Save for the constant of engines, horns, sirens and the occasional burbling voice on the streets it was quiet in the old apartment complex. The paint was peeling from the walls in places. Many of the trees, vines and grasses had been allowed to grow untamed. A few of the windows were cracked. Tiny balconies were cluttered with weathered outdoor furniture, bikes, children's toys and other junk. It was small, sleepy, warm, well hidden in the urban jungle, and a home. The first rays of dawn's brilliant orange and pink broke through the gaps in the DIY curtains that covered the third floor studio's windows. The light didn't go unnoticed but it did go ignored.

A few dishes were stacked in the sink and had been there for a few days now. The remnants of last night's six pack of beer and the desperate half empty bottle of whiskey for when the beer didn't do its job were still on the counter. Playing cards that had been put through well over a dozen games of solitaire in the past eight hours were scattered on the floor. Soothing music still hissed softly from a set of headphones that had been dropped beside the bed sometime in the night. There was a pack and a half of cigarettes smoldering in the ash tray. But somehow, by some horrific force of evil and cruelty carried out by his own mind and body, he was still awake.

[color=a0410d][i]Go. The fuck. To sleep,[/i][/color] he mentally cursed himself. The form that was completely buried in blankets on the futon curled into a tighter lump and growled. The sun was up. The sun was up and he hadn't slept for a single second since it had come up the day before. He couldn't read the name on his wrist. He wished it was the same for the date. It taunted him. It played games with his nerves and his thoughts. It tore down his composure and his focus. Damn it.

What was fate to tell him what to do and who to meet and who to be friends with and who to let into his life. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A thought had crossed his mind. He could simply not leave the house. If he stayed in bed all day and just didn't move from this very spot he could show fate what for. Not moving for twenty four hours was a commitment but if it meant proving one of the laws of the universe wrong he was willing to go through with it. He clenched his teeth and risked a peek out from under the covers.

The minute on the clock ticked over and the radio alarm came on. A grungy, harsh and static laden guitar riff bashed against his ears before the young lead singer came in with a thick beach accent that was purposely off key. He didn't bother to shut it off. If he could only just get lost in the music and forget about all this.

Ten minutes crept by. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Twenty five. Thirty. The doorbell rang.

He pretended he was dead.

Again it rang.

[color=a0410d][b]"Nooooooooo..."[/b][/color] he groaned softly and tried to wrap himself up tighter as if that would help at all.

The final set of rings was constant, fast, angry and unrelenting. Fine. In a huff he tried to throw the covers off himself and bolt up, but was so tangled in them that all he ended up throwing was himself right onto the floor. In a haze of cursing and sleepy stumbling and lurching, the lumbering demon made his way to the door. He opened it only enough to see who was out there.

[color=a0410d][b]"Yeah?"[/b][/color] he asked.

[b]"Keegan Lowry, you're late, boy! Why are you still in your pajamas? Did you just wake up? Do I smell hooch?"[/b] the old woman chastised him, [b]"What are you doing? Did you forget our appointment?"[/b]

It was Ms. Blackwell, the old widow who lived a few doors down from him. He had taken a liking to her and her usual bad attitude and dark sense of humor when he had first moved here and found they had a few things in common. She had a way of always shouting him into doing errands, chores and driving for her. But he didn't mind it. The woman had been a rodeo queen, singer, get away driver and the mother of five. The tougher than nails ex-cowgirl had seen more than her fair share of narrow escapes, wars, crossed out, blackened names, adventures and peaceful, wonderful little moments. She always had stories to tell and none of them were of the boring sort. She could also drink Keegan under the table at the age of seventy seven.

[color=a0410d][b]"I didn't forget,"[/b][/color] Keegan mumbled and opened the door a little. He slumped over, [color=a0410d][b]"But I'm gonna have to cancel."[/b][/color]

[b]"Better have a damn good reason you infernal little sonovabitch,"[/b] she knitted her brows together, [b]"I've been waiting for this flea market all month and you've got the wheels."[/b]

[color=a0410d][b]"I'm going to destroy destiny with Netflix and Cocoa Puffs,"[/b][/color] he hissed, [color=a0410d][b]"I cannot be stopped."[/b][/color]

[b]"Boy, if you don't get your ass out here, clothed, cleaned and presentable in five minutes I'm breaking down the door and throwing you off the balcony by your horns,"[/b] she waved a gnarled finger at him but a small smile was creeping across her thin mouth, [b]"Don't think I don't know what day it is. This isn't something you can get away from by hiding in those shadows of yours. I'll be at the truck."[/b]

Keegan watched Mrs. Blackwell limp slowly to the elevator. There was no doubt in his mind that she could and would throw him off a balcony. He shut the door with a quaking sigh and got himself clothed, cleaned and presentable.

One tank top, flannel shirt, ripped pair of blue jeans, dirty pair of boots and jump start to a [url=http://i.imgur.com/vnWYXYw.jpg]1979 Jimmy[/url] later, they were on the road. The rush hour traffic was still filtering out of the city streets and the going was slow at first, but soon they were making good time down the little side streets. People had told him there was no point in owning a vehicle in New York, but every time a coworker missed the bus, a friend didn't have cab fare, there was an emergency or someone needed help moving he and the ol' Jimmy were the ones who got a phone call.

[color=a0410d][b]"I don't get what's so great about these flea markets,"[/b][/color] he yawned, [color=a0410d][b]"It's just a bunch of you old people buying a bunch of old crap."[/b][/color]

[b]"You young things wouldn't understand quality craftsmanship if it kicked you in the balls,"[/b] she snapped at him, [b]"Things were made different fifty years ago. If you don't go running your mouth this time I might be able to teach you some history."[/b]

[color=a0410d][b]"I know history,"[/b][/color] Keegan scoffed.

Mrs. Blackwell snorted at him.

A sudden pain spread through his wrist. Oh, no. The burning intensified steadily. He gripped the wheel. He couldn't face it. He wasn't ready. A white hot flame ripped through his arm and hand causing him to hiss and snap it to his chest. He knew what it meant. His heart sped up so fast he thought it would race right out of his rib cage. Or explode. One of those was going to happen for sure. He was panicking. What to do? What to do!? Just ignore it. Ignore it and everything will be fine. He tapped the breaks for a second. No. He kept the truck moving.

[b]"What was that!?"[/b] the old woman glared.

[color=a0410d][b]"Nothing. It's fine. I have... a rash..."[/b][/color] he stuttered and then grimaced.

[color=a0410d][i]A rash? Really? That's the best you can do? That's pretty gross. Maybe work on your excuses.[/i][/color]

[b]"Pull over,"[/b] she ordered, [b]"They're here somewhere."[/b]

[color=a0410d][b]"No!"[/b][/color] he yelled, [color=a0410d][b]"Flea market!"[/b][/color]

[b]"Pull. Over."[/b]

[color=a0410d][b]"Flea. Market."[/b][/color]

Faster than greased lightning and his suicidal heart combined the old crone had latched onto his ear with a death grip and ripped him down closer to her, [b]"Pull over!"[/b]

[color=a0410d][b]"OW! Jesus! Stop!,"[/b][/color] he screamed while swerving a little and tapping the breaks again.

[b]"Anybody else would be thrilled on this day! Are you stupid? Do you have any idea what--"[/b]

[i]SCREEEE-- CRUNCH![/i]

Keegan pulled the Jimmy over to the side of the street into a parallel parking spot in front of a little coffee shop... At a very high rate of speed right into the back of a parked Porsche. His head slammed into the steering wheel, leaving a sizable warp in the once round shape. Mrs. Blackwell gasped but didn't once scream. She knew what to do and braced herself. And unlike her driver she was wearing a seat belt. The sudden stop and ache in her old bones ripple through her body and the pain came slowly. She groaned and rolled out her neck and rubbed her bad hips where the belt had bitten down. Dazed and disoriented and angry she looked up at the metal carnage.

Keegan had his wounded head in his hands and was trying to remember how to breathe. When he finally got a grip all he could manage was a very loud and very pissed off, [color=a0410d][b]"SHIT!"[/b][/color]

Moments later he turned to his old friend, [color=a0410d][b]"Oh, man, are you okay? I can't believe that just happened. I need a cigarette. This is your fault."[/b][/color]

[b]"I'm fine. I'm more worried about the fine little yellow thing you just crushed."[/b]

[color=a0410d][color=a0410d][b]"Maybe if we just get out and don't move the truck for a while nobody will see the damage,"[/b][/color][/color] he suggested.

There was a long silence filled by a nasty hissing noise coming from the dead engine. Keegan rubbed his still burning wrist.

[b]"Sweetheart,"[/b] Mrs. Blackwell sighed, [b]"You and I both know that isn't going to happen."[/b]