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SAMPLE:
If there was one thing Anatole had learned over the years, it was that you could write a surprising number of autographs in exchange for goods and services. Really, you could: all you needed was a charming smile, a really good pen, and some chum to dash out on after you'd made your mark. Sure, you got the occasional debt-collecting phone call, but generally once they realized they could sell the damned thing for more than the bill, you were in the clear. Or at least back in the good fortune to make good on it, anyway.
But the other thing you found out, of course - and this was a lesson he was painfully reminded of - was that you could only get away with it once. As the hard leather sole reconnected with his side, Ane figured he was getting off a little light, all things considered. I mean, at least the guy was smart enough to follow him - good call, there, sherlock - but not smart enough to think about taking his expensive guitar out of the back of the beaten-up pick-up truck. Like momma always said: you can fix up ignorance with bandaids and sweet talk, but stupidity is down to the bone.
Not that Anatole ever really knew his mother, of course, but that never makes for a very good story.
Of course, had this been a really good story, he'd probably have taken a swing or two, bashing the guy's nose in for a brief and bloody moment where he and the hotel manager locked eyes over the ruined remains of cartilage and dignity. The manager would say something dramatic, spitting blood with every word - "I'll take your debt from your hide!" - and the camera would have swung in, drawing close to a smudge of dirt just under Anatole's dark eyes and clenched boxer's fists. Maybe even a lock of hair would have fallen into the sallow, chiseled brow, right before four of the manager's buddies stepped out from behind cars in the parking lot, vague blurs in the background of the scene, the destitute summer sun filling the air with the color of violence. Music would have swelled.
It most definitely would not have described Anatole trying to slip out in the middle of the night, forgetting that his shadow threw right across the hotel's shabby excuse for a lobby. It definitely would not have depicted our hero so full of the shakes that he could barely get his bag over the lip of the truck without dropping the damn thing. And it wouldn't have shown the manager coming up behind him with a baseball bat and a week's worth of unpaid bills behind the swing.
Yeah, probably not. Who wants to read about that s**t?
Anatole came to right around the time the sun did, blinking up into the lighting sky with a groan usually reserved for late-night benders chase by early-morning tour bus stops. He couldn't tell if the ringing in his ears was from the blow or the tinnitus, but it faded when he realized that his feet were soaked to the skin. What had happened to his shoes? Crawling into the truck's front seat, taking stock through the small slat window of the green pickup, out of everything the guy could have taken, apparently it was Ane's crocodile-leather boots that the night manager had wanted the most.
Well - one wet, socked foot pressing down gingerly on the brake, putting the vehicle into gear - Ane figured he could take a hint. So what was the answer?
Not going back to the city, that's for sure.
And not going back to the town, either; that wasn't really an option, or next time it very well might be five guys to one.
So? Well...
Ane figured he needed a smoke.
The Occasional · Fri Jun 17, 2011 @ 02:55am · 0 Comments |
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