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A rare sighting

 
Engel's picture
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On a hot summer night like this, Beau's Tavern is a welcome sight to all those weary riders coming down that dusty south road. It may be warm outside, but it's cool inside just like the heart of the bald clone walking in through the main door. Rugged leather jacket zipped all the way up to his collar, a clean patch of skin around his eyes where the riding goggles used to sit and a pair of milky eyes that scream for a drink. What does this freak of the road want here?

The truth is, this rider only craves a drink. Something to cool down his tongue and something to make that red dust of Northfield's road in his mouth easier to swallow down. He turns and makes his way to the bar and at that moment the patrons can see the crossed symbols and letters on the back of his jacket. Their eyes go wide, and more than one of them feels something fishy about the whole thing but they know better than to ask out loud.

Facing the grim rider, the barman can't understand what the commotion in the back is about, but like any professional he quickly remmembers the drink associated with the face of an old customer. He places a glass and fills it with some lukewarm straight gin, a terrible way to drink what is already a terrible enough liquid.

almost unrelated


When I was a child I'd sit for hours staring into open flames
Something in it had a power, could barely tear my eyes away

Now that I think about it, it wasn't that hard. Making a total mess out of every LifeNet process that I stumbled upon. The hard part will be putting it all back together, if I can remember where all the pieces around me fit. Fixing it with duct tape, lines of code and strangled necks. Tis the only way I know of, oh God... teach me. The little girl is the biggest fuckup I've made since... I forgot when.

"I forgot"... heh... I'm killin' me.

Once this is all over, and it's gonna be soon, I'll have to "fix her" (even though it sounds corny) and go real deep until everybody forgets. I don't think she will agree, but I don't intend to ask anyway. She will probably think I'm a madman or something and that always worked out fine for me.



When I was a man I thought it ended, when I knew love's perfect ache
But my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake

 

Some of the sly patrons make their way outside to try to cash in on an information about a sighting of an old gang, while a bald clone half raises his gin as if cheering to an unseen friend. He mutters with dry, wind-bitten lips barely moving: 
"To the girl with the tea-colored hair, I raise this glass. May the radiation treat your bones right. May the jackals be kind, and the vultures stop for a moment to praise your body. You had some class."

The gin tastes bitter, it reeks of poor craftsmanship and industrial soap cleaned hands. For the occasion - it's perfect.

 


 

(( A single male wearing ISMC kutte was spotted in Beau's tavern, but description is vague. As a player I have full respect for the motorcycle club clan but for the sake of the story I will not reveal out of character the reasons for wearing the half-forgoten club colors. ))


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Charlotte's picture

((Nice to see Engel is still alive and well...I guess that is all one can ask for in the apocalypse.))

 

Somewhere in the southern part of the canyon Charlotte lies on her back on red desert sand, staring up into the starry sky. The recent memory of his voice torments her more than she cares to admit. Even to herself. She wonders if he still remembers her or if she once again assumed the role of a stranger. If it was possible, would she dare to seek out the answer to such a question?



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