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Topics - Clyde

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1
Sweet Crusades / What Resolution Prevails
« on: August 21, 2013, 02:34:36 AM »
( Mature content warning; L--Language MV---Mild Violence. Any probs, lemme' know. )







[size=24]?T[/size]hat jacket is ridiculous.?

Clyde grinned cunningly and hoisted his beleathered shoulders. ?Couldn?t resist it,? he said, kicking himself off the wall. The long, ashy ember of his cigarette roiled relentlessly as he drew; like orange hairs; crawling, cutting and the wan tangerine warmed his nose, the bases framing his mouth, feet of cheek and the exhausted looking jars of layered brown flesh that hung heftily from either eye. Clyde bent over and examined the street. ?We?re gonna? sit here forever ain?t we?? he said. ?Just ?cause you can?t stand to ever be wrong.? His partner smiled and lent him a pair of pale green eyes: emerald with a pasty opal glaze.

?Could be. Why not sit down and be quiet like a good boy.?

?Why not suck my dick, Gamble??

?I left my glasses at home.?

Clyde laughed and turned his head from side-to-side. He touched the cigarette to his mouth a final time, hoisted his chin to blow the smoke away then snapped the butt into the street. An empty breeze fell down and touched his hair, excited the tips and threw them into his eyes. He squinted through them, still examining the street. Gamble stood, grinning, his hands pocketed in crisp gray slacks. He was older than Clyde; twenty-three to his eighteen; tall, pale faced with a profound blankness stayed on him: hubris. His hair was black and wispy like Clyde?s, swinging fro with the air. He removed his left hand and eyed his wrist watch, calmly rescinded it to pocket again and grinned.

Inner city in September: gray and dry. The ashen sky thumbed the buildingtips, descended, jetted through the glass and steel, descended and bowled through the rigid tarmac streets as a titanic silver spirit, these swells a chilly and biting presage to winter. The avenue?s lamps glowed dully in the pervading cloud, the yellow sphericals stepping down block-by-block until the immurement of fog swallowed them. Cars droned by with lassitude, buzzing their struggle, whirling around the blocks, through the lanes, appearing as grand complex diorama as if needles from axel pierced preset tracks, carrying them to pointless objectives.


?There.? Gamble hopped up and directed his arm. ?That?s it. I told you, boy. C?mon.? Gamble pressed out his pinstriped oxford and threw his keys at Clyde. The keyring rattled when it hit Clyde?s chest. They rolled down his body until he brought his hands up to catch them and he squinted at them. ?Since when do I get to drive the almighty Nova??

Gamble smiled heartily. ?Since never,? he said, snatching back the keys with a wink. Clyde, frozen, stared at the empty palms that had cupped the keys.

Nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-nine Nova. Sloped and mighty with a black varnish finish; ?SS? welded into the grill, and save a few knicks scored below the passenger door and wheelwell, the vehicle was pristine. Gamble threw his arms over the hood luxuriously and smiled at Clyde. He said, ?Lemme? ask you something. And I?m being serious.?

Clyde canted his head and grunted curiously.

?Am I crazy??

The wind sped by, Clyde corralled his cracking hair. He chuckled uneasily and tossed his eyes down the street. ?The hell you talkin? ?bout,? he said. Eyes return. ?Of course you?re crazy. You?re nuts. You?re about to drive your beloved Nova to a damn job. That?s been botherin? me all damn day.?

?That?s it?? Gamble asked with a tall brow. ?That?s why I?m crazy? It?s just a car. Once this is over I?ll be able to buy a hundred Novas.? Gamble stepped away to examine the pristinely aged muscle car. He crouches and slides the pad of his forefinger across the foot of the driver?s door. As it squeaks his smile waxes. Gamble hops up and pulls his head back so that his eyes appear as crisp emerald threads aside his hoisted nose. ?I don?t think that makes me crazy, and either do you. So answer me.?

Clyde?s hand was on the doorlatch. ?C?mon, let?s just go. I?m gettin? twisted up. Yeah--you?re crazy, okay??
Gamble lessened the tilt of his head. Clyde was stilled when the man?s opalesque eyes cut into his. A nod from Gamble ceases the binding and he bends into the car. Clyde follows and Gamble turns the Nova over and it grumbles scathingly before firing into a crumbling, exploding roar: felt, heard and seen. Gamble smiles and pats the wheel. He says, ?It wasn?t even what I wanted. You know that? I didn?t want a goddamned Nova."

2
WestEnd / Second Verse, Same as the First
« on: February 13, 2013, 04:22:46 AM »
The sheets crinkle with the subtle shift of a boy making his escape. Low and easy, his movements metered in molasses, each toe, leg, elbow and finger emerging from the bed's confines as if aware, checking their coasts. The noise of the flaking blankets and deflating pillows are comparable to gunshots in Clyde's mind, each little tendril or pump of blood a riot in his ears. Escape, escape, escape. She wanted go. Demanded it. Wants nothing more than to keep her keen little bespectacled eyes on him. Needs nothing but his safe return. No greater gift than a promise kept. Clyde respected Lilly-Rae's wishes, even understood them. But in the warzone, in the mire, in the sh't---he couldn't allow her there. She'd her share of blood and bodies, more than he ever wished. The boy often found his brows turned with an admiration for the girl, an admiration for her ability to take it. She was an astonishing creature, and for her his love was without measure.

That's why he was going alone.

Crisp, fit denim; An ugly, olive trench-coat; Wickedly-beaten, stock-thatched black-and-white 'Taylors; A pistol, four magazines, a hard pack of cigarettes and a smile. Found absently leering into the curt-return of his sulfur-stroked eyes, the boy yanks his wrist out of the mouth of his jacket to check the time. It was about time.

"The 'fck are you, Florence." Clyde draws upon the bristles allowed to reside upon his rounded jawline, the fingernail puncturing the flesh and aggravating the stubbles' roots; he winces; following the superstitious-rights penned from athletes en-route to a championship, Clyde never shaves before a job

Because he told himself it would be done when he got back.

Soft steps ache the soft beams below the rug as he nears the front-door. A horn sounds; not a beep nor scant honk; a drawn whine that pierces the silence he'd so-carefully built like a grenade in library. Fiercely he whips his head to the bedroom. Goddamnit, goddamnit! Please still be asleep!

3
WestEnd / ...that David played, and it pleased The Lord.
« on: July 22, 2012, 03:48:11 AM »
A sick little pinky played the wheel of his lighter, birthing flame to nip his cigarettes rump. A moderated halo of orange rioted the night, his own haven of yellow righting the wrongs of his jagged features, sitting pretty against one ambiguous concrete wall in sodding universe of them. Licks curved the whites of his eyes, refracting the just miracle of pocket-flame with climbing tiers, rolling up the illicit, tired spheres.

  A sigh cleaved his guts, a smoky belch, holstering the lighter to the seams of his leather and raising his chin to check notes on weather. Rain.

  Spent butts littered the corpse's shadow, a baker's-dozen, curdled and spat, eyeing the now-lit with a beyond-the-grave-envy, circling the singular canvased foot that propped his shoddy frame. Each their own tale of time wasted. We're waiting, the numbers signaled---an increment-each: future-clues.

  An often of ever-so he'd shove a glance out of his occupied alleyway to check streetside. He had left early, but all in hopes of the worm. Tires creased the virgin puddles collected on the bowled edges of the road, splashing the damp-thick, lowhung oxygen of the city, along with the mares of his awareness; eyes cut in retaliation.

  The bird-of-prey exhausted his blank reception as intake installed a grin most-fowl; something built of bones and matters of the night.

  The brakes of the tired, old automobile hissed their claim to halt; their sigils and howling discs a double-meaning: his starting mark. Rushing the cigarette from his lips, he tore into the breach of his jacked to relieve the heavy pistol buckled to his shoulder from unloaded slumber; this fact remedied with an injection of a magazine and a yank on the bulky .45's longslide, feeding the awful barker. The tick of the ajar safety and tock of readied hammer next; a killer crescendo.

  Denim broke as he knelt, spare hand levying bodyweight against the sodding dumpster he'd been cuddled up against for the last three hours, eyes on the prowl to count-up the undertaker's livelihood. From the shadows he witnessed the doors of the vehicle crawl open; a snipped wince employed to reach his vision through the nooks of storming precipitation to get a good assessment. One...two...three, four. Okay. He hadn't thought four would show, but it was of no consequence. He spared an almost sarcastic, brotherly glance to his pistol, as if There's seven of you, so....

  His vision broke, lids calm. It was a stake at serenity; a pearly little notion that men of his breed often usurped before these footnote definitions of their lives; to sensibly prepare for the end of that life, were the die to pass on a lucky number this day. Rain cried across his head, ribbons of water donating the ends of his matted strands like sprinklers, dampening his form. Lightning cracked and he figured that a cue if any. Just waiting on the thunder.

 
  He pounced; a sprint streetside to ripen the night. One bulging eye written upon the spine of the pistol, arm straight and aboard, pupil divided through the foresight as his foot ejected from the black bowels of the alley to resume him in filthy streetlight. One faceless grunt had left the rear door of the vehicle, oblivious, eyes occupied on the powered light of his cellular, fingers snapping away at the screen; this a good a place as any to start, Clyde cooled.

  The first shot was always his favorite. To remove the dandy sanctuaries of life and security from the eggshell minds of the recipients; watching them sulk in their muddled, fleshy forms; arms across their heads and faces, as if it would shield them! The .45's slide called back the shot, relinquishing the shell from the barrel, repeating the gluttony as it snapped back into place. The lead bore into the right temple of the unaware target, his body tense all at once upon the singular vacuum of clenched synapse as death filled him, and just as quickly fled through the gruesome puff of pink strings and brain-pastry that exited his skull, following the round that had come a'knocking. The body folded as a boneless collection of twisted arm and tendon; jaw ajar and flooding blood at an almost amazing rate.


  He fired three rounds into the passenger window, shattering it wholesomely with eruptions of pretty shingles. He saw limbs flail as the poor figure sitting there spilled into the drivers lap; a quickened fleet of motion thereafter. A buzzing, halved eye crept into the backseat to witness a terrified man clutching a suitcase as if his soul and ticket-on-earth resided within. No threat. The driver fell onto the pavement, keeping low; but a mistake most dire. It hit him all at once that, if that idiot had the sense to simply cut-out and burn away, Clyde would have been left on the sidewalk empty handed and down four pricey bullets. Lucky for him, he smirked: the fool hadn't these requirements.

  The leathered butcher strolled around the rearbumper and crouched; kept ready and shielded, logic suggesting the driver had opted for a pistol the minute he burst from the car.
 "Hey now princess," Clyde mocked, ducking-still at the rear of the car.

  "Let's do nothing hasty, 'eh? Ughh..." He motioned; nearly a bored, tired offering. He clasped the sharp end of his chin and laughed.
   His coy concoction met with several quick shots that burst through the tail light among a haste of shaky profanity from the driver. It was enough to rattle; sheer numbers and tallied experience can never really alleviate the anxiety of being shot at; but composure withheld, he jogged to the passenger side and hopped to his feet, striking his arm across the hood; a lethal extension, hoping he'd have the driver right in his sights. And so he did.

  Clyde fired, the bullet puncturing the driver's belly with pretty burst of shirt fabric and organ shards; orange, black and purple. He cried, his face caving in upon itself in such a sheer examination of pain it...well, almost hurt to watch. Round number six entered and thusly exited below the wrist of the driver's pistol-hand; promptly disarmed. Seven found itself sinking into the poor gentleman's crown to relieve him of life; a mercy call, surely.

  He was a statue of his deeds; arm still extended, sustaining the smoldering barrel of the now pleasured pistol, this relayed upon in its drawn-back slide. Carefree, though somber, pupils carried a long pause into the form of the lifeless husk staining the street; blood and now-unneeded fluids wound with rusty rainwater, fleeing for city stormdrain. Dead quiet.

  Tendons finally disassembled, arm heavily falling to his side; broken arm of the bandit. Something casual to his steps as she leaned into the back seat, feeding his weapon. A crude snap as the slide fixed-forward. Ugly yellow eyes illuminated the interior as he grinned to the shaken chap in the boothed seat of the rear of the vehicle. He motioned the case the man clutched with a rouse of his pistol; magic wand.


  "I believe that's mine." [/i]

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