A flame from the past

As Tom woke up to one of his treasured days off, he realized that he had a message waiting on his cell phone. Checking it, he saw that it was Christie Hawkes, an old flame from- oh, it had to be from last year. Christie was an independent woman, self assured and in business for herself. She was vague about what the business was, but let it slip that she procured interesting items that people paid top dollar for.

In listening to the message, he was surprised at the tone that the message took.

"Hey Tom, it's Christie. I didn't want to have to involve you in this, but I can't get ahold of Rick." Rick? A fellow fireman in his House? He didn't know Rick and Christie even knew each other! "He asked for something pretty special, and I've procured it for him. It would really put me in a bind if he flakes out on me, Tom. Can you get him the message to meet me just out of Detroit at the Good Nite Inn off of exit 12? And no- its not for that. Thanks, Tom.

Wouldn't hate it if you came along."

Tom scratched at the five-o-clock shadow that was just beginning to grace his jaw. What the hell was this about? It sounded like Christie had either taken up dealing, or she continued to have a thing for sliding down the fire pole. Neither of which made him want to get involved. His drug of choice came with a set of thighs, and menage a...threesomes--whatever, he failed French class in high school--weren't his thing either. But whatever, a friend in need was a pain in the ass not easily ignored. Plus he sometimes talked Rick into holding the bag for him in the ring, so he probably owed him a small favor at least.

Not knowing what Rick was up to today, he settled for tapping out a text message.

Got a call from Christie Hawkes, trying to track you down. Said you had some kind of special request and she wanted to deliver at the Good Nite Inn. Don't ignore the nookie or they get ideas about tapping another hydrant, capiche? ~Tom P.S. Next time pick a motel with clean sheets and fewer roaches.

After a few moments, the text came back from Rick. Chat speak or leet wasn't Rick's normal texting, but this almost made Rick look damaged.

Can'tg get to there, car all messed up. Im messed up. need you come getmeatdetroitbusstationlikenaomanhurry1!!

Tom groaned. There goes his shot at being at the gym as the Ladies' Hot Yoga class let out. Rick was gonna owe him big.

"You better be on a bender for the ages, assshole..." he muttered as he pulled on his boots and snagged his keys off the counter. Walking outside he used the clicker to unlock the doors to his dinged-up Jeep Cherokee. He'd intended to wash the thing this afternoon to make it presentable for any future dates. Maybe he could make Rick pay for that as well, he mused as he backed out.

The ride to the bus stop was free of any delays. The music on the X sort of sucked- almost as bad as a Sunday night- but he arrived all the same. Glancing around the parking lot, he was faced with an incredulous sight. Rick- who while not as dedicated to the gym as Tom himself- was a fairly fit guy. Tom believed he could take care of himself, not that Rick was one for ruffling feathers.

Perhaps something had changed, because Rick looked like shit now. His face looked as though someone had gone at him with a real bone to pick. His left eye was puffy and was already promising a good bruise. As he spotted Tom's Jeep he moved towards the car, moving gingerly. He winces as he eases into the passenger seat.

Now that he's closer, you can see the flecks of blood on the collar of his gray T- shirt.

"Thanks man." He replied a bit muffled, his jaw not quite set right. "Got in a bit of trouble this morning... Some jack ass wrecked my car, too."

John drove his motorcycle up to the gas pumps at the rest stop. It had been a bit since he had been back in Detroit and he better make sure he was filled up. He had his stuff with him from his trip to Chicago. He didn't want to have to do it, but he left his only friend behind. Well, it wasn't his friend anymore-friends tend to be alive.

He had lost a bit of himself on that trip. It was painful to see a daemon remove your friend's reason to life. But the revenge was sweet.

He pulled out his dead friend's credit card and paid for the gas. Better use this while I still can, he thought to himself.

He looked out among the cars coming and going and thought about getting back to his place in Detroit.

Tom: "What the fuck? The bruises aren't from the car wreck? Whose wife did you get caught with, Rick? You call the cops on the prick?"

Storyteller: Rick shifted umcomfortably. Rick was normally a pretty straight shooter, so this not meeting eye comtact was an unpleasant new development. "Got nothing to do with someones' wife, man. Just got caught up in something I didn't see coming... so Christie. She said she got what I needed, right? 'Cause-" He stops talking suddenly, instead turning around and looking back the way he had come.

Tom: "Yeah, she said she got it. You're gonna have to give me a bit more than that though, Rick. I was expecting you drunk off your ass with some panties as a neck-tie, not looking like you went five rounds with Lesner."

Storyteller: "You mind we take this on the road?" Rick replied, staring over his shoulder. "I got no problem with that, but- I think the guys picked up some friends." When you turn aroud and look in his direction, all you see is the usual hectic bustle around the bus stop. Then suddenly unexplicitly fills you with dread. You swear that your heart skips a beat, like its just too scared to pump. Then its back and its pumping fear and adreniline through your body.

Tom: Tom curses under his breath and jams the car into drive and cuts off the oncoming traffic.

Storyteller: The anxiety slowly fades as the bus stop shinks in the distance. Rick is quiet, bbut you catch him watching you out of the corner of his eye. He has a look you haven't seen before, a shrewed sort of look. "I hate to do it, Tom." he begins. "- but I could really use a ride..."

Tom: He points a thumb back in the direction they came from. "Price of your ride is explaining what the hell that was about back there. Then you can pick up your eight-ball or vibrating cockring, or whatever you got Christie buying for you."

Storyteller: "You felt it, didn't you." Rick is losing the beguiling friend tone. There's something new in his voice, a wariness that sets you on edge. "That squeezing your heart bullshit? I hate when they do that." He faces forward again. He doesn't immediately speak, but his expression looks conflicted. You sense that he is wording what his explaination will be with great care.

Tom: "Yeah I felt my asshole pucker too. They who, Rick? I see your mouth moving, but you haven't really said anything yet."

Storyteller: "Last week, I went up to see my folks. My dads' sick, so my mom hasn't been out much. Thought I'd take thier minds off it." Rick is staring straight ahead, not glancing at you. "My parents- they're not themselves. They jump when the wind dlams the door, not that they ever leave it iopen anymore. The whole street is spooked. So, I go talk to the nieghbor and he says tehres these addicts that moved to town. They got a wickid expsensive habit and they don't care who they take from to feed it. So, turns out Christie was there last week too, helping Mr. Crieghton clear up some of his troubles. He says she's got something for the next time those assholes drop by my folks house. I think that I surely need it, because you can see how well I did on my lonesome."

Storyteller: (done. I like novels as well)

Tom: Tom rubbed at the headache growing in his temple. Rick still wasn't making any sense. Never take calls from ex-flings again, he vowed. "So what's this something?"
Storyteller: Rick frowned and rubbed his shoulder, wincing with pain. "Truth be told, I really don't know. Christie says it will clear things right up. Your girl trucks with wierd shit. Though she ain't your girl any more, is she. People know her where my folks live, speak real nice of her. Makes me think maybe she knows something."

Tom: "Definitely not my girl. So what did you do to get your ass kicked?"

Storyteller: "I showed up with my slugger. Fuckers were in my moms' kitchen with thier hands on her purse." Rage is blossoming on his face. His bloodied knuckles clench in anger, his jaw sets even though you think you just heard something pop.

Tom: Tom finally shows a hint of understanding, and some admiration. "Fuckin' A." He taps Rick lightly with a fist. "Your parents ok?"

Storyteller: "Yeah. Seems like they take to locking themselves in the bedroom at night. Fucking police, they don't even come when called. What the fuck is that, man?"

Tom: "That's Detroit for 'ya, bro. Only thing more fucked up than our brothers in blue are the Lions' playoff chances."

Storyteller: "Yeah. Its fucked up. My parents refuse to move in with me and I can't stay there all the time, man. You see me having my mom do laundry like I'm a kid? Need to clean this shit up real quick like. Christies' sposed' to have it sorted out. Said she'll sell me something real good. So- you'll drive me up?"

Tom: "Yeah, I'll drive you. Don't know what you think is gonna get rid of a bunch of junkies unless its a .22. And I don't want any part of some shit like that, got it?"

Storyteller: "Hey man, I'm not looking to get locked up." Rick protests. "Way Christie talks, its more like a deterrent."

Tom: "Alright bro, lets go see what Christie's got.... besides an ass that won't quit." Tom grins and is quiet a moment. "Y'know I think this may be the first time I've ever been to a hotel in daytime?"

Storyteller: "God." Rick grimanced. "Please do not take it there. I'd like to get home without hearing first hand about the hotel liasons!"

Tom: Tom flashes a shit-eating grin at Rick's discomfort. "If I gotta be Morgan Freeman to your Ms. Daisy, the least you can do is pretend to like my stories. I ever tell you about the time with those Brazilian midget twins?...."

Storyteller: "Long as it isn't Christie. I do nt want to be saying 'thanks for the rabbit foot, and I hear you'e like- no." He shakes his head, smiling all the while.

Tom: "She's not Brazilian, she's more of a landing strip, from what I recall," Tom deadpans.

He looked out among the cars coming and going and thought about getting back to his place in Detroit.

As he looks around, he spots a beat-up beige sedan, about five years old, pulling in. A pretty woman parks next to him and begins to feed her car gas. She's checking her cell phone, whistling an off beat tune.

She has an angular look that would be pretty when she wants to be, but when she's focused, she seems driven and unattainable. She has long, auburn hair and you can smell the scent of the heavy fruit shampoo all the way where you are.

She only drops in 20$ worth of gas and heads towards the Good Nite Inn. From where you sit, the Good Nite Inn looks like a terrible idea for a pretty lady. Only two cars are in the parking lot. Speaking of which, you are the only car in this gas station.

The price of gas was really that scary to folks?

---

John and Rick head out of Detroit, a bare fifteen minutes towards Christie and the Good Nite Inn.

John watches her drive off with a keen eye. He knew that seedy motels weren't really good places for women to be- especially alone. Because of this thought, he got on his bike and drove towards the Good Nite Inn after finishing filling up.

At the very most, he thought, I'll get some kind of action and at the very least I'll be able to sleep a little.

The Good Nite Inn is a cornerstone of this small rest stop area which comprises of the Inn, the Chevron Gas station and the off beat small restaurant Sally's' that shares the parking lot with the gas station. You can't even see an ATM about or a sign promising one. The road leads off towards the turn pike and one junction continues straight through, heading of towards a treeline that seems to go on forever.

As John drives over, he doesn't immediately notice where the beat up sedan has been parked. The parking lot wraps around, suggesting that the woman may have driven around the back when she got out of his sight.

Glancing around the Inn revealed that it was in poor repair. The exterior lights seem to be in poor condition- the ones that weren't completely busted. The reception area of the Inn was a boxy set up- there was a single window with a sliding slot for night check ins. The door into the reception was a sturdy looking wooden one, with red paint that was peeling slightly.

After parking his motorcycle, which had his shotgun in a large architect's tube affixed to the side of it, John knocked on the window to the reception desk. "Hey," he said, "got any vacancies?" It was more of a rhetorical question, but it got the point across--he wanted a room.

He was in jeans and a t-shirt with a leather riding jacket over it. He was wearing a shoulder holster under his jacket holding his pistol. He kept his hatchet secured in a sheath in his messenger bag along with a change of jeans, underwear, socks, and a t-shirt. There was his exorcism book in the bag as well among the scattered bullets, receipts, sticks of gum, cigarettes, Bic lighters, and pens.

He had his bag over his shoulder.

Man this place is a dump, he thought.

As John knocks, he can not see any one within the office. After a moment, he hears a door slam inside the reception area.
The man who comes into sight is a good-looking man of mixed Chinese and Irish ancestry. He’s just a little shorter than average and slender — the kind of guy who couldn’t intimidate a grade-schooler. The man dresses well, a buttoned dark colored shirt and slacks.
"Hey," He says calmly. "Room is 80 bucks a night."

---

---

A few minutes out from Salineville and the proposed meeting spot, Tom's cell phone reports that it has received a text. The text was from Christie- and it was just as jumbled as Rick's initial text to Tom. Reading the chaotic message takes a texter's talent.

Im being setup cops n motel guy check mmy car alarm fake take what you need hlp me n ur things free.

Spoiler:

The hasty message translates to: I’m being set up. Cops and motel guy are in on it. Check my car. Alarm fake. Take what you need. Help me and your thing’s free.

John took out his dead friend's credit card again and slid it under the slot. "Put it on the card man," he said with a smile. "You guys got something to eat around her," he said, "I'm famished. Also do you guys have a internet-ready computer I can use?"

John had to inform The Union that he was almost into Detroit.

"Yeah, sure." The man - who didn't wear a name tag- took the card. Within a minute, he slid the card back with receipt.

"Computer? Ah... there's one in the office. " He looked you over for a beat. "You could use it for a minute."

John signed his friend's name and gave the merchant copy back. "Thanks," he said, "I appreciate it."

He went in and sat at the terminal and logged into his email account. He quickly typed up an email to the Union contact his friend kept in contact with.

On my way to Detroit. Steve didn't make it after the last hunt. Will let you know when I am in safehouse. If need me, contact me on my cell.

He logged out and got off the computer. "So," he said to the guy he just paid. "Where's my room?"

Tom glowered at his phone and the new text. He handed it to Rick without a word until the other man had had a chance to read it. "Rick, what the hell are you dragging me into?"

Rick read the text and his face paled. "Man, don't ask me. Cops in on it? What is this shit?"

"How should I know? You're the one who got his ass kicked and then started ranting about someone giving you heartburn. I'm gonna drop you off at her motel and you two can puzzle it out while you're making tinfoil hats."

"Yeah, real nice man. Just hurry up, will you?" Rick tilted Tom's phone as though the message would suddenly fall into place. "Take what you need? " He muttered, perhaps to himself.

"We're getting there. Want me to get pulled for speeding and then have to explain to a cop why you decided to dress up as Rodney King three months before Halloween?"

"Would you just drive? You drive like an old lady." Rick griped. "Do you see a cop any where out here? I haven't seen a damn car in ten minutes. Don't know why she couldn't just come over."

"Gotta be a cop around here somewhere, otherwise she wouldn't be freaking out about them. Anyway, stop your bitching, here's the exit."

The exit directs you into a small, sleepy looking rest stop. The Good Nite Inn is a cornerstone of this small rest stop area which comprises of the Inn, the Chevron Gas station and the off beat small restaurant Sally's' that shares the parking lot with the gas station. You can't even see an ATM about or a sign promising one.

A motorcycle and two cars share the parking lot of the hotel. Glancing around the Inn revealed that it was in poor repair. The exterior lights seem to be in poor condition- the ones that weren't completely busted. The reception area of the Inn was a boxy set up- there was a single window with a sliding slot for night check ins. The door into the reception was a sturdy looking wooden one, with red paint that was peeling slightly.

---

The man walks around you and hands you a key with a dented plastic fob that reads '12'. "Room 12. All the way on the end.."

John nods to the cashier. "Thanks man," John said. He entered the room and closed the door behind him. He would set up his little trap later. He took off his jacket and dropped it on the bed as he walked to the bathroom sink.

He looked in the mirror as his face with the five o'clock shadow. The sound's of his daughter's pleas for help still plagued his memories. He washed his face quickly and went to the window to look out and see what the hell was going on.

As John looks out of the window, he spots a Jeep drive into the parking lot. It idles for a minute before parking. A man gingerly steps out of the Jeep. From his ginger walk and the horrible bruising on his face, the man had recently had his ass handed to him. The man gingerly made his way towards the Reception area. As he did so, the second man exited the Jeep and followed his passenger.

As he did so, a red van pulls around from the unseen back of the parking lot. The van drove past the Jeep and headed onto the open road.

That's interesting, Markham thinks as he watches the men walk to the reception area. He ignored the red van as the guys from the jeep were more interesting. Over time John had learned to keep his eyes on the rougher looking of the world. Those were the ones that were dangerous. The more dangerous of them were the ones that knew the truth, and even more than that were the ones the truth was about.

"Which one are you guys," he said to himself.

Rick only grins to Tom as he strides to the window. He knocks against the glass heavily, shouting a greeting. A well dressed man appears- and looks startled at Rick's appearance. The man who comes into sight is a good-looking man of mixed Chinese and Irish ancestry. He’s just a little shorter than average and slender — the kind of guy who couldn’t intimidate a grade-schooler. The man dresses well, a buttoned dark colored shirt and slacks.

"Whoa man. What happened to you?" The well dressed man within the hotel office inquires.
"Never you mind. " Rick's voice is gruff. Matched with his appearance, it lent him a gruesome presence. Rick hesitated, not speaking.

The hotel employee stared between you, clearly awaiting some cue from you.

Should have left the trauma victim in the car. But why the hell am I doing his job for him? Tom stepped past Rick before the hotel clerk could dwell too long on his friend's injuries.

"As you might be able to guess, my buddy got carjacked this morning. He was supposed to meet his fiancee here. Tall, brunette? Uh, probably the only non-professional woman here right now?" Lying was so much easier once the woman had had three or four beers....

"Hasn't been any woman here today." The man declares. "Of any sort." He gives you a brief once over, leaning against the window to do so.

"Where you say you were carjacked at?"

John grew impatient looking out the window. He decided to go outside and smoke a cigarette. He threw on his jacket and walked outside as he lit up.

[roll perception, Jake.]

Johin smoked his cigarette as he looked around.


2010-07-05 06:14:28 John Markham rolled 5 dice to "Perception" 1,3,5,8,2 (1 successes) Link