"Let me tell you what I know about the pale men who came from the waters. Their skin is like the sun has never seen it; they came out from the waters on large homes they had built with the trees. Upon their faces, like the beasts, hair does grow and some have more hair on their faces than others. They can talk to each other like the birds of the air, but they do not understand us and we cannot understand them. They wear all sorts of strange coats of skin, but they feel nothing like our beasts. They eat strange foods that quickly wither away.
"The first time they came to our village, they were not aggressive. But in their eyes, you could see they were uneasy. Like the beasts are when they fear what we might do to them. They walked all about my village, talking to each other in their strange tongue. One pale man kept writing unseen things.
"The second time they came, the sticks they had carried on their backs and at their sides they now held in their hands. The sticks made thunder and threw as it were pebbles into our skin. Many of my people died from the pebbles. We tried to fight them off, but their pebbles flew faster than our arrows and spears. On their bodies they wore shiny, rock-like skins and our weapons could not penetrate them.
"I am not aware of any who have survived from my village. I stand before you as the last of my people. Tears fill my eyes and embrace my face, because my family and friends have all gone to meet our Mother. I stand with tears, because I did nothing. I ran.
"I tell you these things, so that you may know. Prepare yourselves or move on, these pale men are not like your people or my people. They are unlike any people you know. They may not even be men, these pale creatures from the waters.
"Please heed the warnings. Not only mine, but those from our fathers who spoke of pale riders that would rise from the waters. I believe these are they the fathers spoke of. I believe they are come to destroy us."
I watched as the council spoke quietly, though in their own words. The Medicine Man, also a prophet, spoke. He was aged and look to be wise with many years before him; there was authority in his voice and all men listened. When he finished, it seemed they all agreed with his wisdom. The Interpreter looked to me and spoke through the smoke of the fire,
"Dear Friend, we are deeply saddened by the news you bring. Your people have always been welcome in our village and ours in your own. We have always enjoyed the trade we had with one another and many winters your goods have kept us through to the warmer times.
"The Prophet tells us that these are not the pale riders spoken of by our fathers. They are indeed vicious creatures, like those of the prophecies, but these are not they. We will not leave our land; we do not feel the threat is such as you make it.
"You are free to stay. Should you go, ask freely of our people and we will provide you with what you need for your journey."
I looked at the council, it was clear that this was their belief.
I spoke with great remorse, "Ones before you I have visited have said the same. Many have died; some are now slaves and guides to the pale men. They will be here, too.
"I will not stay. I will take what provisions you can give me and towards the Dry Land I will go. They may come there, too, but maybe by that time I will be old and will have died.
"It is a shame not to die in your own land."
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Mine Own Land
"Let me tell you what I know about the pale men who came from the waters. Their skin is like the sun has never seen it; they came out from the waters on large homes they had built with the trees. Upon their faces, like the beasts, hair does grow and some have more hair on their faces than others. They can talk to each other like the birds of the air, but they do not understand us and we cannot understand them. They wear all sorts of strange coats of skin, but they feel nothing like our beasts. They eat strange foods that quickly wither away.
"The first time they came to our village, they were not aggressive. But in their eyes, you could see they were uneasy. Like the beasts are when they fear what we might do to them. They walked all about my village, talking to each other in their strange tongue. One pale man kept writing unseen things.
"The second time they came, the sticks they had carried on their backs and at their sides they now held in their hands. The sticks made thunder and threw as it were pebbles into our skin. Many of my people died from the pebbles. We tried to fight them off, but their pebbles flew faster than our arrows and spears. On their bodies they wore shiny, rock-like skins and our weapons could not penetrate them.
"I am not aware of any who have survived from my village. I stand before you as the last of my people. Tears fill my eyes and embrace my face, because my family and friends have all gone to meet our Mother. I stand with tears, because I did nothing. I ran.
"I tell you these things, so that you may know. Prepare yourselves or move on, these pale men are not like your people or my people. They are unlike any people you know. They may not even be men, these pale creatures from the waters.
"Please heed the warnings. Not only mine, but those from our fathers who spoke of pale riders that would rise from the waters. I believe these are they the fathers spoke of. I believe they are come to destroy us."
I watched as the council spoke quietly, though in their own words. The Medicine Man, also a prophet, spoke. He was aged and look to be wise with many years before him; there was authority in his voice and all men listened. When he finished, it seemed they all agreed with his wisdom. The Interpreter looked to me and spoke through the smoke of the fire,
"Dear Friend, we are deeply saddened by the news you bring. Your people have always been welcome in our village and ours in your own. We have always enjoyed the trade we had with one another and many winters your goods have kept us through to the warmer times.
"The Prophet tells us that these are not the pale riders spoken of by our fathers. They are indeed vicious creatures, like those of the prophecies, but these are not they. We will not leave our land; we do not feel the threat is such as you make it.
"You are free to stay. Should you go, ask freely of our people and we will provide you with what you need for your journey."
I looked at the council, it was clear that this was their belief.
I spoke with great remorse, "Ones before you I have visited have said the same. Many have died; some are now slaves and guides to the pale men. They will be here, too.
"I will not stay. I will take what provisions you can give me and towards the Dry Land I will go. They may come there, too, but maybe by that time I will be old and will have died.
"It is a shame not to die in your own land."
"The first time they came to our village, they were not aggressive. But in their eyes, you could see they were uneasy. Like the beasts are when they fear what we might do to them. They walked all about my village, talking to each other in their strange tongue. One pale man kept writing unseen things.
"The second time they came, the sticks they had carried on their backs and at their sides they now held in their hands. The sticks made thunder and threw as it were pebbles into our skin. Many of my people died from the pebbles. We tried to fight them off, but their pebbles flew faster than our arrows and spears. On their bodies they wore shiny, rock-like skins and our weapons could not penetrate them.
"I am not aware of any who have survived from my village. I stand before you as the last of my people. Tears fill my eyes and embrace my face, because my family and friends have all gone to meet our Mother. I stand with tears, because I did nothing. I ran.
"I tell you these things, so that you may know. Prepare yourselves or move on, these pale men are not like your people or my people. They are unlike any people you know. They may not even be men, these pale creatures from the waters.
"Please heed the warnings. Not only mine, but those from our fathers who spoke of pale riders that would rise from the waters. I believe these are they the fathers spoke of. I believe they are come to destroy us."
I watched as the council spoke quietly, though in their own words. The Medicine Man, also a prophet, spoke. He was aged and look to be wise with many years before him; there was authority in his voice and all men listened. When he finished, it seemed they all agreed with his wisdom. The Interpreter looked to me and spoke through the smoke of the fire,
"Dear Friend, we are deeply saddened by the news you bring. Your people have always been welcome in our village and ours in your own. We have always enjoyed the trade we had with one another and many winters your goods have kept us through to the warmer times.
"The Prophet tells us that these are not the pale riders spoken of by our fathers. They are indeed vicious creatures, like those of the prophecies, but these are not they. We will not leave our land; we do not feel the threat is such as you make it.
"You are free to stay. Should you go, ask freely of our people and we will provide you with what you need for your journey."
I looked at the council, it was clear that this was their belief.
I spoke with great remorse, "Ones before you I have visited have said the same. Many have died; some are now slaves and guides to the pale men. They will be here, too.
"I will not stay. I will take what provisions you can give me and towards the Dry Land I will go. They may come there, too, but maybe by that time I will be old and will have died.
"It is a shame not to die in your own land."
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Rolling Stone & Wicked Annabelle, Chapter 3
Some Reunions Suck
Teen Wolf was to be his first stop; he was the Supplier. He started this mess. Teen Wolf lived in a gigantic house that he bought with the gigantic addictions and losses he fermented. He was a dealer, but he didn’t deal to lowlifes on the streets in the outskirts. He was inner city, higher class scum than the teens The Rolling Stone had maimed in the convenient store. He wasn’t top of the crop, though. He bought from the inner-most city scum dealers, than he supplied it to the lowlife dealing scum in the outskirts. The lowlife dealers sold it to any Tom, Dick and Harry that walked the streets—or in this case, Wicked Annabelle.
The Rolling Stone met Wicked Annabelle in a bar on the edge of the outskirts; that is, not in the outskirts but just inside inner city. Before he knew it, they were seeing more of each other and before he knew it they were getting hitched. And then, he really got to know her—she was a junkie, a lowlife junkie. She bought from the lowlife dealers who bought from Teen Wolf who bought from Dr. Hook who worked for Big Fish Murphy. Before he knew it, Wicked Annabelle was prematurely birthing his damaged son. The last The Rolling Stone had seen of his son, things were looking rough for the four year old. He was on tubes and all other manner of things that make one more robot than human. Wicked Annabelle’s addiction had made the boy’s life barely worth living.
Wicked Annabelle met Dr. Hook at a party; she showed up hanging off Teen Wolf. She was looking for some free hook-ups to things that could get her really flying. She desired to be high, high as a kite by then. The Rolling Stone didn’t know of this meeting, he was clueless. He was working the graveyard shift, as always. Dr. Hook took a liking to Wicked Annabelle, swaying to and fro in her perpetual midnight state. She was flying by the time Dr. Hook found her, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t after her mind or clever conversation.
She had a body a guy could appreciate, and she was willing to negotiate. Better yet, she was cheap. That is, cheap for a guy who already owns the jazz she’s wanting—he could get all the Wicked Annabelle he desired for nothing. Just a little this and a little that from his own stash. A little loss, but it paid off in the bedroom. Dr. Hook was getting up there, but when you’re rich the ladies don’t care how shriveled you may become. For Wicked Annabelle, though, it wasn’t about the money—it was about the drugs.
Teen Wolf was currently sitting home alone, smoking a piece of his own labor. On his television set “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” was showing. He took a huge puff and his head was becoming heavier, swaying away from his neck—out ward and down, then jerking it up to see Goldie Hawn doing her hippy dance.
“Goldie, baby,” he spoke, a look of concern became his face, “You poor girl. Look at you—you’re just a body, baby,” he sniffed long and hard, “It’s The Man Goldie, baby!” He tried to focus his eyes, looking at the glass-sliding doors before him. He leaned forward in the sofa, a small fireball could be seen through the glass, “The light Goldie, do you see the light, Goldie? I see it,” the fireball faded into black and then words appeared in the dark, coming closer. Squinting hard, he read, “Team Player? What’s it mean, Goldie?” Looking up, he saw a familiar face, “Eddie? Eddie Bruno?”
The glass shattered and the bullet traveled across the living room, it entered Teen Wolf’s right shoulder. Following through with the momentum, he flipped over backwards from sitting and went feet first over the back of the sofa. Landing on his knees, his forehead sliding across the back of the sofa—he jumped to his feet and began to run down the hallway behind him, “Run, Goldie, RUN!”
The next bullet came through his right shoulder from the back, exiting out the entrance of his first wound. He fell with it, his right side leading. He fell shoulder and head first into the staircase, he tried to grab the rail but his feet and hands betrayed him. He rolled all the way down the stairs, at the bottom his neck scrunched between the floor and wall. Looking up the stairs, he could see The Rolling Stone’s silhouette looking down at him.
Teen Wolf ran through the room, it was dark and he kicked something in the process. He could feel that a toe was broken—now limping he ran towards a pair of French Doors. As he reached the doors, a bullet entered through his back—middle of the torso, just to the left of his spine. He flew forward, throwing his hands out as he did.
As he rolled across the concrete patio, he felt the glass shards cutting into his arms and legs—his heavily bearded face was riddled with shards. Teen Wolf jumped to his feet, landing in the grass. He turned and looked back to his house, “Eddie, stop! What do you want?! Just say it!”
The Rolling Stone stepped out of the shadow of the balcony above him—from which he had made his entrance—the risen moon lit his face, “One question.”
“Anything, Eddie, anything…”
“Where is she?”
“Who, Eddie?” the fourth bullet entered and exited his left foot, “Dr. Hook!”
“The Compound?”
“Yeah, Eddie,” standing on one foot, Teen Wolf rubbed his bloody foot with the broken toe, “But you can forget it. Nobody uninvited enters The Compound.”
The fifth and final bullet drove through his skull, brain and out the other side. The Rolling Stone stood over his latest victim, who squirmed and twitched involuntarily. Slowly the movements gave way, Teen Wolf’s eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.
Inside Teen Wolf’s walk-in closet, The Rolling Stone browsed a much larger selection of clothing. He took his hands and pulled at the neck, dead and center, his Team Player shirt tore straight down the middle. He threw it on the floor, kicking off his loafers into a corner. He picked a golden, polyester button-up shirt. He slipped into some navy blue bellbottoms and completed the outfit with a brown, leather jacket. Fitting into some new, non-bloody socks, and loafers he stepped out of the closet.
As The Rolling Stone flagged down a cab, he knew what he had to face. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, yet—but he was tired of toying around. No one had ever survived a fight with Hawn the Hammer. It was going to take all he had—and he had nothing.
Teen Wolf was to be his first stop; he was the Supplier. He started this mess. Teen Wolf lived in a gigantic house that he bought with the gigantic addictions and losses he fermented. He was a dealer, but he didn’t deal to lowlifes on the streets in the outskirts. He was inner city, higher class scum than the teens The Rolling Stone had maimed in the convenient store. He wasn’t top of the crop, though. He bought from the inner-most city scum dealers, than he supplied it to the lowlife dealing scum in the outskirts. The lowlife dealers sold it to any Tom, Dick and Harry that walked the streets—or in this case, Wicked Annabelle.
The Rolling Stone met Wicked Annabelle in a bar on the edge of the outskirts; that is, not in the outskirts but just inside inner city. Before he knew it, they were seeing more of each other and before he knew it they were getting hitched. And then, he really got to know her—she was a junkie, a lowlife junkie. She bought from the lowlife dealers who bought from Teen Wolf who bought from Dr. Hook who worked for Big Fish Murphy. Before he knew it, Wicked Annabelle was prematurely birthing his damaged son. The last The Rolling Stone had seen of his son, things were looking rough for the four year old. He was on tubes and all other manner of things that make one more robot than human. Wicked Annabelle’s addiction had made the boy’s life barely worth living.
Wicked Annabelle met Dr. Hook at a party; she showed up hanging off Teen Wolf. She was looking for some free hook-ups to things that could get her really flying. She desired to be high, high as a kite by then. The Rolling Stone didn’t know of this meeting, he was clueless. He was working the graveyard shift, as always. Dr. Hook took a liking to Wicked Annabelle, swaying to and fro in her perpetual midnight state. She was flying by the time Dr. Hook found her, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t after her mind or clever conversation.
She had a body a guy could appreciate, and she was willing to negotiate. Better yet, she was cheap. That is, cheap for a guy who already owns the jazz she’s wanting—he could get all the Wicked Annabelle he desired for nothing. Just a little this and a little that from his own stash. A little loss, but it paid off in the bedroom. Dr. Hook was getting up there, but when you’re rich the ladies don’t care how shriveled you may become. For Wicked Annabelle, though, it wasn’t about the money—it was about the drugs.
Teen Wolf was currently sitting home alone, smoking a piece of his own labor. On his television set “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” was showing. He took a huge puff and his head was becoming heavier, swaying away from his neck—out ward and down, then jerking it up to see Goldie Hawn doing her hippy dance.
“Goldie, baby,” he spoke, a look of concern became his face, “You poor girl. Look at you—you’re just a body, baby,” he sniffed long and hard, “It’s The Man Goldie, baby!” He tried to focus his eyes, looking at the glass-sliding doors before him. He leaned forward in the sofa, a small fireball could be seen through the glass, “The light Goldie, do you see the light, Goldie? I see it,” the fireball faded into black and then words appeared in the dark, coming closer. Squinting hard, he read, “Team Player? What’s it mean, Goldie?” Looking up, he saw a familiar face, “Eddie? Eddie Bruno?”
The glass shattered and the bullet traveled across the living room, it entered Teen Wolf’s right shoulder. Following through with the momentum, he flipped over backwards from sitting and went feet first over the back of the sofa. Landing on his knees, his forehead sliding across the back of the sofa—he jumped to his feet and began to run down the hallway behind him, “Run, Goldie, RUN!”
The next bullet came through his right shoulder from the back, exiting out the entrance of his first wound. He fell with it, his right side leading. He fell shoulder and head first into the staircase, he tried to grab the rail but his feet and hands betrayed him. He rolled all the way down the stairs, at the bottom his neck scrunched between the floor and wall. Looking up the stairs, he could see The Rolling Stone’s silhouette looking down at him.
Teen Wolf ran through the room, it was dark and he kicked something in the process. He could feel that a toe was broken—now limping he ran towards a pair of French Doors. As he reached the doors, a bullet entered through his back—middle of the torso, just to the left of his spine. He flew forward, throwing his hands out as he did.
As he rolled across the concrete patio, he felt the glass shards cutting into his arms and legs—his heavily bearded face was riddled with shards. Teen Wolf jumped to his feet, landing in the grass. He turned and looked back to his house, “Eddie, stop! What do you want?! Just say it!”
The Rolling Stone stepped out of the shadow of the balcony above him—from which he had made his entrance—the risen moon lit his face, “One question.”
“Anything, Eddie, anything…”
“Where is she?”
“Who, Eddie?” the fourth bullet entered and exited his left foot, “Dr. Hook!”
“The Compound?”
“Yeah, Eddie,” standing on one foot, Teen Wolf rubbed his bloody foot with the broken toe, “But you can forget it. Nobody uninvited enters The Compound.”
The fifth and final bullet drove through his skull, brain and out the other side. The Rolling Stone stood over his latest victim, who squirmed and twitched involuntarily. Slowly the movements gave way, Teen Wolf’s eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.
Inside Teen Wolf’s walk-in closet, The Rolling Stone browsed a much larger selection of clothing. He took his hands and pulled at the neck, dead and center, his Team Player shirt tore straight down the middle. He threw it on the floor, kicking off his loafers into a corner. He picked a golden, polyester button-up shirt. He slipped into some navy blue bellbottoms and completed the outfit with a brown, leather jacket. Fitting into some new, non-bloody socks, and loafers he stepped out of the closet.
As The Rolling Stone flagged down a cab, he knew what he had to face. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, yet—but he was tired of toying around. No one had ever survived a fight with Hawn the Hammer. It was going to take all he had—and he had nothing.
The Rolling Stone & Wicked Annabelle, Chapter 3
Some Reunions Suck
Teen Wolf was to be his first stop; he was the Supplier. He started this mess. Teen Wolf lived in a gigantic house that he bought with the gigantic addictions and losses he fermented. He was a dealer, but he didn’t deal to lowlifes on the streets in the outskirts. He was inner city, higher class scum than the teens The Rolling Stone had maimed in the convenient store. He wasn’t top of the crop, though. He bought from the inner-most city scum dealers, than he supplied it to the lowlife dealing scum in the outskirts. The lowlife dealers sold it to any Tom, Dick and Harry that walked the streets—or in this case, Wicked Annabelle.
The Rolling Stone met Wicked Annabelle in a bar on the edge of the outskirts; that is, not in the outskirts but just inside inner city. Before he knew it, they were seeing more of each other and before he knew it they were getting hitched. And then, he really got to know her—she was a junkie, a lowlife junkie. She bought from the lowlife dealers who bought from Teen Wolf who bought from Dr. Hook who worked for Big Fish Murphy. Before he knew it, Wicked Annabelle was prematurely birthing his damaged son. The last The Rolling Stone had seen of his son, things were looking rough for the four year old. He was on tubes and all other manner of things that make one more robot than human. Wicked Annabelle’s addiction had made the boy’s life barely worth living.
Wicked Annabelle met Dr. Hook at a party; she showed up hanging off Teen Wolf. She was looking for some free hook-ups to things that could get her really flying. She desired to be high, high as a kite by then. The Rolling Stone didn’t know of this meeting, he was clueless. He was working the graveyard shift, as always. Dr. Hook took a liking to Wicked Annabelle, swaying to and fro in her perpetual midnight state. She was flying by the time Dr. Hook found her, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t after her mind or clever conversation.
She had a body a guy could appreciate, and she was willing to negotiate. Better yet, she was cheap. That is, cheap for a guy who already owns the jazz she’s wanting—he could get all the Wicked Annabelle he desired for nothing. Just a little this and a little that from his own stash. A little loss, but it paid off in the bedroom. Dr. Hook was getting up there, but when you’re rich the ladies don’t care how shriveled you may become. For Wicked Annabelle, though, it wasn’t about the money—it was about the drugs.
Teen Wolf was currently sitting home alone, smoking a piece of his own labor. On his television set “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” was showing. He took a huge puff and his head was becoming heavier, swaying away from his neck—out ward and down, then jerking it up to see Goldie Hawn doing her hippy dance.
“Goldie, baby,” he spoke, a look of concern became his face, “You poor girl. Look at you—you’re just a body, baby,” he sniffed long and hard, “It’s The Man Goldie, baby!” He tried to focus his eyes, looking at the glass-sliding doors before him. He leaned forward in the sofa, a small fireball could be seen through the glass, “The light Goldie, do you see the light, Goldie? I see it,” the fireball faded into black and then words appeared in the dark, coming closer. Squinting hard, he read, “Team Player? What’s it mean, Goldie?” Looking up, he saw a familiar face, “Eddie? Eddie Bruno?”
The glass shattered and the bullet traveled across the living room, it entered Teen Wolf’s right shoulder. Following through with the momentum, he flipped over backwards from sitting and went feet first over the back of the sofa. Landing on his knees, his forehead sliding across the back of the sofa—he jumped to his feet and began to run down the hallway behind him, “Run, Goldie, RUN!”
The next bullet came through his right shoulder from the back, exiting out the entrance of his first wound. He fell with it, his right side leading. He fell shoulder and head first into the staircase, he tried to grab the rail but his feet and hands betrayed him. He rolled all the way down the stairs, at the bottom his neck scrunched between the floor and wall. Looking up the stairs, he could see The Rolling Stone’s silhouette looking down at him.
Teen Wolf ran through the room, it was dark and he kicked something in the process. He could feel that a toe was broken—now limping he ran towards a pair of French Doors. As he reached the doors, a bullet entered through his back—middle of the torso, just to the left of his spine. He flew forward, throwing his hands out as he did.
As he rolled across the concrete patio, he felt the glass shards cutting into his arms and legs—his heavily bearded face was riddled with shards. Teen Wolf jumped to his feet, landing in the grass. He turned and looked back to his house, “Eddie, stop! What do you want?! Just say it!”
The Rolling Stone stepped out of the shadow of the balcony above him—from which he had made his entrance—the risen moon lit his face, “One question.”
“Anything, Eddie, anything…”
“Where is she?”
“Who, Eddie?” the fourth bullet entered and exited his left foot, “Dr. Hook!”
“The Compound?”
“Yeah, Eddie,” standing on one foot, Teen Wolf rubbed his bloody foot with the broken toe, “But you can forget it. Nobody uninvited enters The Compound.”
The fifth and final bullet drove through his skull, brain and out the other side. The Rolling Stone stood over his latest victim, who squirmed and twitched involuntarily. Slowly the movements gave way, Teen Wolf’s eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.
Inside Teen Wolf’s walk-in closet, The Rolling Stone browsed a much larger selection of clothing. He took his hands and pulled at the neck, dead and center, his Team Player shirt tore straight down the middle. He threw it on the floor, kicking off his loafers into a corner. He picked a golden, polyester button-up shirt. He slipped into some navy blue bellbottoms and completed the outfit with a brown, leather jacket. Fitting into some new, non-bloody socks, and loafers he stepped out of the closet.
As The Rolling Stone flagged down a cab, he knew what he had to face. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, yet—but he was tired of toying around. No one had ever survived a fight with Hawn the Hammer. It was going to take all he had—and he had nothing.
Teen Wolf was to be his first stop; he was the Supplier. He started this mess. Teen Wolf lived in a gigantic house that he bought with the gigantic addictions and losses he fermented. He was a dealer, but he didn’t deal to lowlifes on the streets in the outskirts. He was inner city, higher class scum than the teens The Rolling Stone had maimed in the convenient store. He wasn’t top of the crop, though. He bought from the inner-most city scum dealers, than he supplied it to the lowlife dealing scum in the outskirts. The lowlife dealers sold it to any Tom, Dick and Harry that walked the streets—or in this case, Wicked Annabelle.
The Rolling Stone met Wicked Annabelle in a bar on the edge of the outskirts; that is, not in the outskirts but just inside inner city. Before he knew it, they were seeing more of each other and before he knew it they were getting hitched. And then, he really got to know her—she was a junkie, a lowlife junkie. She bought from the lowlife dealers who bought from Teen Wolf who bought from Dr. Hook who worked for Big Fish Murphy. Before he knew it, Wicked Annabelle was prematurely birthing his damaged son. The last The Rolling Stone had seen of his son, things were looking rough for the four year old. He was on tubes and all other manner of things that make one more robot than human. Wicked Annabelle’s addiction had made the boy’s life barely worth living.
Wicked Annabelle met Dr. Hook at a party; she showed up hanging off Teen Wolf. She was looking for some free hook-ups to things that could get her really flying. She desired to be high, high as a kite by then. The Rolling Stone didn’t know of this meeting, he was clueless. He was working the graveyard shift, as always. Dr. Hook took a liking to Wicked Annabelle, swaying to and fro in her perpetual midnight state. She was flying by the time Dr. Hook found her, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t after her mind or clever conversation.
She had a body a guy could appreciate, and she was willing to negotiate. Better yet, she was cheap. That is, cheap for a guy who already owns the jazz she’s wanting—he could get all the Wicked Annabelle he desired for nothing. Just a little this and a little that from his own stash. A little loss, but it paid off in the bedroom. Dr. Hook was getting up there, but when you’re rich the ladies don’t care how shriveled you may become. For Wicked Annabelle, though, it wasn’t about the money—it was about the drugs.
Teen Wolf was currently sitting home alone, smoking a piece of his own labor. On his television set “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” was showing. He took a huge puff and his head was becoming heavier, swaying away from his neck—out ward and down, then jerking it up to see Goldie Hawn doing her hippy dance.
“Goldie, baby,” he spoke, a look of concern became his face, “You poor girl. Look at you—you’re just a body, baby,” he sniffed long and hard, “It’s The Man Goldie, baby!” He tried to focus his eyes, looking at the glass-sliding doors before him. He leaned forward in the sofa, a small fireball could be seen through the glass, “The light Goldie, do you see the light, Goldie? I see it,” the fireball faded into black and then words appeared in the dark, coming closer. Squinting hard, he read, “Team Player? What’s it mean, Goldie?” Looking up, he saw a familiar face, “Eddie? Eddie Bruno?”
The glass shattered and the bullet traveled across the living room, it entered Teen Wolf’s right shoulder. Following through with the momentum, he flipped over backwards from sitting and went feet first over the back of the sofa. Landing on his knees, his forehead sliding across the back of the sofa—he jumped to his feet and began to run down the hallway behind him, “Run, Goldie, RUN!”
The next bullet came through his right shoulder from the back, exiting out the entrance of his first wound. He fell with it, his right side leading. He fell shoulder and head first into the staircase, he tried to grab the rail but his feet and hands betrayed him. He rolled all the way down the stairs, at the bottom his neck scrunched between the floor and wall. Looking up the stairs, he could see The Rolling Stone’s silhouette looking down at him.
Teen Wolf ran through the room, it was dark and he kicked something in the process. He could feel that a toe was broken—now limping he ran towards a pair of French Doors. As he reached the doors, a bullet entered through his back—middle of the torso, just to the left of his spine. He flew forward, throwing his hands out as he did.
As he rolled across the concrete patio, he felt the glass shards cutting into his arms and legs—his heavily bearded face was riddled with shards. Teen Wolf jumped to his feet, landing in the grass. He turned and looked back to his house, “Eddie, stop! What do you want?! Just say it!”
The Rolling Stone stepped out of the shadow of the balcony above him—from which he had made his entrance—the risen moon lit his face, “One question.”
“Anything, Eddie, anything…”
“Where is she?”
“Who, Eddie?” the fourth bullet entered and exited his left foot, “Dr. Hook!”
“The Compound?”
“Yeah, Eddie,” standing on one foot, Teen Wolf rubbed his bloody foot with the broken toe, “But you can forget it. Nobody uninvited enters The Compound.”
The fifth and final bullet drove through his skull, brain and out the other side. The Rolling Stone stood over his latest victim, who squirmed and twitched involuntarily. Slowly the movements gave way, Teen Wolf’s eyes glowing with the reflection of the moon.
Inside Teen Wolf’s walk-in closet, The Rolling Stone browsed a much larger selection of clothing. He took his hands and pulled at the neck, dead and center, his Team Player shirt tore straight down the middle. He threw it on the floor, kicking off his loafers into a corner. He picked a golden, polyester button-up shirt. He slipped into some navy blue bellbottoms and completed the outfit with a brown, leather jacket. Fitting into some new, non-bloody socks, and loafers he stepped out of the closet.
As The Rolling Stone flagged down a cab, he knew what he had to face. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for it, yet—but he was tired of toying around. No one had ever survived a fight with Hawn the Hammer. It was going to take all he had—and he had nothing.
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