Drown Your Troubles

[daniel_stacy]

The sharp end of a dart whizzed through the air until it sunk solidly into cork. The quill vibrated in place. "Bullseye!" proclaimed its drunken thrower as he threw his hands in the air. Victory was his, assuming that darts were meant to hit a 'For Sale or Rent' board posted two feet from the game board. Daniel lumbered over and pulled the point from an ad for a 1976 Chevrolet with 40,000 miles on the odometer.

Hey... not a bad looking car.

Blindly, he moved to stab it into the correct spot. The air alongside his ear whistled. Thud. There was stinging pain in his right hand. "Ah! Son of a bitch!" He pulled the dart from the soft flesh between his knuckles. "You meant ta do that!" he accused an unknown assailant.


[Thread: Open to Anyone]

Comments

[whistlersmum]

Whistler cut him off. "Maybe yours isn't interested in mass slaughter." He took out his cigarettes, shook one through the ripped corner of the soft pack, and lit it. "Maybe you're supposed to be somethin' else."

[daniel_stacy]

"Like what?"

Daniel was glad he hadn't picked up the smoking habit when he was alive. It cost money he didn't have in spades. Which reminded him, he needed a damn job, fast, before he stopped being able to buy drinks. That would be a tragedy.

[whistlersmum]

Whistler sighed into his beer. "There's a time I could've told ya," he grumbled. "I could look right at you and see your possible futures. But fuck," he took a gulp of the beverage, "I'm not so sure right now."

[daniel_stacy]

Daniel cringed. "You're a fortune teller?" He didn't look like a gypsy, although if he was brutally honest, the man's wardrobe left a lot to be desired. "With... no fortunes." A slicing motion of his hand.

"Wow."

Daniel put his cheek in his palm.

[whistlersmum]

"Jeez, way to hurt a guy."

Whistler ordered another round of drinks, briefly considering drinking the second shot just to be an asshole. "I'm NOT a fortune teller. I maintain the balance. Ain't m' fault Searchlight's gone and fucked it up. Again."

GULP. SLAM. SMASH.

[daniel_stacy]

"Whoa! Relax!" Daniel flung his palms in the air. He eyed the shards of glass from the broken shot glass. If he got impaled a second time in one night, he was going to lose his good humor.

"How th' fuck should I know what you are? Barely know what I am. Sheesus." He shook his head at the bartender, who swept away the sharp remnants with an irritated expression.

[whistlersmum]

The Agent wiped a bit of spittle off his chin. "S'rry, just mad at myself." He signaled for another round as an apology.

"I used ta know this shit like the back o' my hand. Dunno, maybe I got too used to seein' shit before it happened. If someone had questions, I had the answers."

Whistler thumbed the liquid drops on the bar while the bartender mopped up the broken glass. "Mebby that's th' point. Start back at one, 'n work my way forward again." He shrugged.

[daniel_stacy]

"Maybe you're supposed to do somethin' else, too," Daniel said, punctuating with a jab to Whistler's arm. "Besides. Who needs to see the future to... maintain the balance?"

What the hell did that mean?

"There's gotta be other ways t' throw your weight around. Oh. Heh heh." He lifted his glass. "Weight, balance. See what I did there?" He sipped at the brew.

[whistlersmum]

"Put it that way... just 'cuz yer a vampire doesn't mean ya gotta be Dracula, amiright?" Whistler puffed on his cancer stick, blowing smoking rings. "If I can change -- and I'm a lot older than you -- what's to say you can't?"