[story] pulp fiction
Jan. 21st, 2012 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: m% (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
37_percent)
A/N: The author recommends Riders on the Storm by The Doors as background music.
"Now. Who the hell is this moron?"
Keith instantly felt an intense blush of embarrassment spilling from the top of his cheeks down along his face and neck, disappearing beneath the crisp collar of his business suit. Couldn't Samuel have waited until they'd driven away (or at least until Keith had closed the passenger side door) before voicing his opinions so obnoxiously? Already partly inside of the car, he turned around, intending to present his conversation partner of the last half hour with an apologetic smile - only to be forced into seat by the machine's untimely jolt which could have left him outside to continue the conversation, with nothing but the coal-black alto case that he was currently hugging frantically to his chest, if he'd been a second slower getting his other foot in the door. Which he now shut.
"Seatbelts."
"Screw you," he muttered, without much conviction, and did as he was told. "And for your information, his name was Ralph and he was... A little dumb, but entertaining."
"'Dumb' is an understatement."
Zane - who bore a deep grudge against his given name, Samuel – was fundamentally right: the stupidity of anyone voluntarily waiting at the Blue Bus stop in this area without at least a shotgun was too enormous to be put into any words known to man. Still, Keith was raised into a certain degree of politeness which didn't allow him to go much further up the profanity scale than 'dumb'. Feeling more frustrated than usual, he shifted into a more comfortable position, cautiously placing the case in his lap, and, with a certain dose of nervous excitement, turned to face Zane in the driver's seat.
"He was quoting Ezekiel from memory, though. You know, like the guy in... Uhhh... In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas...!"
"That wasn't Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Keet. You haven't seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas even once in your life. And why the hell did you take that case with you, huh?"
"Because I'm nervous, that's why!" the words burst out of his mouth before he could stop himself; ashamed once again, Keith lowered his head self-consciously, staring at the web of paint cracks on the lid of his case where a previous owner tried to scratch out their initials. Zane sighed, attempting to wrestle the cigarettes out of his front pocket with the other hand on the steering wheel.
"And why should you be? The last job went smooth enough."
"But that one guy was all shouting and fists, and it somehow just..."
"So the next time it will 'somehow just' as well. Now put it away or you'll knock your teeth out on the first bump in the road."
Accepting his defeat, Keith threw the case onto the back seat without much thought... And turned ash-gray the minute he heard a loud, fleshy splotch that announced the case’s collision with the third 'passenger' of their vehicle. Trying his hardest to prepare mentally for the sight he was about to face, Keith slowly looked over his shoulder.
"Oh, Go... Can't we just throw it out somewhere." he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah, sure. As if there weren't enough of those running around this fucking desert," Zane had finally managed to get a firm grip on a cigarette, fish it out of the package, and shove it between his teeth; now, with his other hand still on the steering wheel, he attempted to light it, "We need to burn this pile of meat someplace where it won't attract attention. Until then, it gets to go sightseeing with us."
He wiped the sweat from his brow and exhaled a cloud of dark smoke.
"You'd think they have a shorter expiry date in this heat, huh?" the end of the cigarette got crushed mercilessly between Zane’s teeth which the driver exposed in a perfectly manic grin.
The only answer he got was a short, nervous laugh. Keith licked his lips, choking momentarily on the taste of rotting flesh lingering in the air. Their passenger certainly hadn’t been idle and Keith wasn't exactly eager to know the details of his activity... Not to mention thinking about the danger presented by the currently deceased. He could've possibly been even more disturbed by its presence if not for the all-encompassing heat that slowly started getting to him as well. Ever so slightly dazed, he looked at the landscape stretching outside.
Nothing. Miles upon miles of nothing. And cutting through it was a single dusty road with a handful of shady bars strewn alongside it. And hordes of flesh eaters. Not really fast, certainly not brainy, but still efficient enough to make one's skin crawl. Not more than a week ago, Keith had almost lost his head around them. Literally. Concluding that the sight of the flesh eater's gaping mouth right in front of his face was certainly not the last thing he'd want to see before death, he turned the radio up a notch. Zane didn't enjoy loud music – or, actually, didn't enjoy music at all - but for some unfathomable reason, The Best of the Doors had won him over.
"There's a killer on the road..." Keith muttered sleepily in unison with good old Jim, leaning his head against the glass and letting himself be lulled by the monotonous ride.
When they arrived, Zane interrupted his helper's light snooze with an elbow between the ribs. Both men got out of the car, slamming the doors to announce their arrival, and headed straight for the building, leaving the corpse in the back seat.
The owner of the run-down place they entered must have been awaiting them for quite a while; everything in the spacious room was put in its rightful place and even the layer of dust on the floor seemed significantly thinner. The barman himself, sunburnt, with oddly swollen fingers, welcomed his visitors with excessive joviality, instantly offering whatever drink they'd like to indulge themselves in, on the house. Zane glared at him menacingly; he was certainly not in the best of moods.
"No drinking on duty," he snarled, "so let's be over and done with this, I'm not going to stay sober for the whole damn day. The money."
It was hard not to notice how the barman's face changed colours, going rapidly from brownish to almost blue with anxiety, or how his fingers suddenly began twitching. Tripping on every second word he tried to explain that business was on the low those days and collecting the total sum would take some more time than usually, but he would pay it, of course he would, he's a serious businessman and not a crook like the others. Zane cut him short before he reached the fourth sentence.
"Listen now, you sad fart. We are no charity, we don't go around with coffee cans collecting petty money. You pay or you're dead meat." His jaw unhinged abruptly, giving the terrified man a good look at two long, elegantly curved fangs. Zane shoved it back into place unceremoniously.
"It's an easy question, just... Focus. You have the money?"
"No, but..."
The old man's voice failed him. Frantically seeking rescue, he turned his watery gaze towards Keith. With his moustache twitching and belly swollen with cheap beer and junk food, he looked even more like a fat mouse chased into a corner - and when Keith ran his tongue across the lips, he tasted his fear - sticky, heavy, and incredibly tempting. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine, the irises of his eyes narrowed down to barely visible slits.
Keith felt the smile on his lips growing wider and wider, stretching freely between one ear and the other. Natural instinct was an astounding thing.
"You have some left. Lower lip."
Keith blinked viciously, his eyes not yet having readjusted to the light outside. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shaking off the remains of a tendon. It was still a long way to go before they'd arrived back at the base to refresh themselves and change into something more comfortable. They probably wouldn't make it before sunset, either - which obviously meant a sudden temperature drop they'd have to survive somehow.
"I figured we could call him Steven." a cloud of cigarette smoke erupted from Zane's mouth.
"'Him'?"
"I'm talking about our merry companion here," he pointed to the back seat, "since I doubt there's enough of our late customer left to be called anything."
Keith's increasingly disbelieving gaze shifted between the driver and the corpse. Finally, he let out a sound that was neither a stifled moan, nor a strained laughter.
"Zane, you're sick."
"Aren't we all, dear Alice?" he gazed at his companion from the corner of his eye. "And as long as I'm driving, I decide who's riding with us."
He pushed Keith inside the car, slithered into the driver's seat, started the engine, and flicked the radio on.
"So say hello to Steven and behave. We have a reputation to keep up, remember?"
Knowing that all reasoning with Zane at this point was futile, Keith silently returned to his previous position, head pressed against the window.
Nothing. Miles upon miles of nothing. And cutting it through was a single dusty road with a handful of shady bars that paid for their protection. And hordes of flesh eaters, one of them soon to be riding in their back seat. And in a brief moment of lucidity, Keith had finally come to understand something he hadn't really thought about much: That they - Keith and Samuel - were the Riders on the Storm.
"There's a killer on the road..." he mumbled mindlessly, his unfocused gaze sliding across the monotonous landscape.
the end
37_percent)A/N: The author recommends Riders on the Storm by The Doors as background music.
"Now. Who the hell is this moron?"
Keith instantly felt an intense blush of embarrassment spilling from the top of his cheeks down along his face and neck, disappearing beneath the crisp collar of his business suit. Couldn't Samuel have waited until they'd driven away (or at least until Keith had closed the passenger side door) before voicing his opinions so obnoxiously? Already partly inside of the car, he turned around, intending to present his conversation partner of the last half hour with an apologetic smile - only to be forced into seat by the machine's untimely jolt which could have left him outside to continue the conversation, with nothing but the coal-black alto case that he was currently hugging frantically to his chest, if he'd been a second slower getting his other foot in the door. Which he now shut.
"Seatbelts."
"Screw you," he muttered, without much conviction, and did as he was told. "And for your information, his name was Ralph and he was... A little dumb, but entertaining."
"'Dumb' is an understatement."
Zane - who bore a deep grudge against his given name, Samuel – was fundamentally right: the stupidity of anyone voluntarily waiting at the Blue Bus stop in this area without at least a shotgun was too enormous to be put into any words known to man. Still, Keith was raised into a certain degree of politeness which didn't allow him to go much further up the profanity scale than 'dumb'. Feeling more frustrated than usual, he shifted into a more comfortable position, cautiously placing the case in his lap, and, with a certain dose of nervous excitement, turned to face Zane in the driver's seat.
"He was quoting Ezekiel from memory, though. You know, like the guy in... Uhhh... In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas...!"
"That wasn't Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Keet. You haven't seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas even once in your life. And why the hell did you take that case with you, huh?"
"Because I'm nervous, that's why!" the words burst out of his mouth before he could stop himself; ashamed once again, Keith lowered his head self-consciously, staring at the web of paint cracks on the lid of his case where a previous owner tried to scratch out their initials. Zane sighed, attempting to wrestle the cigarettes out of his front pocket with the other hand on the steering wheel.
"And why should you be? The last job went smooth enough."
"But that one guy was all shouting and fists, and it somehow just..."
"So the next time it will 'somehow just' as well. Now put it away or you'll knock your teeth out on the first bump in the road."
Accepting his defeat, Keith threw the case onto the back seat without much thought... And turned ash-gray the minute he heard a loud, fleshy splotch that announced the case’s collision with the third 'passenger' of their vehicle. Trying his hardest to prepare mentally for the sight he was about to face, Keith slowly looked over his shoulder.
"Oh, Go... Can't we just throw it out somewhere." he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah, sure. As if there weren't enough of those running around this fucking desert," Zane had finally managed to get a firm grip on a cigarette, fish it out of the package, and shove it between his teeth; now, with his other hand still on the steering wheel, he attempted to light it, "We need to burn this pile of meat someplace where it won't attract attention. Until then, it gets to go sightseeing with us."
He wiped the sweat from his brow and exhaled a cloud of dark smoke.
"You'd think they have a shorter expiry date in this heat, huh?" the end of the cigarette got crushed mercilessly between Zane’s teeth which the driver exposed in a perfectly manic grin.
The only answer he got was a short, nervous laugh. Keith licked his lips, choking momentarily on the taste of rotting flesh lingering in the air. Their passenger certainly hadn’t been idle and Keith wasn't exactly eager to know the details of his activity... Not to mention thinking about the danger presented by the currently deceased. He could've possibly been even more disturbed by its presence if not for the all-encompassing heat that slowly started getting to him as well. Ever so slightly dazed, he looked at the landscape stretching outside.
Nothing. Miles upon miles of nothing. And cutting through it was a single dusty road with a handful of shady bars strewn alongside it. And hordes of flesh eaters. Not really fast, certainly not brainy, but still efficient enough to make one's skin crawl. Not more than a week ago, Keith had almost lost his head around them. Literally. Concluding that the sight of the flesh eater's gaping mouth right in front of his face was certainly not the last thing he'd want to see before death, he turned the radio up a notch. Zane didn't enjoy loud music – or, actually, didn't enjoy music at all - but for some unfathomable reason, The Best of the Doors had won him over.
"There's a killer on the road..." Keith muttered sleepily in unison with good old Jim, leaning his head against the glass and letting himself be lulled by the monotonous ride.
When they arrived, Zane interrupted his helper's light snooze with an elbow between the ribs. Both men got out of the car, slamming the doors to announce their arrival, and headed straight for the building, leaving the corpse in the back seat.
The owner of the run-down place they entered must have been awaiting them for quite a while; everything in the spacious room was put in its rightful place and even the layer of dust on the floor seemed significantly thinner. The barman himself, sunburnt, with oddly swollen fingers, welcomed his visitors with excessive joviality, instantly offering whatever drink they'd like to indulge themselves in, on the house. Zane glared at him menacingly; he was certainly not in the best of moods.
"No drinking on duty," he snarled, "so let's be over and done with this, I'm not going to stay sober for the whole damn day. The money."
It was hard not to notice how the barman's face changed colours, going rapidly from brownish to almost blue with anxiety, or how his fingers suddenly began twitching. Tripping on every second word he tried to explain that business was on the low those days and collecting the total sum would take some more time than usually, but he would pay it, of course he would, he's a serious businessman and not a crook like the others. Zane cut him short before he reached the fourth sentence.
"Listen now, you sad fart. We are no charity, we don't go around with coffee cans collecting petty money. You pay or you're dead meat." His jaw unhinged abruptly, giving the terrified man a good look at two long, elegantly curved fangs. Zane shoved it back into place unceremoniously.
"It's an easy question, just... Focus. You have the money?"
"No, but..."
The old man's voice failed him. Frantically seeking rescue, he turned his watery gaze towards Keith. With his moustache twitching and belly swollen with cheap beer and junk food, he looked even more like a fat mouse chased into a corner - and when Keith ran his tongue across the lips, he tasted his fear - sticky, heavy, and incredibly tempting. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine, the irises of his eyes narrowed down to barely visible slits.
Keith felt the smile on his lips growing wider and wider, stretching freely between one ear and the other. Natural instinct was an astounding thing.
"You have some left. Lower lip."
Keith blinked viciously, his eyes not yet having readjusted to the light outside. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, shaking off the remains of a tendon. It was still a long way to go before they'd arrived back at the base to refresh themselves and change into something more comfortable. They probably wouldn't make it before sunset, either - which obviously meant a sudden temperature drop they'd have to survive somehow.
"I figured we could call him Steven." a cloud of cigarette smoke erupted from Zane's mouth.
"'Him'?"
"I'm talking about our merry companion here," he pointed to the back seat, "since I doubt there's enough of our late customer left to be called anything."
Keith's increasingly disbelieving gaze shifted between the driver and the corpse. Finally, he let out a sound that was neither a stifled moan, nor a strained laughter.
"Zane, you're sick."
"Aren't we all, dear Alice?" he gazed at his companion from the corner of his eye. "And as long as I'm driving, I decide who's riding with us."
He pushed Keith inside the car, slithered into the driver's seat, started the engine, and flicked the radio on.
"So say hello to Steven and behave. We have a reputation to keep up, remember?"
Knowing that all reasoning with Zane at this point was futile, Keith silently returned to his previous position, head pressed against the window.
Nothing. Miles upon miles of nothing. And cutting it through was a single dusty road with a handful of shady bars that paid for their protection. And hordes of flesh eaters, one of them soon to be riding in their back seat. And in a brief moment of lucidity, Keith had finally come to understand something he hadn't really thought about much: That they - Keith and Samuel - were the Riders on the Storm.
"There's a killer on the road..." he mumbled mindlessly, his unfocused gaze sliding across the monotonous landscape.
the end
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Date: 2012-01-31 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-02 12:30 pm (UTC)