PArry wasn't too happy to be in the vicinity of a Demon. But he wasn't happy about the rash either, and all things considered, he could deal with both. It was nice out, the sun was starting to go down, there were plenty of bodies to look at. He even got Italian Ice for the ludicrous price of 5.50 a cup, and he had to fish in his bag for cash because the seller wouldn't take cards; he wasn't in the 21st century apparently.

To top it all off, while Rikive's ice was a nice snowy mound, Parry's was a frozen snowball- the kind you could throw at someone and leave a bruise that'd show the next morning.

What he couldn't deal with was the ludicrous perv who opened his jacket in a public place. Rikive found it hilarious, and Parry had to snicker as the guy ran off.

"Holy shit. I've heard of 'Micros' before but... I kind of feel sorry for the guy." Parry frowned, watching the guy run as pool security started chasing after him. He looked at his Italian Ice ball, then at Rikive, and his snickers turned into an evil grin.

"I never taught you how to throw a baseball," Parry said, starting to walk in the same direction as the man was running. His right hand settled on the ice ball, clutching it hard. "You take the ball in one hand, like this. You rotate, then lead with the foot on the same side. Like so."

The Ice ball went flying forward, sailing across the boardwalk until it impacted on the back of the perv's skull. He flew forward and landed face first in the sand, where security promptly tackled him.

"Wanna try it-"

There was a loud crash inside the tourist shop. Parry watched through the front window as a kid went down on the floor and took a tee-shirt rack with him. On the far side of the shop, the Demon's silhouette walked through into the back of the store.

"Fuckin' demons," Parry grumbled, putting his hands back in his pockets. "Always gotta ruin a good thing."

A small crowd had gathered inside the store, someone shouting "Jason? JASON!" while on of the clerks grabbed the house phone to call 9-1-1. The demon's stench hung in the air, but Parry caught a whiff of something else. Something he liked far less as he approached the half dozen people watching as a mother hovered over a bald, pale-skinned teenage child.

[i]Jason Moore, age 13, Stage 3 Liver Cancer. From the smell I'd peg him at a 60-40 survival rate. If the chemo doesn't do it eventually.[/i]

He fucking hated knowing all that shit about the kid. Came with the old job though, and some skills he couldn't lose when the wings were hung up.

Parry had to tear his eyes away and look back at the exit door where the demon had slunk out.

"C'mon," he said to Rikive, nodding at the back door. "Let's get a leg up. There's enough people here."