This Clay Earth: Prospectors' Savior

Funka Genocide · 03-03-2005, 10:52 PM

The bald man checked his wrist watch instinctually. "Twelve o' clock" he said, a growing undertone of apprehension in his voice.

"Thank ya kindly" said the cowboy, his eyes drifting off towards something undefined in the distance. A smile tugged at the corners of his knife-slit mouth, it wasn't very attractive. "Did ya ever hear stories about the old days? I mean the really old days, back when everyone had a pistol on their hip. Twelve o' clock was always a special time in the movies, high noon they used ta call it. Two young punks would git to quarrelin, and 'fore ya know it one of dem's got his hands reaching for a pistol, then they both agree ta settle it out in the streets... at high noon the next day. Did ya evah wander what that'd be like? Sleeping through the whole night knowing ya might be dead tomorrah." he chuckled quietly to himself, then continued, "When ya think about it though, couldn't ya say the same thing everyday regardless?" He laughed a bit more at this comment, seemingly amused at his own voice.

Abruptly, he stopped laughing. His eyes focused on the here and now, and he peered down an alley way some distance from the newstand. An oddly clothed man was leaned against a stone wall, he seemed to be watching the cowboy intently, seemed to be watching everything intently, as if he were expecting something.

Greg got a familiar feeling, the kind of sensation you get in a bar when you know someone's about to get punched, but you can't tell wether its going to be you or not.

The cowboys smile widened "So, ya showed up did ya?" his voice had a gravel to it now that it didn't possess earlier, an edge that was unmistakeably menacing.

.................................................. ..........

Just another day, another few thousand dollars earned and spent, a few more minutes of luxury. He wondered if the comfort were worth the price, the fact that he really couldn't complain. He couldn't gripe, couldn't lament, couldn't feel...

A pain somewhere near the base of his skull, brief but stinging. He stopped the Ferrari in the middle of the parking lot exit lane. The sensation wasn't new, but it was always a shock when it hit.

When was the last time anyway?

Black Jack against a Seraph, he remembered ruefully. Man had that holy bastard played a mean game.

.................................................. ..................................

The syrup-pancake mixture was fast depleting, the bottom of the plate was in view. He thought of a few poignant metaphors concerning pancakes and the duality of man, shook his head and wondered what the hell college was teaching him.

Then the room went gray, the kind of grey you'd see in an old western movie, shades of black over white. He looked up, and found his gaze moving towards the waiting staff. They were all grey, they seemed to fit the milieu quite nicely actually, His gaze went to the street, where a few dozen colorless tourists ambled by, oblivious to their lack of vibrancy. Finally he looked across the room to the one other customer, and saw a young man in full technicolor loudness. He looked at his own hands and found them to be flesh colored.

The other man looked up with a start, and stared directly at his colorful companion, seeing the same vision in his own mind.

"Well this can't be good." they said in unison, while outside a tumbleweed rolled past.

.................................................. ...............................

He stood eating his food in the midday sun, it wasn't half bad for a street vendor.

He looked across the street once more, at the bald man in a coat, he could see a look of trepidation in his eyes. The man in the cowboy hat had apparently just told a bad joke, as he was laughing to himself.

Then he stopped, and like one of those stupid where's Waldo books, he could see another man whop must have been standing there all along, an oddly dressed man leaning against a stone wall. He looked like some kind of video game character...

.................................................. ................

She kept walking until she fel she should stop. there was something right about stopping at this particular moment, something necessary. She glanced once more at the keys in her hand, saw the monogrammed "Chevrolet" emblom, felt the weight of them, not only in ounces, but in years. These were old, she decided.

An old Chevrolet, blue with an irredescent turquoise bird emblazoned on the hood flew by.

Was that Elvis driving it?

03-03-2005, 10:52 PM	#10
Funka Genocide Sent to the cornfield Join Date: Apr 2004 Location: Las Vegas Posts: 4,566	The bald man checked his wrist watch instinctually. "Twelve o' clock" he said, a growing undertone of apprehension in his voice. "Thank ya kindly" said the cowboy, his eyes drifting off towards something undefined in the distance. A smile tugged at the corners of his knife-slit mouth, it wasn't very attractive. "Did ya ever hear stories about the old days? I mean the really old days, back when everyone had a pistol on their hip. Twelve o' clock was always a special time in the movies, high noon they used ta call it. Two young punks would git to quarrelin, and 'fore ya know it one of dem's got his hands reaching for a pistol, then they both agree ta settle it out in the streets... at high noon the next day. Did ya evah wander what that'd be like? Sleeping through the whole night knowing ya might be dead tomorrah." he chuckled quietly to himself, then continued, "When ya think about it though, couldn't ya say the same thing everyday regardless?" He laughed a bit more at this comment, seemingly amused at his own voice. Abruptly, he stopped laughing. His eyes focused on the here and now, and he peered down an alley way some distance from the newstand. An oddly clothed man was leaned against a stone wall, he seemed to be watching the cowboy intently, seemed to be watching everything intently, as if he were expecting something. Greg got a familiar feeling, the kind of sensation you get in a bar when you know someone's about to get punched, but you can't tell wether its going to be you or not. The cowboys smile widened "So, ya showed up did ya?" his voice had a gravel to it now that it didn't possess earlier, an edge that was unmistakeably menacing. .................................................. .......... Just another day, another few thousand dollars earned and spent, a few more minutes of luxury. He wondered if the comfort were worth the price, the fact that he really couldn't complain. He couldn't gripe, couldn't lament, couldn't feel... A pain somewhere near the base of his skull, brief but stinging. He stopped the Ferrari in the middle of the parking lot exit lane. The sensation wasn't new, but it was always a shock when it hit. When was the last time anyway? Black Jack against a Seraph, he remembered ruefully. Man had that holy bastard played a mean game. .................................................. .................................. The syrup-pancake mixture was fast depleting, the bottom of the plate was in view. He thought of a few poignant metaphors concerning pancakes and the duality of man, shook his head and wondered what the hell college was teaching him. Then the room went gray, the kind of grey you'd see in an old western movie, shades of black over white. He looked up, and found his gaze moving towards the waiting staff. They were all grey, they seemed to fit the milieu quite nicely actually, His gaze went to the street, where a few dozen colorless tourists ambled by, oblivious to their lack of vibrancy. Finally he looked across the room to the one other customer, and saw a young man in full technicolor loudness. He looked at his own hands and found them to be flesh colored. The other man looked up with a start, and stared directly at his colorful companion, seeing the same vision in his own mind. "Well this can't be good." they said in unison, while outside a tumbleweed rolled past. .................................................. ............................... He stood eating his food in the midday sun, it wasn't half bad for a street vendor. He looked across the street once more, at the bald man in a coat, he could see a look of trepidation in his eyes. The man in the cowboy hat had apparently just told a bad joke, as he was laughing to himself. Then he stopped, and like one of those stupid where's Waldo books, he could see another man whop must have been standing there all along, an oddly dressed man leaning against a stone wall. He looked like some kind of video game character... .................................................. ................ She kept walking until she fel she should stop. there was something right about stopping at this particular moment, something necessary. She glanced once more at the keys in her hand, saw the monogrammed "Chevrolet" emblom, felt the weight of them, not only in ounces, but in years. These were old, she decided. An old Chevrolet, blue with an irredescent turquoise bird emblazoned on the hood flew by. Was that Elvis driving it?