"What brings you to this jolly little town?"
Colm shrugged. It was a natural question, anyone would ask that. Truth was, he didn't know. He could easily have just stayed on the 35, gone south to Des Moines, continued on to Kansas City. But something had made him pull off onto the little state road, drive through all the cornfields, and come to this little place, all in the middle of the night. He didn't know why, but he was here in Rainey.
"Just passing through, I guess," he said, still not wanting to tear his eyes off the Great Mouse Detective, but trying to be polite and not call attention to his stalker. This poor girl must think I'm insane. "Not really on the way to anywhere, to be honest. I just, uh, had some time off from work and I thought I'd see the country for a little while." He looked over to the next table, his curiosity piqued by the two British accents he was hearing. He had thought Seattle was a long way from here, but those two had covered quite a lot of distance.
Colm suddenly gasped as a hand slammed onto the table. He looked up, into the face of the one man who had already been in the dining room when he arrived. The man with the tangled mane of blonde hair and the turtleneck sweater. Unlike the fella in the green suit, he seemed decidedly normal aside from his poor choice of summer clothing.
"Sorry to interrupt," the man said with a smile. "Billy Blue. I'm the deacon at the church here. First Presbyterian, right over on Locust Street. I don't normally do this, but we're having a little meeting this afternoon at the church. Spiritual guidance, moral support, that sort of thing. If you're lost or lonely or unsure, it might do you guys some good. Bring you a little peace. Especially if you're stuck in the middle of bumfuck nowhere," he said with a self-deprecating grin. "So, you know, give it some thought. And if you've maybe got a friend who keeps following you around and just won't leave you alone, bring them too." Deacon Blue closed that remark with a wink, huge and obvious, to both Tallah and Colm. Colm could only watch, dumbstruck, as the man wandered off to the next table over.
The deacon approached other tables, where breakfast was being eaten, and gave more or less the same message. Robert and Emma were told of the meeting and to invite their "friends", as were Parker and Sebastian. Benjamin was also relayed the same message. Always accompanied by a big sloppy wink. Nudge nudge, say no more. Finally, Deacon Blue gathered up his newspaper and strolled out of the dining room after speaking to each guest.
Colm looked over at the other guests, quietly confused. Does he know? No, it's impossible. "Well, I don't know what that was about," he said, loudly enough for the entire room, trying to reassure himself. He barked a nervous laugh. This place was getting to him.
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In
Urban Apocalypse - Anarchic Ultraviolence on TV; Your City are The Contestants!
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
Freddie Jenkins, better known by his nickname Cro-Magnum, continued to lope through the wreckage of Dowtown Baltimore, now beginning to resemble Grozny or Mogadishu more than any American city. The gunfire seemed to be dying down, at least for the moment, the few Baltimoreans that had turned out to offer resistance to the second drop had been repulsed or dropped. Cro-Magnum didn't know this, nor would he have particularly cared. His little brain was trying to come up with some sort of plan.
He didn't really know Baltimore. If this had been going on back in Alamogordo, he would've known every alleyway, every nook and cranny. In holding, Freddie had sat down in front of a map, staring at it for hours and hours, trying to memorize it. But now that he was down on the ground, surrounded by buildings and burning cars, he couldn't make it work. The ground wasn't yellow like on the map, it was really confusing him. Where could he go?
Though he usually got a blinding headache if he tried to think for too long, Cro-Magnum suddenly had what passed as a flash of inspiration in his book. A name half-remembered from the map. Pen Lucy. Of course! He had known a Lucy back in school. She had always been nice to him, until she moved away to Fresno in eighth grade. Obviously, Pen Lucy had to be the best place in all of Baltimore if they named it after such a nice girl.
He looked up at the roaring of engines, dozens of them approaching. Mom had always told him to stay on the sidewalk, so he was doing that when the souped-up bikes and pickups bearing the WAR militia roared around the corner, headed straight for the LZ. Great, Cro-Magnum thought. Someone he could ask for directions. He waved both hands over his head, trying to get their attention.
One of the stragglers, alone on his Harley-Davidson, saw the man on the side of the road. With an evil grin, he flicked the bike towards Cro-Magnum, free hand pulling the Ruger P89 from his holster-
-it was as though he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. All of the sudden, the Neo-Nazi realized his bike was no longer beneath him, traveling freely without him down the street. He was in the air, but he couldn't breathe. Had he been shot?
The white supremacist slammed into the ground, his bike innocently tipping over a good thirty feet further down the road. Cro-Magnum rubbed the palm of his hand, still sore from tapping the man in the chest as he drove past. "Sorry," he said to the biker, turning blue as he lay on the ground. "I didn't think you'd be able to hear me with that bike going. Do you know how to get to Pen Lucy?"
There were shouts up the road, a honking of horns. Cro-Magnum looked up to see a couple of the WAR trucks turning around, fingers pointed in his direction, rifles raised.
"Oh, dear."
He didn't really know Baltimore. If this had been going on back in Alamogordo, he would've known every alleyway, every nook and cranny. In holding, Freddie had sat down in front of a map, staring at it for hours and hours, trying to memorize it. But now that he was down on the ground, surrounded by buildings and burning cars, he couldn't make it work. The ground wasn't yellow like on the map, it was really confusing him. Where could he go?
Though he usually got a blinding headache if he tried to think for too long, Cro-Magnum suddenly had what passed as a flash of inspiration in his book. A name half-remembered from the map. Pen Lucy. Of course! He had known a Lucy back in school. She had always been nice to him, until she moved away to Fresno in eighth grade. Obviously, Pen Lucy had to be the best place in all of Baltimore if they named it after such a nice girl.
He looked up at the roaring of engines, dozens of them approaching. Mom had always told him to stay on the sidewalk, so he was doing that when the souped-up bikes and pickups bearing the WAR militia roared around the corner, headed straight for the LZ. Great, Cro-Magnum thought. Someone he could ask for directions. He waved both hands over his head, trying to get their attention.
One of the stragglers, alone on his Harley-Davidson, saw the man on the side of the road. With an evil grin, he flicked the bike towards Cro-Magnum, free hand pulling the Ruger P89 from his holster-
-it was as though he had been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. All of the sudden, the Neo-Nazi realized his bike was no longer beneath him, traveling freely without him down the street. He was in the air, but he couldn't breathe. Had he been shot?
The white supremacist slammed into the ground, his bike innocently tipping over a good thirty feet further down the road. Cro-Magnum rubbed the palm of his hand, still sore from tapping the man in the chest as he drove past. "Sorry," he said to the biker, turning blue as he lay on the ground. "I didn't think you'd be able to hear me with that bike going. Do you know how to get to Pen Lucy?"
There were shouts up the road, a honking of horns. Cro-Magnum looked up to see a couple of the WAR trucks turning around, fingers pointed in his direction, rifles raised.
"Oh, dear."
Colm blinked, a little taken aback as the girl sat down across from him and began a relentless stream of commentary and questions. A bit startled at being shaken out of his reverie, he looked around the room. The girl seemed pretty young to be traveling alone. Was her mother or father along with her? Not to mention being addressed as "Tall, Dark, and Handsome" by a girl who looked no older than eighteen made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.
A shadow seemed to move outside one of the windows, gone by the time he looked fully at it. His jaw tightened. Was he being visited by the Great Mouse Detective? In broad daylight and a public place? Where was it going to stop?
Colm forced himself to the present, and forced a smile on his face as well as the young lady extended her hand and introduced herself as Tallah. "Uh, Malcolm," he said, giving her hand a quick pump. "Just call me Colm. And yeah, the food here's real good. Heads and tails over other hotels. You know, it's weird, there was a guy just now. Real weird-looking guy. And he kept talking about the food in this town. I thought he was a little touched in the head, but now that I've had some of these eggs I see where he's coming from." Colm gave a smile at that, trying to seem light and at ease. But he was having difficulty focusing on Tallah, instead looking over her shoulder, out a window looking out into a small grassy courtyard.
It was there.
The leather jacket, the tie, the peaked hat. And below, where there should be a face, just dozens of mice piled together, crawling over one another and sniffing at the air, but always maintaining the same general shape of a human head. The clothing sometimes bulged, stretched, receded, and Colm could only guess that there were hundreds more mice underneath that coat. It stood in the courtyard, leaning casually against an ash tree, looking towards the window. Did anyone else see it? Could anyone else see it? He had never really dealt with it with other people around, aside from Maureen, of course. This was a first.
He took a long, desperate sip from his coffee, trying to hide his discomfort. He wasn't going to draw attention to it, he decided. If someone else noticed, great. But he wasn't going to say anything.
"So," Colm said, maybe a little too cheerfully. "Where you headed, Tallah?"
A shadow seemed to move outside one of the windows, gone by the time he looked fully at it. His jaw tightened. Was he being visited by the Great Mouse Detective? In broad daylight and a public place? Where was it going to stop?
Colm forced himself to the present, and forced a smile on his face as well as the young lady extended her hand and introduced herself as Tallah. "Uh, Malcolm," he said, giving her hand a quick pump. "Just call me Colm. And yeah, the food here's real good. Heads and tails over other hotels. You know, it's weird, there was a guy just now. Real weird-looking guy. And he kept talking about the food in this town. I thought he was a little touched in the head, but now that I've had some of these eggs I see where he's coming from." Colm gave a smile at that, trying to seem light and at ease. But he was having difficulty focusing on Tallah, instead looking over her shoulder, out a window looking out into a small grassy courtyard.
It was there.
The leather jacket, the tie, the peaked hat. And below, where there should be a face, just dozens of mice piled together, crawling over one another and sniffing at the air, but always maintaining the same general shape of a human head. The clothing sometimes bulged, stretched, receded, and Colm could only guess that there were hundreds more mice underneath that coat. It stood in the courtyard, leaning casually against an ash tree, looking towards the window. Did anyone else see it? Could anyone else see it? He had never really dealt with it with other people around, aside from Maureen, of course. This was a first.
He took a long, desperate sip from his coffee, trying to hide his discomfort. He wasn't going to draw attention to it, he decided. If someone else noticed, great. But he wasn't going to say anything.
"So," Colm said, maybe a little too cheerfully. "Where you headed, Tallah?"
Is it cool if I wait until the next mission to introduce Sixgun? Having him show up towards the end of a fight seems a little pointless.
Levex321 said
I'm.. sorry. I don't believe i will be able to participate in this RP. My schedule doesnt really allow it.. It's not a great time to announce this, granted. But i hope you forgive me. Thank you.. I hope to read instead.
Well, I'm very sorry to hear that, but I understand your reasons. Maybe we'll bump into one another in another RP.
robtheguru said
Can we see each others stalkers?I for the life of me can't remember reading anything saying whether we can or not lol
You can. That's if they feel like showing themselves, though.
nonsequitur said
Also, I didn't get the characterisation of the creepy tall man wrong, did I? I tried to make it cryptic and a little sinister, but I'm not sure if I made him too affable or anything...
No, it was perfect! Exactly the sort of thing he'd say.
Don't use the length of mine as a guideline, I was just trying to set the mood.
In
The League - Superhero Sci Fi and Urban Fantasy RP (Nearly Unlimited Recruitment)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Character Sheets
Name: Benjamin Brady/ Black
Codename: Sixgun
Age: 34, or maybe 158, depending on how you keep track
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Chino Valley, Arizona
Affiliations: Sixgun is mostly an independent operator, though he does have sympathetic contacts in the Phoenix PD and is cut some berth. His main partner/ confidant/ adviser is a Phoenix-area Catholic priest, Father Julio Ochoa
Occupation: Barback, part-time vigilante
Appearance: Ben Brady is a tall and rawboned white man, dried up and constantly looking sunburned. In his Sixgun persona, he wears a modernized version of the classic cowboy ensemble: brown leather cowboy boots, blue jeans, a pistol belt, work shirt, brown motorcycle jacket, and white Stetson. He protects his identity through the simple expedient of a bandanna tied around the lower half of his face and secured with spirit gum.
Powers: Sixgun is pretty sure he has no powers, though he is unsure of what might happen if he's killed a second time. He's in no hurry to find out.
Skills: Sixgun's main skill lies in his extraordinary skill with firearms, particularly single-action revolvers. Having honed an innate talent with countless hours of practice, he is able to draw and let off aimed shots in a very small amount of time, less than a second on a good day. In addition, he is also skilled with a lariat and a Bowie knife, though not nearly to the same degree. He is also a competent (though untrained) hand-to-hand combatant, depending on a rough and ready combination of boxing and wrestling fundamentals. Sixgun also has some proficiency in riding and tracking, though these skills have gotten rusty with disuse.
Equipment/Resources: Sixgun carries two Ruger Blackhawk revolvers (.357 Magnum) on his pistol belt. A 10-inch Bowie knife is tucked into his right boot, and a rope lariat is ready to go at the small of his back. He also wears light body armor underneath his jacket. He has confiscated money stockpiled as well, taken from criminals and used to cover his expenses.
Weaknesses: Sixgun possesses all the frailties of a normal human being. In addition, he is still struggling to adjust to modern times- not only technology, but also changes in values, attitudes, and language.
Psychological Profile: Sixgun used to be a very greedy, bitter, and hateful man. Those inherent traits have not vanished, but he is now making a constant effort to suppress them and behave in a more ethical fashion. He feels a great deal of guilt over his previous life and wishes to make amends, "break even" as he puts it. In a crisis, he often has to stop himself from going with a first instinct in order to do something responsible instead. That said, Sixgun loves adventure and the thrill of a good fight.
Biography: Benjamin Black was born in the Arizona Territory in 1859. His mother died giving birth, leaving him with just his father Arnold, the operator of a remote trading post. The two were close, operating the business together and supplementing their income by hunting game in the high desert. Young Ben discovered a talent for shooting on these hunting excursions, and took to taking game with a revolver as a self-imposed challenge.
His peaceful life was interrupted in 1876, when a few escaped fugitives came upon the Blacks' post. Not content with ransacking the store for valuables and supplies, the leader of the band callously shot Arnold Black dead. Ben flew into a berserk rage, beginning a gunfight that killed two of the gang and sent the others in flight. Benjamin Black discovered at that moment that he had rather a taste for violence. With no further income, he abandoned the trading post and drifted into a life of crime.
Several audacious armed robberies later, Ben "the Sixgun Kid" Black was the leader of his own band of cutthroats. However, he had become cold, greedy, and crueler over time. In 1888, after killing a sheriff's deputy for no real reason except to pick a fight with the county's lawmen, Ben's gang tired of his reckless antics and put two rounds of buckshot in his back outside of Phoenix. He was carted away and given an unmarked pauper's grave in a little Catholic mission.
Fast forward to 2012 and the chaos of the Awakening.
Unnoticed amidst the darkness, panic, and lawlessness, a naked man clawed his way out of a grave in a churchyard that was now the Laveen district of metropolitan Phoenix. Confused and frightened, thinking for sure he was dead, Ben Black stumbled to the nearest building and pounded on the door, asking for help. The building happened to be the rectory for a sparsely attended, almost forgotten little Catholic church. The priest, Father Julio Ochoa, took him in, assuming him to be yet another victim of the disaster. As news of the Awakening came out and Ben discovered to his horror it was now more than a hundred years after his death, Ochoa realized that this man had been brought back to life after certain death, restored to the body of a 29-year-old man. The priest listened sympathetically as Ben haltingly recounted his past life, all of his misdeeds and cruelties. Looking back on his life, Ben realized it had been a waste. Why, he wondered, would such an evil man be brought back to life?
Father Ochoa contemplated this, and then made the simple suggestion that this was his opportunity to correct his mistakes, to lead a good and worthy life.
Ben embraced the idea wholeheartedly, particularly once the news of costumed crimefighters came out. Working with the priest, he was able to use the parish records of a Benjamin Brady who died as an infant in 1982. Overworked civil servants assumed he was one of the thousands who lost paperwork in the Awakening and issued him everything he needed to start anew. Though the transition to modern times was a bit rocky, Ben was still able to get a job as a barback at a popular Phoenix cop bar. Eavesdropping on officers discussing casework, he used his combat skills and knowledge of criminal minds (unchanged after all these years) to help apprehend drug dealers, gangsters, and other criminals. Gaining confidence and understanding of the new world of Phoenix, Ben has been slowly but steadily moving up the ladder of crime, gearing up to take on the Cartel presence in Phoenix. He has gained contacts and informants on both sides of the law. As far as anyone knows, he's a modern man who assumed a cowboy theme, only Ochoa knows of his resurrection.
Lately, though, he is beginning to feel as though what he is doing is insufficient towards righting his wrongs. Maybe he needs to set his sights a bit higher than drug rings. Maybe this League he keeps hearing about is the key towards "breaking even."
Codename: Sixgun
Age: 34, or maybe 158, depending on how you keep track
Gender: Male
Place of Birth: Chino Valley, Arizona
Affiliations: Sixgun is mostly an independent operator, though he does have sympathetic contacts in the Phoenix PD and is cut some berth. His main partner/ confidant/ adviser is a Phoenix-area Catholic priest, Father Julio Ochoa
Occupation: Barback, part-time vigilante
Appearance: Ben Brady is a tall and rawboned white man, dried up and constantly looking sunburned. In his Sixgun persona, he wears a modernized version of the classic cowboy ensemble: brown leather cowboy boots, blue jeans, a pistol belt, work shirt, brown motorcycle jacket, and white Stetson. He protects his identity through the simple expedient of a bandanna tied around the lower half of his face and secured with spirit gum.
Powers: Sixgun is pretty sure he has no powers, though he is unsure of what might happen if he's killed a second time. He's in no hurry to find out.
Skills: Sixgun's main skill lies in his extraordinary skill with firearms, particularly single-action revolvers. Having honed an innate talent with countless hours of practice, he is able to draw and let off aimed shots in a very small amount of time, less than a second on a good day. In addition, he is also skilled with a lariat and a Bowie knife, though not nearly to the same degree. He is also a competent (though untrained) hand-to-hand combatant, depending on a rough and ready combination of boxing and wrestling fundamentals. Sixgun also has some proficiency in riding and tracking, though these skills have gotten rusty with disuse.
Equipment/Resources: Sixgun carries two Ruger Blackhawk revolvers (.357 Magnum) on his pistol belt. A 10-inch Bowie knife is tucked into his right boot, and a rope lariat is ready to go at the small of his back. He also wears light body armor underneath his jacket. He has confiscated money stockpiled as well, taken from criminals and used to cover his expenses.
Weaknesses: Sixgun possesses all the frailties of a normal human being. In addition, he is still struggling to adjust to modern times- not only technology, but also changes in values, attitudes, and language.
Psychological Profile: Sixgun used to be a very greedy, bitter, and hateful man. Those inherent traits have not vanished, but he is now making a constant effort to suppress them and behave in a more ethical fashion. He feels a great deal of guilt over his previous life and wishes to make amends, "break even" as he puts it. In a crisis, he often has to stop himself from going with a first instinct in order to do something responsible instead. That said, Sixgun loves adventure and the thrill of a good fight.
Biography: Benjamin Black was born in the Arizona Territory in 1859. His mother died giving birth, leaving him with just his father Arnold, the operator of a remote trading post. The two were close, operating the business together and supplementing their income by hunting game in the high desert. Young Ben discovered a talent for shooting on these hunting excursions, and took to taking game with a revolver as a self-imposed challenge.
His peaceful life was interrupted in 1876, when a few escaped fugitives came upon the Blacks' post. Not content with ransacking the store for valuables and supplies, the leader of the band callously shot Arnold Black dead. Ben flew into a berserk rage, beginning a gunfight that killed two of the gang and sent the others in flight. Benjamin Black discovered at that moment that he had rather a taste for violence. With no further income, he abandoned the trading post and drifted into a life of crime.
Several audacious armed robberies later, Ben "the Sixgun Kid" Black was the leader of his own band of cutthroats. However, he had become cold, greedy, and crueler over time. In 1888, after killing a sheriff's deputy for no real reason except to pick a fight with the county's lawmen, Ben's gang tired of his reckless antics and put two rounds of buckshot in his back outside of Phoenix. He was carted away and given an unmarked pauper's grave in a little Catholic mission.
Fast forward to 2012 and the chaos of the Awakening.
Unnoticed amidst the darkness, panic, and lawlessness, a naked man clawed his way out of a grave in a churchyard that was now the Laveen district of metropolitan Phoenix. Confused and frightened, thinking for sure he was dead, Ben Black stumbled to the nearest building and pounded on the door, asking for help. The building happened to be the rectory for a sparsely attended, almost forgotten little Catholic church. The priest, Father Julio Ochoa, took him in, assuming him to be yet another victim of the disaster. As news of the Awakening came out and Ben discovered to his horror it was now more than a hundred years after his death, Ochoa realized that this man had been brought back to life after certain death, restored to the body of a 29-year-old man. The priest listened sympathetically as Ben haltingly recounted his past life, all of his misdeeds and cruelties. Looking back on his life, Ben realized it had been a waste. Why, he wondered, would such an evil man be brought back to life?
Father Ochoa contemplated this, and then made the simple suggestion that this was his opportunity to correct his mistakes, to lead a good and worthy life.
Ben embraced the idea wholeheartedly, particularly once the news of costumed crimefighters came out. Working with the priest, he was able to use the parish records of a Benjamin Brady who died as an infant in 1982. Overworked civil servants assumed he was one of the thousands who lost paperwork in the Awakening and issued him everything he needed to start anew. Though the transition to modern times was a bit rocky, Ben was still able to get a job as a barback at a popular Phoenix cop bar. Eavesdropping on officers discussing casework, he used his combat skills and knowledge of criminal minds (unchanged after all these years) to help apprehend drug dealers, gangsters, and other criminals. Gaining confidence and understanding of the new world of Phoenix, Ben has been slowly but steadily moving up the ladder of crime, gearing up to take on the Cartel presence in Phoenix. He has gained contacts and informants on both sides of the law. As far as anyone knows, he's a modern man who assumed a cowboy theme, only Ochoa knows of his resurrection.
Lately, though, he is beginning to feel as though what he is doing is insufficient towards righting his wrongs. Maybe he needs to set his sights a bit higher than drug rings. Maybe this League he keeps hearing about is the key towards "breaking even."
Let's do this, guys. Feel free to come to breakfast and try and meet the other players. Or not. It's up to you.
Malcolm Davies yawned as he trudged to the little dining room off the lobby. The Hawkeye Inn was quaint, picturesque, tastefully decorated. Colm didn't give a shit. It was just another in a long string of motels, each one further away from Seattle. He had rolled into this little town in- Nebraska? No, wait, it was the Hawkeye Inn, not the Cornhusker Inn. It had been three in the morning, his eyes heavy with fatigue. He vaguely remembered the desk clerk, a tall woman with dark hair and blue eyes. Her name had been Siobhan, he was pretty sure. An old Irish name.
Like Maureen.
He shook his head angrily at the thought of his erstwhile girlfriend. Come on, Davies, get it together. Still yawning, he ran through his plan for the day. Get a cup of coffee, maybe some eggs. Gas up the Tahoe, keep heading east. Maybe hit Chicago next. Or maybe that was too far. Maybe just as far as the Quad Cities. He hadn't gotten much sleep. Not with that thing peering at him from the bathroom door.
It was still earlyish, eight or so. He had just given up on sleeping. A holdover from his long nights on stakeouts, watching some punk's home for any sign of activity, anything at all. Except this time it felt more like he was the one being staked out. By a bunch of mice, no less. What a load of bullshit.
The French doors to the dining room were invitingly open, and Colm smiled at the inviting scent of a dark roast. Smelled like good quality stuff, too. Far and away above the usual motel coffee. Always a plus. His pace quickened slightly.
Colm came to an abrupt stop as a man came out of the doorway. He was very tall, nearly seven feet, rail-thin. Caucasian, with that smooth unblemished skin that makes it almost impossible to guess an age. And dressed in a dark green suit, a bit old-fashioned. The tall man grinned at Colm, with a mouth that seemed like a huge slit cut in his face. The grin was almost impossibly wide, almost literally from ear to ear. Colm was almost taken aback at the sheer size of the man's mouth.
"Watkins was right," the man in the green suit said.
"Beg pardon?" Colm asked. He wasn't quite sure what the man was trying to say.
"You are going to breakfast?" the tall man continued. His voice was just off. He had no accent, but the inflections, emphases, and pauses were just all wrong. Like he read English perfectly but rarely had the opportunity to speak it.
"Yes, sir," Colm replied patiently. He had come across several eccentrics and harmless crazies in his time as a cop. All you could do was wait them out.
"Good, good!" the man said with his enormous smile. "That is how you get big and strong!" Maybe it was the man's height, but he seemed to be looking past Colm. Like he was speaking to someone else behind him. "It is always good to eat, and this town is so good for eating!"
"Of course," Colm said with a nod.
"It is an intersection. A crossroads. The best eating is always there. But there's more to life than food, eh?" The tall man winked, his huge grin still stretched out as he walked off in long, ambling strides. "And welcome to Rainey, Detective!"
Colm stared for a moment, unsure whether he had mentioned his vocation. After a moment he shrugged. He had probably said something in his sleep-deprived state. Getting out of this town was sounding more and more attractive.
Colm sauntered into the dining room, poured himself a cup of what proved to be an excellent Colombian roast, as well as some eggs Benedict and bacon. Even for this complimentary breakfast, all the food was of very high quality, cooked with expensive ingredients. Maybe that's what the tall man had talked about.
He looked around the dining room, saw only one other person eating. A young man with shoulder-length hair and a blue turtleneck despite the summer heat, leafing through a newspaper. Might as well leave him be. He settled in at an empty table, eyes on the door. Cop habit. Always good to see who was coming and going.
Like Maureen.
He shook his head angrily at the thought of his erstwhile girlfriend. Come on, Davies, get it together. Still yawning, he ran through his plan for the day. Get a cup of coffee, maybe some eggs. Gas up the Tahoe, keep heading east. Maybe hit Chicago next. Or maybe that was too far. Maybe just as far as the Quad Cities. He hadn't gotten much sleep. Not with that thing peering at him from the bathroom door.
It was still earlyish, eight or so. He had just given up on sleeping. A holdover from his long nights on stakeouts, watching some punk's home for any sign of activity, anything at all. Except this time it felt more like he was the one being staked out. By a bunch of mice, no less. What a load of bullshit.
The French doors to the dining room were invitingly open, and Colm smiled at the inviting scent of a dark roast. Smelled like good quality stuff, too. Far and away above the usual motel coffee. Always a plus. His pace quickened slightly.
Colm came to an abrupt stop as a man came out of the doorway. He was very tall, nearly seven feet, rail-thin. Caucasian, with that smooth unblemished skin that makes it almost impossible to guess an age. And dressed in a dark green suit, a bit old-fashioned. The tall man grinned at Colm, with a mouth that seemed like a huge slit cut in his face. The grin was almost impossibly wide, almost literally from ear to ear. Colm was almost taken aback at the sheer size of the man's mouth.
"Watkins was right," the man in the green suit said.
"Beg pardon?" Colm asked. He wasn't quite sure what the man was trying to say.
"You are going to breakfast?" the tall man continued. His voice was just off. He had no accent, but the inflections, emphases, and pauses were just all wrong. Like he read English perfectly but rarely had the opportunity to speak it.
"Yes, sir," Colm replied patiently. He had come across several eccentrics and harmless crazies in his time as a cop. All you could do was wait them out.
"Good, good!" the man said with his enormous smile. "That is how you get big and strong!" Maybe it was the man's height, but he seemed to be looking past Colm. Like he was speaking to someone else behind him. "It is always good to eat, and this town is so good for eating!"
"Of course," Colm said with a nod.
"It is an intersection. A crossroads. The best eating is always there. But there's more to life than food, eh?" The tall man winked, his huge grin still stretched out as he walked off in long, ambling strides. "And welcome to Rainey, Detective!"
Colm stared for a moment, unsure whether he had mentioned his vocation. After a moment he shrugged. He had probably said something in his sleep-deprived state. Getting out of this town was sounding more and more attractive.
Colm sauntered into the dining room, poured himself a cup of what proved to be an excellent Colombian roast, as well as some eggs Benedict and bacon. Even for this complimentary breakfast, all the food was of very high quality, cooked with expensive ingredients. Maybe that's what the tall man had talked about.
He looked around the dining room, saw only one other person eating. A young man with shoulder-length hair and a blue turtleneck despite the summer heat, leafing through a newspaper. Might as well leave him be. He settled in at an empty table, eyes on the door. Cop habit. Always good to see who was coming and going.
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