| Beyond Magic|001 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 3 2017, 11:16 AM (193 Views) | |
| Tritch | Apr 3 2017, 11:16 AM Post #1 |
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late night, january tenth into the eleventh, at a detroit bus station “Sir?” The voice - which came from a man dressed in comfortable clothes, with a windbreaker jacket that read Greyhound across the back - was calm, but a bit annoyed. He’d been driving for hours and hours, only getting to stop a couple of times on the long trip from Los Angeles. He reached down towards the man, who looked like he’d seen better days, gently touching his shoulder. “Excuse me, sir?” With a jolt, the man’s eyes flew open, bloodshot and sagging, as he looked around in confusion. After blinking a few times, he noticed the bus driver, standing there staring at him. “Yeah?” “Sorry to disturb you sir, but this is the last stop. We arrived a half-hour ago,” C.T. pushed his hood back and brushed a hand through his matted beard as he looked out the foggy window. “How cold is it out there?” He asked, looking down at his ragged hoodie and holey jeans. “Oh it’s about 35 degrees,” the man responded, looking at his watch as his agitation grew. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” C.T. took a deep breath before looking up at the man with a giant smile, shaking his head from side to side. He slid to the aisle seat, causing the bus driver to back up a couple of steps. He twisted around as he pushed himself to his feet, opening the overhead bin. “Sir, your bag is at the front of the bus. It was too big for the overhead, remember?” The driver motioned toward the front, where the massive military-style backpack rested in a seat of its own. C.T. looked a bit embarrassed, and shook his head. “Right, apologies, Misterrr-” C.T. tried to read the man’s name tag as he squeezed past him in the center aisle, moving towards the front of the bus. “Hodgkins,” the driver smiles politely, despite running about forty minutes behind at this point. “It’s no problem, sir. It was a long trip. Just glad I could get you here safely.” C.T. grunts as he lifts his massive pack onto his back, offering another smile and a nod at Mr. Hodgkins. “Alright now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you, you have a great night, mister.” “Just one more thing,” C.T. mutters as he starts descending the steps of the bus. “I think I felt something strange in your pocket as I passed you by. You should check that out.” C.T. smiles again, holding a hand up in the air as he disappears off the front of the bus. Mr. Hodgkins looks at him with a furrowed brow as he brings a hand up to his jacket, reaching into the pocket and pulling out a crisp 100-dollar bill. A warm smile creeps onto the man’s face as he leans forward, watching the man disappear into the cold, dark night. not long after that, at the royal inn motel “Sir, we either need a credit card or a confirmed permanent address in order to give you a room, I’m sorry,” the motel’s clerk hides his face with a hand, perhaps to hide his laughter or perhaps to cover his nose from the stench. It’d been a few days since C.T. was able to take a shower. “I don’t have either of those things, I told you,” C.T. turns around, biting his bottom lip as he looks around the lobby. Trash was piled up on the corner of the couch, and he could smell weed coming from down the hallway. He shook his head with a sigh. “This isn’t the Ritz-Carlton. I thought maybe you could make an exception.” “Compared to what I’m sure you’re used to, this might as well be the Ritz, damn,” the clerk sounded offended, but he was still covering his face. “If you don’t have what is required to get a room, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir.” “This is my first night in town, and I have an important meeting tomorrow. I can’t sleep on the streets, man,” C.T. drops his backpack and opens one of the pockets. He pulls out a wad of cash and starts counting it out. “I don’t have an address or a credit card, but I’ve got a cell number and I can pay cash up front for five nights.” “If you’ve got that kind of cash, why you look and smell the way you do, homie?” The man laughed again, and more laughter could be heard coming from behind a cracked door at the back of the clerk’s station. “That’s all of my money. I was hoping to eat this week, but I’ll have to figure something else out,” C.T. muttered, his head drooping to hide the smirk. “Is there anything you can do for me, or not?” The clerk now looked at Connie with a tragic expression, his brow furrowing and his hand dropping. He looked at the wad of cash, and then up at C.T.’s depressed expression. He sighed and started typing on his computer, before grabbing a key and pulling out a couple hundred dollars from the wad. “I booked you for five nights, but only charged you for two. Get some food and a shower, man. You have to go after that, though.” “Oh,” C.T. acts like his knees get week as he accepts the key and pockets the rest of his cash. He hops up onto the counter and hugs the clerk, much to his protest. “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much!” “Yeah, yeah, let go, man. Damn!” He shouts, pushing Connie back off the counter. C.T. grabs his backpack and takes off down the hallway, laughing silently as soon as he’s out of sight. late morning, several weeks later, in a different motel Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. A pillow laid atop the alarm clock, muffling the annoying sound it emitted just enough that C.T. slept right through it. It kept beeping, and beeping. But no matter how many times it beeped, it didn’t seem able to wake Connie up. He had just suffered defeat at the hands of Camila Martinez, so perhaps he just… didn’t want to. Thud. Thud. Thud. His eyes finally opened at the sound of someone pounding on the door. “Hey, wake the fuck up man. Your alarm clock has been going off for thirty minutes. Check out was an hour ago, you’ve got to go.” C.T. very carefully and quietly slid out of bed, leaving the alarm clock on so as to not give away the fact that he truly was inside and awake. The man outside the door sighed and began walking away, yelling “you’ve got 15 minutes ‘til I’m opening that door and coming in.” He quickly scrambled over to his bag, digging through one of the front pockets to find a ziplock bag. Pulling out a crusty toothbrush and a nearly-empty, travel-sized toothpaste he began brushing his teeth while slapping water onto his armpits and chest. He paused brushing his teeth to squeeze some soap into his hand and started lathering that on as well. After spitting the toothpaste out he wiped the hand soap off with more water, grabbing a ratty towel off the rack to dry himself off. After quickly packing his items back into the bag, he grabbed just about anything not nailed down and shoved it in the bag as well, stopping only to pull out a dented bottle of Axe body spray that it seemed like he forgot he had. He sprayed far too much onto himself and dropped the bottle back into its pocket before pulling out a pair of purple spandex running pants. He pulled those on and then a pair of black gym shorts over them, then pulled on a matching purple workout shirt and pulled a cut-off HKW shirt over that - a shirt that he had found the night previous in a trash can after the Crossfire event had ended. Carefully and quietly, he pulled the door of the hotel room open, not bothering to turn off the alarm clock that had faded into background noise to him minutes earlier. Peering either way down the hallway, he realized it was empty and quickly pulled his backpack out the door. Putting it on he began scurrying towards the side door, having checked into the hotel a few nights prior with a credit card he lifted off the front desk worker. “Sir!” The angry voice of the man from earlier called down the hall with a booming tone, but Constantine simply picked up speed and barrelled right through the side door, disappearing into the nearby woods before the desk man even made it to the door. Connie didn’t slow his speed until he got to the nearby frontage road, laughing almost hysterically as he doubled over to catch his breath. He let out a loud sigh, glancing over his shoulder to make sure nobody was following him, before looking back forward to see a sign that read “DETROIT-----140 MI.” He turned around and looked at the cars coming towards him at about 45 miles per hour, sticking out a thumb to catch a ride to the RISE UP Gym. |
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