I woke up itching. Some motels just make you itch. I orientated to the banging at the door, the darkness, and awareness started flooding back. I put up a mental dike and put my finger in it. I opened the door as far as the chain would let me. I still don’t get how a little brass chain painted gold is supposed to keep anyone out.
I rubbed my eyes. It was still him, still in a duster, still looking like he shouldn’t be upright let alone breathing and standing.
“Let me in.”
I paused. He shouldered the door and the chain snapped.
“C’mon in then, wouldja?”
He went to the coffee pot, tore open one of those little pre-packed things, switched on the bathroom light and filled the pot with water.
“Don’t,” he said as I was about to flick on a lamp. I stopped being impressed with the eyes in back of his head a thousand miles ago. He wasn’t reading the cards, he was reading the man.
A few gurgly minutes later we each had a cup of hot black coffee in our hands. The Styrofoam tasted stale. It complimented the staleness of the coffee.
“Juan Valdez’s burro must have shat in this,” I said, trying to be funny, sort of. Burro shit, I imagine, tastes more organic.
Silence.
“So how’d it go?”
"The peasants were waiting for me."
Silence.
“Where’s the girl?”
“The fuck should I know. Peasants, torches, pitchforks, that sort of thing.”
“Huh. I just use my torch and pitchfork app. The screen is smaller but there’s less second hand torch smoke and none of the hilarity that stepping on a pitchfork brings.”
More silence.
“Thought we were the good guys?” This silence was punctuated by a deep inhale. He’d either punctured a lung or was about to give me another fucking speech. It was all brooding silence, terse orders or lectures with this motherfucker. I felt a bit deflated that both his lungs worked and were pushing words out.
“There are no good guys or bad guys; there isn’t even a struggle between forces of good and bad. The fucking peasants …”
“Your class struggle is out of date,” I interrupted.
He glared, “The fucking peasants were trying to rescue a girl, and, maybe they knew what was coming. She was in danger, and I was her captor, they were hardly bad guys. I couldn’t very well explain how I was a good guy and all I wanted to do was stake her out like a goat to call out a demon …”
“No,” I said wincing at the throat hit of acidic stale coffee, “but I could have.”
Three different kinds of mad scowled across his face, angry that I was questioning him again, angry at my arrogance and angry that I was right. The other kind of mad had curled up like a napping kitten in his eyes; always there, purring and pawing. They all passed quickly except the kitty in residence.
“They seemed organized enough. I mean they knew something was coming and that there’d be a girl. They weren’t surprised. It’s a damn sight better than it usually goes; some cop or reporter coming after the fact trying to make sense of it.” This time the silence was mine.
Slowly I said, “Maybe we should hang out for a few, watch, see if they might need a hand.”
The mad kitty in his eyes rolled on her back, paws in the air.
“Maybe I should.”
He took a long time to say As you’d like.
I don’t know how long this took; pretty sure it was around a half an hour, I had my head down thinking with my fingers. It’s a sketch of a longer story, one I started with last week’s flash. Enough scraps and I might like a handful enough to tie them together. As a stand-alone I’m not too fond of this. I’m scratching at the voice of the characters. As a longer piece this needs a something something to make it different from all the bazillion things just like it. If I can’t find that it’s not worth pursuing.
Prompts
Reap, indigenous, catalyst
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