Re: The Fearsome Encounter (GBS3G8) [Round 1: Circumlocution]
08-17-2011, 03:06 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by 50,000 Unstoppable Watts!.
Saturday still remembered the boy's face. It would be a grave disservice to forget one's killer. He was younger than his sister, couldn't have been more than thirteen. But he gripped the gun like he'd used it before, or like the great, hulking beast of revenge was teaching him how, whispering in his ear, "Kill the old fuck." His eyes betrayed no second thoughts. His clothes and hair were caked with sweat; he'd come a long way, come running, knowing what was to transpire and knowing he might arrive to see his beloved sister in a heap on the grass. He'd been better prepared than old Bo by a damn sight.
"Good kid."
Saturday didn't realize he was awake 'til he spoke. It was hard to tell lately. He rested on something rough, prickly--branches, he guessed. His view of the sky was like swiss cheese through a blanket of leaves. A crisp summer breeze washed over Saturday. He might've been more refreshed if he could really feel it. Wasn't quite the same since he'd died. Even so, he smiled at the sentiment. It was a nice day in Lord-Knows-Where.
Crick. Crrrrick.
Saturday's branch gave out. He tumbled fifteen feet to the ground, cussing all the way.
Can smoke laugh? One might've found out if anyone had been observing the Viscount at this particular moment, for the mist around his "mouth" puffed and wrinkled as he watched the old man fall. <font color="#4040A0">What a buffoon, he thought to himself. I might've picked a better one to watch. Then again, the weaker he is, the more likely he is to seek allies. The Viscount kept his distance, content to stalk from the shadows for now. He had a feeling about this one, a feeling that there was something more to him, something dangerous. He needed watching.</font>
Saturday stumbled to his feet. He spat leaves and flaired out his coat, trying to clean himself of the dirt from the fall. Then, as he retrieved his hat and cane, he felt something grasp his shoulder. Something rigid, pointy.
Claw. Claw. Claw. It's the spider thing. It's got to be the spider thing. It's gonna rip my ribcage open. I'm dead. I'm dead. I lost already. I lost and I'm gonna die and I'm dead. Arse piss hell shit damn--
Chirp chirp.
"...Oh."
A kingfisher perched on his shoulder, eying him curiously. When he turned to face it, it tilted its head. Saturday followed suit.
"Well ain't you a cute lil' avian."
Chirp.
"You flutter on outta here, now. Ah'm thinkin' there's 'bout t' be a scuffle soon."
Tweet!
The bird assaulted his coat. Saturday cussed and flailed, accomplishing exactly nothing. The bird came up a few moments later with a big coin with Saturday's face on it. He stared at it for a solid few seconds before he remembered what it was for.
"...Oh, shit! Hey, gimme that back, y' mangy flappin' bastard!"
The kingfisher took off, heading for a warehouse to the east. Saturday bounded after it like the oaf he was.
Can smoke sigh? One might've found out if anyone had been observing the Viscount at this particular moment, for the mist around his "mouth" poured forth in a steady stream as he watched the old man chase the bird. <font color="#4040A0">Well, he thought to himself, I guess even my instincts are wrong from time to time. Either way, at least Saturday was headed for the warehouse; chances were better of finding someone else there, someone worth the effort of stalking. Viscount followed at length, cursing his judgment.</font>
Saturday still remembered the boy's face. It would be a grave disservice to forget one's killer. He was younger than his sister, couldn't have been more than thirteen. But he gripped the gun like he'd used it before, or like the great, hulking beast of revenge was teaching him how, whispering in his ear, "Kill the old fuck." His eyes betrayed no second thoughts. His clothes and hair were caked with sweat; he'd come a long way, come running, knowing what was to transpire and knowing he might arrive to see his beloved sister in a heap on the grass. He'd been better prepared than old Bo by a damn sight.
"Good kid."
Saturday didn't realize he was awake 'til he spoke. It was hard to tell lately. He rested on something rough, prickly--branches, he guessed. His view of the sky was like swiss cheese through a blanket of leaves. A crisp summer breeze washed over Saturday. He might've been more refreshed if he could really feel it. Wasn't quite the same since he'd died. Even so, he smiled at the sentiment. It was a nice day in Lord-Knows-Where.
Crick. Crrrrick.
Saturday's branch gave out. He tumbled fifteen feet to the ground, cussing all the way.
Can smoke laugh? One might've found out if anyone had been observing the Viscount at this particular moment, for the mist around his "mouth" puffed and wrinkled as he watched the old man fall. <font color="#4040A0">What a buffoon, he thought to himself. I might've picked a better one to watch. Then again, the weaker he is, the more likely he is to seek allies. The Viscount kept his distance, content to stalk from the shadows for now. He had a feeling about this one, a feeling that there was something more to him, something dangerous. He needed watching.</font>
Saturday stumbled to his feet. He spat leaves and flaired out his coat, trying to clean himself of the dirt from the fall. Then, as he retrieved his hat and cane, he felt something grasp his shoulder. Something rigid, pointy.
Claw. Claw. Claw. It's the spider thing. It's got to be the spider thing. It's gonna rip my ribcage open. I'm dead. I'm dead. I lost already. I lost and I'm gonna die and I'm dead. Arse piss hell shit damn--
Chirp chirp.
"...Oh."
A kingfisher perched on his shoulder, eying him curiously. When he turned to face it, it tilted its head. Saturday followed suit.
"Well ain't you a cute lil' avian."
Chirp.
"You flutter on outta here, now. Ah'm thinkin' there's 'bout t' be a scuffle soon."
Tweet!
The bird assaulted his coat. Saturday cussed and flailed, accomplishing exactly nothing. The bird came up a few moments later with a big coin with Saturday's face on it. He stared at it for a solid few seconds before he remembered what it was for.
"...Oh, shit! Hey, gimme that back, y' mangy flappin' bastard!"
The kingfisher took off, heading for a warehouse to the east. Saturday bounded after it like the oaf he was.
Can smoke sigh? One might've found out if anyone had been observing the Viscount at this particular moment, for the mist around his "mouth" poured forth in a steady stream as he watched the old man chase the bird. <font color="#4040A0">Well, he thought to himself, I guess even my instincts are wrong from time to time. Either way, at least Saturday was headed for the warehouse; chances were better of finding someone else there, someone worth the effort of stalking. Viscount followed at length, cursing his judgment.</font>
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