This is orginally on the warwriter page. However, I don’t always write the scenes to completion like I do on the blog – for example, this scene stops in the middle. This is exactly what I wrote yesterday (11/8).
Bomber’s Ride
Day 1.
Bomber wheeled his mongrel 1947ish Indian out of the garage. It was 5 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and he knew no one would be awake.
He had been ignored for the last time. Yes, he understood that he wasn’t trusted. That didn’t mean he should be ignored. He was furious when Will and Sam went off to the garage; and was tempted right then and there to walk in, start up the bike, and take off. Instead, he went back to his room and quietly packed up what limited stuff he had, remaining in his room, steaming.
He had filled two two-liter bottles of vitae and packed it along with his clothes. He left the comm and the Happy Bunny watch on the table in his room, leaving the room unlocked. He put the leather vest in his bags and wore his camo jacket, which proudly displayed his ribbons: Desert Storm, Air Medal, Army Commendation, and his three expert marksman badges for pistol and rifle. He never entered competition, not believing in it. He had torn off his name the minute he was discharged.
He pushed the bike down the driveway to the middle of the street. He kickstarted it, and it roared to life, breaking the serenity of a Sunday morning. Bomber rode down the street, heading to the highway.
At about 7, he stopped at a Denny’s just off the highway in New Haven. He had close to fifty dollars and knew he’d have to roll someone over soon to get more. However, if he was going to get to where he wanted tonight, he might not.
He bought the largest breakfast they had, knowing that would carry him through lunch. He didn’t want to use the vitae unless he absolutely had to. He wasn’t sure if he was going to get any ever again.
As he sat at the counter, he heard a man berating a woman. His hearing was much better than a normal human’s – he could hear normal speaking through walls easily. Something stirred in him, though, remembering others saying the same things or similar to him at different times in his life. He slowly turned, looking for the source of the tirade. His father told his kids he meant the words out of love; his sergeant and CO’s said them out of pure malice.
Regardless, something rose up from his stomach. He found himself staring at the couple. The man was a body-builder, the wife somewhat plain, pretty café au lait skin, but not a stunner. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and she wore no makeup that he could see. She seemed to want to make herself mousy.
He, in comparison, wore a wife-beater, showing his muscles to their fullest extent. He had no neck, and kept his hair cropped short in a military cut. He couldn’t tell right away if the man was military or not. The girl looked up and saw him staring, her brown eyes wet with tears.
He disliked men who made women cry.
“Whatchu starin’ at?” The man had a somewhat Italian accent. Bomber only turned back to his coffee. He heard the scrape of the chair, and knew the man was coming for him. Bomber sipped his coffee, and felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Was talkin’ to you.”
Bomber spilled his coffee, and set the mug down. The entire place had gone eerily silent. He was whipped around on the stool, and he quickly raised one hand to easily catch the punch that was coming at him. Then he squeezed the man’s huge paw, not holding back on his vampire-inspired strength.
The man grimaced in pain, and Bomber increased the pressure. The man then punched Bomber in the gut to get him to let go. Bomber took the hit, letting the air rush out of his lungs, but still held on and squeezed tight enough that with his better hearing, he could hear the crack of bones.
Now the man yelled, and Bomber kept squeezing, crushing the man’s hand. “I am,” Bomber said, watching the man sink to his knees, “trying to have a nice breakfast here.” He felt the blood soak his hand, and the bones crush under his fist. “So do you mind?” Then he tossed the man back, so he fell backwards onto the tile floor, his head slamming onto it with a satisfying crack.
Bomber turned around, wiping his hand on a napkin that was at his place setting. He looked up at the waitress, who stared at him in shock. He looked around, catching everyone’s eye, knowing that the look on his face dared them to try anything. The man was no longer howling, but holding his hand gingerly, and almost mewling.
“We’d better call an ambulance,” said the manager finally, and then people started moving, but avoiding Bomber. He finally got his breakfast, and looked up at the manager who served it to him, daring him to tell him to leave. He didn’t.
When the EMT’s showed up, the man explained Bomber squeezed his hand. “Looks like you got it caught in a meat grinder,” the EMT said, and looked Bomber over.
Bomber said slowly, without looking in their direction, “I’m not a meat grinder.” He finished up his home fries and used a biscuit so sop up the sausage gravy. The EMT’s didn’t know what exactly happened, but they did bundle the man up and left with him.
Meanwhile, Ms. Café au Lait had remained behind, not going to the man, not leaving her table. As Bomber drained the last of his coffee, she walked over to him and said quietly, “Thank you.”
He shrugged, not looking at her. “For what?” He pulled out his wallet and left a tip on the table, grabbing up his check. He turned from the woman and went to the cashier.
As he settled on his bike, he watched the woman go over to a Corvette. He didn’t know if she was going to be safe when the wop bastard got out of the hospital – and, frankly, it wasn’t his concern.
He headed back on the highway, following I-95 south. He hoped he could make Washington by nightfall.
http://paragoncitytales.net/warwriter/?p=294
They were still in the phone book. Well, on the white pages website, anyway. He had five dollars left, and used it to get two hot dogs at the gas station. Six hours on the road, and he was ready to crash.
He smiled as he pulled down Roosevelt Terrace, knowing that the roar of his straight pipes pissed off the neighbors. It was about four. He wondered if she had gotten a job yet.
The circular driveway he pulled into faced a split-level ranch. He eased off the bike, his butt sore from all the riding, and stretched. As he leaned backwards, the door threw open and three children came running at him. “Uncle Mickey!”
Bomber straightened up just in time to catch them as they tackled his legs. “Hey, guys!” He smiled and bent down to gather them in his arms. He kissed the two little girls and hugged the boy tight. “Damn, Danny, yer gettin’ big.”
He smiled. “Gonna be as big as you!” he said proudly.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, you’ll have to go into the Army.”
He looked beyond the kids to see a woman in the doorway. Two children at her skirts and a baby in her arms. She looked as any woman would with six children in close proximity – harried, tired, and frustrated. However, that frustration was slowly beginning to boil into anger.
“What are you doing here, Mickey?” she said.
“Visitin’.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, then turned and went into the house, slamming shut the door behind her. Bomber raised an eyebrow; so did Danny. “Why doesn’t mommy like you?”
“Because I always seem to come by when I need money or I’m in trouble.”
“Are you in trouble?”
“Not today,” he replied, and rustled Danny’s hair. “But I do need money.”
“I got some!”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned to the two little girls. “Ah, angel,” he said to one of them, “With those eyes, you’ll have ’em eatin’ out of your hand.”
She giggled and blushed. Rachel was only nine years old, but Bomber could see she had the makings of a heartbreaker. Her sister Dawn, however, looked rather plain to him and didn’t shine as brightly. Bomber kissed her first, though.
He stood up and looked at the closed door. He didn’t realize that he took in a sigh, as he started up the walkway, the girls holding his hands. Danny opened the door for him, and he stepped foot into a combat zone.
“Isaac, pick up those toys!” bawled a woman from the other room. Bomber saw a boy in only a diaper sitting in the middle of the living room, staring at the TV entranced by some colorful creatures with televisions in their stomachs.
“Let’s help your mom,” Bomber said, and started to pick up some things. The three kids followed his example, and then a little boy joined in, keeping his distance from Bomber.
Soon enough, the hallway and part of the living room was at least picked up. He didn’t want to know what the stains were on the wood floors.
However, as with all children, something else attracted their attention and the picking-up game was quickly abandoned. Bomber found his way into the kitchen, where he saw his sister slaving at the stove, a baby in a high chair, and another child under the age of two sitting in another high chair.
“Sheila…”
“How much money do you want?”
“Jesus Christ, Shee–”
She whirled on him. “You do not swear in this house!” The fury in her eyes was unmistakable. Normally he backed down from it. But he had stood up to garou. A pissed off sister was nothing compared to Nelo at the full moon.
He instead held his hands up in surrender at his chest. “Sorry, sorry.”
“If Daniel sees you here…” she said, her rage slowly subsiding.
“What’s the worst he can do to me, preach at me?”
“Maybe if you listen to him, you’ll understand and let God into your life.”
Bomber took off his glasses and tucked them in the pocket of his jacket. “The things I’ve seen, Sheila. Oh, the things I’ve seen.”
“Which is all the better reason for you to embrace the Lord.” She stopped futzing with a chicken and turned to him. “Mickey, you know God loves you. He hates seeing you hurting like this.”
“What about you?”
She stared at him. “What?”
“What about you? Do you love me? Do you hate seeing me hurt?”
“What…what, of course!”
“Why? Because God says so?”
“Well, yes..and I’m your sister. I’m supposed to love you.”
He snorted and turned from her. “If all I am is an obligation, I don’t need that from you.”
There was silence, as Mickey stared through the doorway to the living room, where five children gathered at the TV. Seven children in ten years. He had no idea who the babies were in the high chair, and Isaac was a new name he didn’t know.
“Give me two hundred dollars and I’ll be gone,” he said without looking at her.
“I don’t have that kind of money, you know that.”
Again, he snorted. “Because you let that faggot preacher hold the purse strings.” He turned to her. “You have to beg him to give you money to buy a roll of fu– toilet paper?”
“Mickey, I never was good at handling money.”
“That’s a crock, and you know it!” He sighed, and turned away. “You’ve been listening him tell you you’re stupid and all you’re good for is spitting out kids. You quit college for him, Shee. You were going to be a teacher, what happened to that?”
“I teach here,” she protested.
“Your brain is turning into mush with all these kids.”
She glared at him, and then suddenly broke down. Mickey didn’t expect that, and he went to her, to try and put his arms around her. She jerked away, and ran from the room. He heard her pound up the stairs, and slam shut a door. He could hear her crying through the floorboards.
He looked at the two kids, staring at him, and he felt like shit.
He turned to the chicken. Not sure what she was planning on doing with it, he prepared it for a simple roasting. He opened the oven, and then looked up above it to see a convection oven. He eyeballed the chicken, judged it to be a fine size, and put it in the convection oven.
Mickey had been one of the better cooks among the army crew, and he actually enjoyed it. He could never tell that to the guys in the club. When he worked for Mr. Cobb, he had plenty of space and time in his own apartment. It wasn’t until Mr. Cobb assigned him to spy that he forgot how much he enjoyed cooking. At the time it was all about his vitae, his blood.
He heard the door open upstairs, but continued chopping rosemary for the potatoes boiling on the stove. Someone trudged down some carpeted stairs, and he heard Sheila pad toward the kitchen. She stopped as she rounded the corner. “Mickey…” she said, a little in awe at what he had accomplished in the kitchen.
“Hush,” he said, putting the rosemary in a small bowl. “I made you cry. I’m sorry.” He set the knife down and turned to face her.
She shook her head. He stepped forward and took her in his arms.
“I prayed for you,” she said in his shoulder.
He looked heavenward. There would be no changing her. Instead, he kept holding her.
Just a little after six, Mickey heard a car pull into the drive. He busied himself in the kitchen, while the door opened somewhere else in the house. He turned at the direction, and saw a tall, handsome man putting up his coat in the foyer. Sheila ran interference, but he shouldered right past her.
“I thought that was your motorcylce in the drive. What do you want? Which state are you running from this time?”
Bomber looked up. “Hello, Daniel. And how was your day?”
Daniel was the typical preacher, tall, handsome, tanned; he could lead congregations into sheer ecstasy by the power of his words. Bomber wondered whether or not he was a ghoul of some sort – or the reincarnation of Hitler.
“Well? What will happen if I call the police?”
“Nothing, because I don’t think I’m doing anything.” He opened the convection oven door and pulled out the chicken. “I’m going to be breaking bread with you. You know, Jesus always wanted people to take care of those less fortunate. I haven’t had anything to eat since two. You could be kind enough to share at least a wing with me.” He set the chicken on the table.
Daniel was so furious, he was shaking. “We eat dinner, and then you leave.”
“Oh, well, I don’t have a place to stay the night…”
Daniel glared at him, fire in his eyes.
“Just think of how many more stairs to heaven you’ve just made.” Bomber smiled, and started to set the table. “Chow time, kids!”
Total words: 2584
Music: Weapons of Mass Distortion, Crystal Method