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Wednesday, June 6, 2012

The Walkin Killings Pt. 2

So Alive, by Blueprint 

Sven drove along side streets and under bridges.  He was a shadow figure, one who lives in the border between light and dark.  The shadow figure traverses both worlds: Sanity and Insanity.  He pulled into a narrow alley and drove around behind.  He parked in the dark hollow, out of view,  and turned off the little rust bucket. 

When he’d bought her, he was not so much concerned with her appearance as he was with her heart.  Certainly, he would not waste his money on anything conspicuous or extravagant.  He wanted to remain hidden.  He simply wanted to be assured that she would start every time, and that she had enough power and handling to avoid or even escape whatever may lay ahead on his crooked path.

Seen looked over at him with raised eyebrows.  His eyes were getting used to the dark, and he could just make out Sven’s face.  “Where are we now, Sven?”

Sven said, “We are at my secret place, Sean.”   He got out.

Seen followed him to the rear of the vehicle.  Sven opened the trunk and pulled out a black duffel bag.  From inside of it there came a soft clinking of metal things.  Always mind your bag of tools and weapons.  Never leave them anywhere, no matter what.

He closed the trunk and headed off to the entrance of the old, three story building.  The stucco could have used a good power scrubbing, even under the wan orange glow of the streetlight.  Seen followed him.

They walked three flights up to Sven’s secret place.  The interior held no paintings or decorations, nor any sort of indication that is was a place much adored at all.  It was simply a place to stay, for the time being.  It was the sort of place a fugitive might call home.

Sven set his duffel bag down behind the small kitchen table and said, “Why don’t you have a seat?”  Seen sat down in one of the wooden chairs with his back to the door.

There are two important considerations to make when you sit anywhere, at anytime, and they are these:

It is the best practice to never leave your back unprotected to the entrance.  You should sit so that you can observe all entrances anywhere, especially if others depend upon you for their own safety.

On the other hand, when you are in a strange place, all alone, and you are in the company of a strange person, and, most importantly, that person is familiar with the place, then you are at a disadvantage.  You must never let that person place themselves between you and the only portal of exit, of escape.

Sven went to the refrigerator and asked, “Would you like a beer?”

Seen smiled and said, “Yes, please.”  How long had it been since he’d had beer?  How much time had passed?  How good would it taste?  He figured that like everything else in this land, it would be delicious.  Beer was easy to make wrong, but in the land of plenty, one had choices between bad and good, isn't that right?

Sven handed him a can of beer and Seen looked at it.  What was this?  He turned it over and around in his hands, and felt how cold it was.  Odd.  He read the side of it, and the only word he understood was “beer.”  There were various writings scribed, or, upon closer inspection, they had actually been painted upon its surface.  Extravagant. It must be quite good, for the maker had pride.  

He regarded the top of the thing and could not make out head nor tale of the structure.

Sven sat down at the table across from Seen with a green glass bottle of his own beer and saw what Seen was doing.  He cocked his head as he sipped, and then he understood.  He said, “Would you like me to open that for you?”

Seen looked up from the weird little container and held it out.  “If you would be so kind, please.”

Sven cracked open the top of the beer, showing Seen what he was doing. 

Seen’s eyes went wide, and he grinned.  “Simply marvelous construction here,” he said, and he sipped the contents.  It was horrible.  He almost spat it back out, but that would have been rude.  He grimaced as he swallowed the foul taste.  “This tastes like something a rat would piss out!”

Sven said, “I apologize!  I thought that light beer was what a California 'dude' like yourself would appreciate.  Here, take a sip of this.”   He held out his green-bottled beer.

Seen sipped it, and it was not much better.  “Have you not any good ale?”

Sven shrugged.  “This is one of the finest lagers, but if it’s ale you want, I don’t have any.  Sorry about that.”

Seen said, “I apologize for my rude behavior.  I mean no disrespect to you in your home.  A green bottle of the finest lager would be great, please.  And thank you, kind sir.”

Sven came back with another beer, and as he set it down, he said, “You know, when you first  introduced yourself, you said that you are evidently now called ‘Sean.’  What does that mean?”

Seen took a large haul from the green bottle and grimaced.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and let out a low, rumbling burp beneath his palm. 

He said, “It is what you may call me.”

This did not sit well with Sven.  It seemed like each question he asked led to more questions to ask.  His feeling of enjoyment with this new acquaintance was wearing off.  He nudged the black duffel bag with his black boot, beneath the table, and it comforted him.

He considered that he had been wrong after all.  Such a sad thing, really.  The poor fellow appeared to be simply deranged.  There was nothing enticing about continuing this course of friendship with the young man. Well, at least there was the opportunity to have some fun.  He had been awaiting such an opportunity since he’d escaped Swizzleland to California.  And this new opportunity had simply hopped into his car, near the hostibal.

He counted his blessings.

Sven continued.  “What were you called before?”  Now he was simply making small talk to put his new victim at ease, before the fun would begin.  He would slip something into the next bottle of lager for his guest…

Seen took another large quaff, and he burped again.  “You know, this is not all that bad.”  He felt the familiar, but long-lost sensation of beer buzz.  It had been centuries.  He answered Sven, “I was called Malcolm.  But that is not my real name.”

Sven nodded.  Deranged people always had a crazy story to tell.  So he prodded. “What is your real name, my good friend?”

Seen paused.  He regarded the green bottle in his hand, and he said, “This tastes like another one, if you please.”  He downed the last of its contents.

Sven hopped up, and he smiled.  This was too easy.  He reached into the cupboard beyond the refrigerator and pulled out a small brown bottle of white powder.  Then he grabbed a bottle of lager out of the fridge and placed it on the counter.

Seen said, “You would not be able to pronounce my real name.”

Slipping Away, by Barcelona 

Sven nodded.  Of course he wouldn't be able to pronounce Seen's real "name."  Such a crazy person.  He popped the top off the beer and gently poured into it some of the white powder.  He covered the opening of the bottle with his thumb with great force so that the beer would not bubble up and shoot out.  He said, “Try me.  I speak several languages, mainly that of the Swizz.”

Seen burped again, and he said, “Swizzleland, eh?  Very well.”  Then he spoke in Sven’s native tongue as if he had been born and raised there.  He said, in that foreign language, this: “I also speak many languages, for I have learned them all.  I have existed for millennia, and I will live for eons, and I will always return to this mortal coil.”

Sven’s face turned white.  His thumb slipped away from the green bottle he held with trembling hands, and beer spurted out all over the front of his black shirt and into his face.  It got in his eyes.  He let go of the bottle and it rolled away on the counter, jettisoning its contents onto the floor, the wall, and everywhere else as it spun around like a small jet engine.

He staggered to the sink and ran cold water, cupping its stream into his open eyes as he leaned over.  The beer with the powdered sedative mixed into it was quite acidic, and it caused his eyes to burn.

Seen jumped up and came over to where Sven rinsed his eyes.  Sven was disgusted with himself.  He was now in the most vulnerable of situations, and he felt rage against his foolishness.

His eyes burned, but he felt certain that he had gotten the acidic mixture out of them with minimal damage to his corneas.  The water felt cold, and that was a relief.  He turned off the faucet and grabbed the towel from the dish rack and dabbed his eyelids. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was stuffed up.

Such a fool am I, he thought.  All of his thoughts were in his native language, you know.

And this young man had just now spoken it with perfect clarity, in the dialect of the old.

Like a King would speak it, centuries ago, in his own land.

His reaction had made him lose his guard, and in his foolishness, he had become incapacitated long enough for his prey to escape, or worse:  To allow him, he, Sven, to become the prey.

Seen simply hovered, wanting to help if he could.

And that made Sven even angrier at himself.

His poison had poisoned him.  It was only the innocence of his prey that kept him from becoming prey.

Such a fool.

It would not happen again, he promised himself.  He did not know that he would be wrong about that.   But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Sven sat down across from Seen with two fresh, unadulterated bottles of lager.

Seen grabbed his up and held it out towards Sven, speaking a toast in Sven’s native language, in the manner of the Kings of old.

Sven got the willies and said, “Please, let us speak in the language of this new land.”

Seen nodded.  He reiterated, in Murricanese, “Your heart, our hearts together: for the rise to the end of all hearts forever.”

Sven grabbed his own bottle, clinked it against Seen’s own, and replied, “With the end comes the new beginning: the death of geld, and all of sinning.”   He finished his full bottle in one long draught.  Then he burped loudly.  Seen had spoken the old warrior’s prayer of his land.

Seen laughed at Sven’s burp, and finished his own.

Then he got up to go to Sven's refrigerator.  "More is indicated, yes?"  He paused there, holding up the little brown bottle sitting upon the beer-spattered counter.

He sniffed it, and then he turned around to Sven and held it out. He said, in the manner of the Kings of old, in Sven's own native language, “What, pray tell, is in this small bottle?  What have you been up to?  What did you intend to do with it here and now?  With me?”

Sven felt his skin crawl.  

He was no match for this newcomer.  

He could feel it in his bones.

Some of the lyrics to the song above:

Wait just a little bit more

Only take what you came here for

I trusted and I promised to believe

I swore

That you would be the first and the last

But I did not know

You'd take me

But you're taking more

And this is how I'm slipping away....

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

OK, One More For You.

This song will hint to you about what follows, in The Walkin Killings, Pt. 3

Perfect Day, by The Constellations.



johnsan said...

I know you have a life filled with important things and important people, but I want you to know that I basically hanging on every word right now. This story is very, very good! Please tell us more as soon as you can!

Thank you for sharing!


TDCwillies said...

Thank you for the kind words young man!