It's night

spend lots of moneys on a hotel room that looks pretty and look into some pleasurable company and Thorsen Tech.

 

You've basically had the worst few days that you've had for a long while. Worst since the last time you saw the Sour Kraut in fact. So you say screw everything, you're getting a nice place and you're paying for room service and watching awful movies in high definition and doing all kinds of hotel stuff, maybe even a one night stand. Actually, you don't really like people very much, they're all kind of irritating and, more often than not, they're ugly. You're not exactly a supermodel yourself, but you're attractive enough for a good majority of the population. The near constant leers are proof enough in your book. So you feel like it's alright to be a little judgmental, to have something called standards. So, you're gonna have to settle for the familiarly cold, steely company of your Double Eagle tonight because right now you're just not up to more social interaction.

Guns are nice. Most people call you a loon because you think so, but guns are very elegant little tools and that's why you surround yourself with them. They're made for a single purpose. Many parts, many interactions, many functions and one result. That singular, driven purpose is something you would like to think you've attained in life. Money. You can do whatever you want in this world with money. This hotel you're walking into, for instance; you don't have a reservation, you don't have connections but you have enough money to pay for any room in this place and they'll somehow make this happen. So you take a room up top and have them cart all your stuff of there for you, because you have money. Money is the gas in the engine, the powder charge in the bullet, the wind in the sails. With it, you can do everything this world has to offer. Without it, you're just more grist for the mill. So you're going to have money, whatever it takes.

They're running that Yellow Wasp movie. It's shit. It's palpable how ****** it is. It doesn't help that Jeff Logan or whatever the guy's name is can't act for his life and is basically maimed in the face. Room service food is actually pretty underwhelming. You suppose it's not like it's a restaurant really. The bed's nice at least. It'd be nicer if you didn't have to wake up in the morning alone and go kill people. But we can't have everything. Money lets you do what you want, but only as long as you have it and having it... that's the tricky part.

It's late. You probably won't be staying in this hotel for another night and you've already cleaned and maintained all your weaponry for the day. You can't do anything about Thorsen Technologies on the hotel internet without leaving a footprint for someone to pick up on so there's nothing left to do but...

[] Sleep.
[] Phone a friend.
[] Reminisce.

 

get yo ass in that comfy ass bed and fall yo ass asleep​

 

Reminisce yourself to sleep. WIth alcohol.

 

Drinking is more of a thing your dad liked to do, but you decide to knock back an extra Long Island iced tea before going over your past. You find that reminiscing is an overall worthless exercise a good portion of the time. But when it's not, it's always been an asset. Sometimes it reminds you of that one time you had to make a gun out of duct tape, a hair dryer and some party favors. Sometimes it reminds you of that one time you met a guy who turned out to be a spy and the only clue was that he got his Irish accent wrong. It's these kind of little things dabbed all over your lifetime's experience that really make looking back worth the time. You never know when you'll have to know stuff like this for the future. This particular night brings you way back.




It's morning, you can tell by the way the light slants into your room from the east side of your apartment. You roll over lazily. The ever helpful clock on the surface of your desk seems to be telling you that it's going to be morning for a good four more hours and that it's not just a morning, it's a Monday morning and you feel

[] Horrible. Where's your gun? Might as well end it now.
[] Late. You've got school.
[] Pretty dang spiffy. Dad's gonna take you out with the show tonight and that means payday.

 

Oh, and as an answer

[c:] Horrible. Where's your gun? Might as well end it now.

 

Eh, could be better. Where's the gun at?​

 

You search for your gun briefly before realizing that your dad keeps it locked up at home. The apartment is just a place where you stay when he's working on guns and he wants you to learn something because your mother doesn't like you to do such dangerous things in the house. Not like money's an issue right now. Your dad's corny ass show took off like a veritable rocket last year when he first asked you to perform. Last night he taught you how to turn semi-auto into auto. Not something you're a huge fan of. You like pistols the best. They're elegant and stylish. Not really your speed, but it's a little pet dream you have that one day you'll be the kind of person that has a sense of fashion.

You're not feeling really well right now though. Mom and dad have been fighting forever and you've never really had a good rapport with any of your peers because of all the time you spend practicing your shooting and stuff. They all kind of see you as that creepy girl who sits in the back and doesn't talk. But that doesn't bug you, people are terrible. They're mean and stupid more often then not. But there is a guy you like. He's pretty much the same as you. People look at him and think he's less than they are because he's not a hulking monstrosity that hurls that retarded ball around after school. They make fun of his glasses and his comics and his out of date clothing. That's why you first talked to him when you were lab partners in chemistry. Things were going pretty well and then he got a girlfriend. A year younger than you, just like him, and in general just more normal. She was the cute bookworm that all the jocks wanted to play around with. But demure and reserved as she was she just smiled and turned them down.

Anyhow, they've been going out for awhile and things are looking great for them. You're at that stage where you're sorta happy as a friend and homicidally angry as a hormonal teenager. But you felt like dying for a second there mostly because you're just not a morning person. Well, you've got an hour to get your ass to school. You should...

[] blow it off.
[] attend.

 

Might as well attend. Something interesting is bound to happen today, right? Right?

 

Go to school.​

 

You have an hour until first period and transit, on foot, takes about fifteen minutes. Eating takes ten minutes. Showering takes fifteen minutes. Packing up all your stuff takes ten minutes. Brushing your teeth takes five minutes. Looks like you were lucky to get up at this time. Not that you are much of a stickler for being on time. You kind of suck at school. You can only read most of the on grade level books if you keep a dictionary and a literary device catalog next to you, you can't do algebra without a calculator, you can't tell a conjugation from a subjunctive mood, you end up dry heaving whenever you have to do the mile run and you don't have the head for memorizing dates. Physics and chemistry are a little different because of all the stuff you learned making bullets and guns with your nut case father, but you're still not exactly great at those either. That's part of why you hide all your test scores from everyone.

At school you're feeling as ****** as ever. You're not even gonna be fully awake for another hour so you decide to doodle out some modification specs for the Taurus Raging Bull your dad just bought last month. He doesn't like you messing with his guns but he bought it for your exclusive use in the show, so you're gonna do what you damn well please. First period is Spanish. Something about buying a chocolate for your dog or winning a candy for your burrito from what you can tell. Just so happens the teacher called on you. You should...

[] Ask him to repeat the question.
[] No lo se, pendejo.
[] Pie are squared.

 

Ask him to repeat the question in the best Spanish you can pull off.​

 

Tell him that chocolate isn't good for dogs. He should give it some crackers instead, but not too many as crackers expand a little in the stomach.

 

You shuffle around a bit in your seat before saying, "Repeataan, pore fayvore." His hand goes straight for the forehead. After spending the next five minutes berating your attention span and pronunciation-- you assume-- he asks again. You really have no clue so you tell him, "Me buhreeto no quandoh ahmbre chocolatay." He stares at you, dumbfounded for a second before saying the only word you're sure you know in the whole language. Detencion. You hold back a biting remark and nod. You hate this teacher. You want one of his almost monthly car accidents to kill him so badly that you dreamt he was dead once and woke up depressed that it didn't actually happen. Well, at least you know how you're spending your lunch again.

In Chemistry you sit next to Chris. People would punch him as they passed or say shit like, "Hey, faggot." You've considered starting something with them, but you're hopeless at fighting and you know that you're not girly enough for them to feel bad about hitting you. So, instead you ask for the aisle seat and say they wouldn't mess with you for no reason like they did him. He seems grateful. You tell him that he needs to stay well for his girlfriend. He blushes a bit and you laugh at him. You tell him that she's a keeper and that it couldn't have worked out better. He thanks you for the comment but reminds you that class is about to start. Yeah... class.

At lunch you sit facing the middle aged bastard that you would call your mortal enemy if you knew exactly what that meant. He has given you a worksheet again. It's not tough, but you have no idea how you're supposed to get the language based on these little insect diagrams and cutesy scenarios. You know better than to question his methods and just finish it. When you hand it in you say answer his question, the same one that landed you here, correctly. It's easy to know what he's gonna do when he's done this once a week for three months. You just memorize the answer out of the book and forget it when you leave.

After school you're walking away from the building alone, feeling particularly sweaty and gross from gym, you should...

[] go home.
[] go the the apartment.
[] go the the Wild West Show grounds.

 

Go home and take a shower, or bath, whatever it is you prefer.​

 

Home is where the guns heart is. Go to the guns heart.

 

Home is where the guns are, home is where you wanna be. You ignore the bus and start walking. You hate public transit because it's dirty, crowded and slow. Not that walking is ever fast, but you only live a about 2 miles from the school and you've made the walk before. It's pretty hot out, but when is it not around here?

It's past four when you finally arrive at home. No one's there. Your mom is out doing whatever it is she does with her jobless ass self and you dad is probably at the Wild West Show grounds. You have to be there for a show at seven. You have some homework that you're planning on blowing off so you've got about two hours to kill before you need to ride out. First things first, shower. You don't like feeling gross and you know other people can tell you're gross because you can smell yourself. Being presentable isn't the goal most of the time but with a show on the horizon you kind of do want to look as unlike your usual slob of a self as possible. So you head over to the bathroom.

The mirror is cracked along one side but still usable. You were the one who broke it when you were nine. You're almost finished with the bad luck sentence if superstition has its way. You never believed in any of that shit. Dad always makes you say grace and pray before bed, but you think the whole thing is retarded. If you were to believe that book of his, you'd have to do a lot of contradictory things. You can't get with a legal code that can't even set itself straight with itself. But you do believe-- no, you do want to believe that there's a hell. You can do without heaven, but there must be a hell. Some people don't get theirs in this life and if there is any justice in this world, they're burning like the surface of the sun as you stand. You think you might be one of those people.

When you're finished, you're down to an hour and a half to kill. You look back at the mirror. You're not exactly a pretty sight even with the being clean thing going for you. You're kind of boyish, your posture is shit, there are bags under your eyes fro sleep deprivation... the list goes on. You take comfort in the fact that you're young and thin, but that's about all you've got. Makes you think of Hanna, the girl Chris is going out with. She's nothing you'd go gay over but she's still pretty, well, pretty. She keeps her long dark hair swept over one eye for some reason and always seems to be wearing this dark cap whenever she goes out. The first time you met her, you were looking for a book in the library and scared her away by asking if you were in the right aisle. The second time you met her she had just slapped on of the jocks for messing with Chris. That's right after they started going out. You frown and decide to forget about the whole thing. So you do.

You hear a knock on the door around half past six and look up from the scattered pieces of the Taurus. It's your dad. You put it back together hastily and greet him when he reaches your room. He asks if you like the gun. You say that you haven't even fired it yet. He asks if you're ready to knock 'em dead. You say that you haven't killed a single person yet. He laughs and slaps you on the back a little harder than he should have and tells you to get packed and ready for the show. You cough slightly and follow him out.

In the car you...

[] make conversation.
[] sleep.
[] stare out the window.

 

Stare out the window and imagine that invisible running fellow along the way.​

 

Stare out the window, fall asleep and then sleep-talk.

 

You drift off to sleep easily like you usually do. You have nothing to say to that man in the driver's seat. He's your dad, your father, your employer, your coach and your biggest source of stress. You feel like nobody should wear so many hats in a parent/child relationship, least of all this redneck. You have to thank him for training you in marksmanship. It used to stress you out and make you cry when you were five or six, but now you're used to it and it's actually calming and makes you feel confident in yourself. You won't say it aloud, but you're a better shot than your father on every gun he owns and he knows it. You assume that's why he decided to put you in the show last year, the novelty of a chick with a gun is still pretty fresh for most of these knuckledraggers. As long as it pays the bills, you don't much care why it works. Though, you know the show was pretty much a failure before you showed up and that there's no way your family is out of debt from two years of success, but you don't much worry about that either. You're gonna be stuck in this ****** town until the crack of doom, anyway. You're not going to college for academics or sports. You're not going to the city to party it out or seek your fortune. You're staying here, home, where the heart is they always say.

When you wake up the car is stopped and your dad is tapping on the window with this shit eating grin on his face. It literally does look like he's got shit on his teeth though with all the tobacco he chews. You undo your seatbelt and slouch off after him. It's fifteen after seven. The show is going to start in fifteen minutes. You're not the opener so you have some time to relax though.

The show is in an old theater. It's been spruced up a bit to be up to code and whatnot but it's pretty unsafe still given your firing guns all over the place. Though, not a single stray bullet has killed anyone or done property damage so you figure it can't be that bad. Your dad is barking orders at the rest of the crew and rushing one of the performers into his place. Everyone has to dress up in cowboy duds for flavor your dad says. You know that he just wishes he lived in the old west and could shoot people who he didn't like. You take about ten minutes to dress for the show and you have about an hour before you're up. You should...

[] Dress now.
[] Practice.
[] Talk to _______.