuperficial as Marissa tried to be, she couldn't resist the sweet smell of money.
She wandered toward Oscar's thinking about boys. A rarity, surprisingly. It must have been the introspective nature of the morning. The blackness.
Kevin -- nope. Finn -- too young. Marissa chuckled -- 30 or older, with at least an M.D. Charlie was kind of cute -- maybe for a one-night stand -- but, ooo, Marissa caught herself. She didn't do one night stands. Well, no, Oscar doesn't count. He's just Oscar.
He was safe. And she liked safety. No one could blame her -- she was Massachusetts girl caught in a Chesapeake ghetto. So she walked toward Oscar's, eyes forlorn, gazing into the bleak blackness, and she hoped for a different day. For a girl so driven, so motivated, so focused, Marissa could not even escape the overwhelming decay of Washington Heights.
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