( Mature content warning; L—Language MV—-Mild Violence. Any probs, lemme' know. )
"That jacket is ridiculous."
Clyde grinned cunningly and hoisted his beleathered shoulders. "Couldn't resist it," he said, kicking himself off the wall. The long, ashy ember of his cigarette roiled relentlessly as he drew; like orange hairs; crawling, cutting and the wan tangerine warmed his nose, the bases framing his mouth, feet of cheek and the exhausted looking jars of layered brown flesh that hung heftily from either eye. Clyde bent over and examined the street. "We're gonna" sit here forever ain't we?" he said. "Just "cause you can't stand to ever be wrong." His partner smiled and lent him a pair of pale green eyes: emerald with a pasty opal glaze.
"Could be. Why not sit down and be quiet like a good boy."
"Why not suck my dick, Gamble?"
"I left my glasses at home."
Clyde laughed and turned his head from side-to-side. He touched the cigarette to his mouth a final time, hoisted his chin to blow the smoke away then snapped the butt into the street. An empty breeze fell down and touched his hair, excited the tips and threw them into his eyes. He squinted through them, still examining the street. Gamble stood, grinning, his hands pocketed in crisp gray slacks. He was older than Clyde; twenty-three to his eighteen; tall, pale faced with a profound blankness stayed on him: hubris. His hair was black and wispy like Clyde's, swinging fro with the air. He removed his left hand and eyed his wrist watch, calmly rescinded it to pocket again and grinned.
Inner city in September: gray and dry. The ashen sky thumbed the buildingtips, descended, jetted through the glass and steel, descended and bowled through the rigid tarmac streets as a titanic silver spirit, these swells a chilly and biting presage to winter. The avenue's lamps glowed dully in the pervading cloud, the yellow sphericals stepping down block-by-block until the immurement of fog swallowed them. Cars droned by with lassitude, buzzing their struggle, whirling around the blocks, through the lanes, appearing as grand complex diorama as if needles from axel pierced preset tracks, carrying them to pointless objectives.
"There." Gamble hopped up and directed his arm. "That's it. I told you, boy. C"mon." Gamble pressed out his pinstriped oxford and threw his keys at Clyde. The keyring rattled when it hit Clyde's chest. They rolled down his body until he brought his hands up to catch them and he squinted at them. "Since when do I get to drive the almighty Nova?"
Gamble smiled heartily. "Since never," he said, snatching back the keys with a wink. Clyde, frozen, stared at the empty palms that had cupped the keys.
Nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-nine Nova. Sloped and mighty with a black varnish finish; "SS" welded into the grill, and save a few knicks scored below the passenger door and wheelwell, the vehicle was pristine. Gamble threw his arms over the hood luxuriously and smiled at Clyde. He said, "Lemme" ask you something. And I'm being serious."
Clyde canted his head and grunted curiously.
"Am I crazy?"
The wind sped by, Clyde corralled his cracking hair. He chuckled uneasily and tossed his eyes down the street. "The hell you talkin" "bout," he said. Eyes return. "Of course you're crazy. You're nuts. You're about to drive your beloved Nova to a damn job. That's been botherin" me all damn day."
"That's it?" Gamble asked with a tall brow. "That's why I'm crazy' It's just a car. Once this is over I'll be able to buy a hundred Novas." Gamble stepped away to examine the pristinely aged muscle car. He crouches and slides the pad of his forefinger across the foot of the driver's door. As it squeaks his smile waxes. Gamble hops up and pulls his head back so that his eyes appear as crisp emerald threads aside his hoisted nose. "I don't think that makes me crazy, and either do you. So answer me."
Clyde's hand was on the doorlatch. "C"mon, let's just go. I'm gettin" twisted up. Yeah—you're crazy, okay?" Gamble lessened the tilt of his head. Clyde was stilled when the man's opalesque eyes cut into his. A nod from Gamble ceases the binding and he bends into the car. Clyde follows and Gamble turns the Nova over and it grumbles scathingly before firing into a crumbling, exploding roar: felt, heard and seen. Gamble smiles and pats the wheel. He says, "It wasn't even what I wanted. You know that' I didn't want a goddamned Nova."
"That jacket is ridiculous."
Clyde grinned cunningly and hoisted his beleathered shoulders. "Couldn't resist it," he said, kicking himself off the wall. The long, ashy ember of his cigarette roiled relentlessly as he drew; like orange hairs; crawling, cutting and the wan tangerine warmed his nose, the bases framing his mouth, feet of cheek and the exhausted looking jars of layered brown flesh that hung heftily from either eye. Clyde bent over and examined the street. "We're gonna" sit here forever ain't we?" he said. "Just "cause you can't stand to ever be wrong." His partner smiled and lent him a pair of pale green eyes: emerald with a pasty opal glaze.
"Could be. Why not sit down and be quiet like a good boy."
"Why not suck my dick, Gamble?"
"I left my glasses at home."
Clyde laughed and turned his head from side-to-side. He touched the cigarette to his mouth a final time, hoisted his chin to blow the smoke away then snapped the butt into the street. An empty breeze fell down and touched his hair, excited the tips and threw them into his eyes. He squinted through them, still examining the street. Gamble stood, grinning, his hands pocketed in crisp gray slacks. He was older than Clyde; twenty-three to his eighteen; tall, pale faced with a profound blankness stayed on him: hubris. His hair was black and wispy like Clyde's, swinging fro with the air. He removed his left hand and eyed his wrist watch, calmly rescinded it to pocket again and grinned.
Inner city in September: gray and dry. The ashen sky thumbed the buildingtips, descended, jetted through the glass and steel, descended and bowled through the rigid tarmac streets as a titanic silver spirit, these swells a chilly and biting presage to winter. The avenue's lamps glowed dully in the pervading cloud, the yellow sphericals stepping down block-by-block until the immurement of fog swallowed them. Cars droned by with lassitude, buzzing their struggle, whirling around the blocks, through the lanes, appearing as grand complex diorama as if needles from axel pierced preset tracks, carrying them to pointless objectives.
"There." Gamble hopped up and directed his arm. "That's it. I told you, boy. C"mon." Gamble pressed out his pinstriped oxford and threw his keys at Clyde. The keyring rattled when it hit Clyde's chest. They rolled down his body until he brought his hands up to catch them and he squinted at them. "Since when do I get to drive the almighty Nova?"
Gamble smiled heartily. "Since never," he said, snatching back the keys with a wink. Clyde, frozen, stared at the empty palms that had cupped the keys.
Nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-nine Nova. Sloped and mighty with a black varnish finish; "SS" welded into the grill, and save a few knicks scored below the passenger door and wheelwell, the vehicle was pristine. Gamble threw his arms over the hood luxuriously and smiled at Clyde. He said, "Lemme" ask you something. And I'm being serious."
Clyde canted his head and grunted curiously.
"Am I crazy?"
The wind sped by, Clyde corralled his cracking hair. He chuckled uneasily and tossed his eyes down the street. "The hell you talkin" "bout," he said. Eyes return. "Of course you're crazy. You're nuts. You're about to drive your beloved Nova to a damn job. That's been botherin" me all damn day."
"That's it?" Gamble asked with a tall brow. "That's why I'm crazy' It's just a car. Once this is over I'll be able to buy a hundred Novas." Gamble stepped away to examine the pristinely aged muscle car. He crouches and slides the pad of his forefinger across the foot of the driver's door. As it squeaks his smile waxes. Gamble hops up and pulls his head back so that his eyes appear as crisp emerald threads aside his hoisted nose. "I don't think that makes me crazy, and either do you. So answer me."
Clyde's hand was on the doorlatch. "C"mon, let's just go. I'm gettin" twisted up. Yeah—you're crazy, okay?" Gamble lessened the tilt of his head. Clyde was stilled when the man's opalesque eyes cut into his. A nod from Gamble ceases the binding and he bends into the car. Clyde follows and Gamble turns the Nova over and it grumbles scathingly before firing into a crumbling, exploding roar: felt, heard and seen. Gamble smiles and pats the wheel. He says, "It wasn't even what I wanted. You know that' I didn't want a goddamned Nova."