| One Hell of a Coincidence |
[06 Sep 2007|11:59am] |
Well, at least he'd gotten a decent jacket out of the whole stupid shopping trip. A man couldn't go wrong with a good leather jacket.
Grace had cited personal business that night, so she'd left Reuben to his own devices. He'd decided to spend some time wandering the ground of the Wynn, sniffing out what he could see for himself. The last time he'd been this far west, Las Vegas hadn't been this loud or this glittery, but that had been... when? At least a decade or two, but now that he was reaching his first hundred-year mark, time was all starting to bleed together. He had heard that it had a tendency to do that after a while.
The vampire was currently wandering the floor of the casino, and he'd stopped to watch the roulette wheel spin as a mortal tourist pushed forth a small pile of chips. "Seventeen black," the too-eager man said, mopping sweat off of his forehead with a cloth before picking up his drink. Reuben watched, decided to at least try and blend in. Drinking wasn't his thing, but he could always go for a round of cards.
Darian rolled his eyes.
It was possible to be ashamed of a client.
He stood behind the sweaty patron with his arms folded like some arrogant benefactor, offering advice here and there, thumbing his lip when he concentrated. Despite a relatively cool outer appearance, his inner monologue did a mantra whenever Henry Blackard pushed his chips. Christ, don’t blow your wad in front of the crowd, you plebian.
Darian cleared his throat. “Pull yourself together,” he mumbled in the gambler’s ear and stepped back again. The demon did a visual scan of those nearest, in case anyone should question his interference. Tourist. Enthusiast. Tourist. Vampire. He studied the latter with detached interest and rocked on his shoes.
The clickety-clickety-clickety of the little white ball as it danced across the wheel was almost like a pulse in itself as Reuben moved closer to the table. He listened to the heartbeats that surrounded him amidst the quiet chatter and the labored breathing of the guy with the flop-sweat pouring off of his brow. Humans were an animal unto themselves when they got desperate, and he wondered how much the fellow had been losing. A lot, from the looks of it and the way his hands were shaking, like a drunk that couldn't wait for that first drink.
He felt someone's attention on him after a moment, and he looked up from the wheel to see a tall man in a suit standing next to Flop Sweat. Normally he wouldn't have given the other man a second glance, but this one wasn't sweating at all, despite the close quarters at the table. Not a drop. Reuben coughed quietly, took a discreet sniff at the air through the cigarette smoke.
Demon? Possibly. Life just got funnier and funnier.
He returned that mildly interested look with a polite 'how do?' nod, then went back to look at the game in progress just as the fickle white ball made a decision and landed in one of the little slots. "Red forty-six," the man at the head of the table said. "Red forty-six. Thank you for playing, the next round will begin shortly." Reuben gave Flop Sweat a distantly sympathetic look as his chips were gathered up and taken away from him. Tough luck.
Henry Blackard, or ‘Flop Sweat’, pushed off the table, disgusted at the loss. He turned around and shot Darian an accusatory look. “Thanks for nothing,” he hissed, “I ought to ask for a refund. Man was that guy wrong about you.” He shifted away from the other gamblers and took out that handkerchief. It was sopping wet, no chance of soaking up the perspiration that dripped off his nose like a leaky faucet.
The Dealmaker pinched the back of his client’s neck and escorted him farther away. Their backs were turned to the vampire. “Did you actually think I'd let you win that round? You’re disgusting.” He removed a cloth from his coat and passed it over. “If you want to be a con artist, start looking the part.” He took a greenback from his pocket and passed it over. “Do yourself a favor and get a drink. Something with ice in it.”
Darian pushed Blackard in the direction of the bar and turned back around, nice and slow. It would’ve been a flawless send-off, had he not wiped his palm on his trousers.
( Someone in Common )
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| as the gentle rain from heaven |
[06 Sep 2007|05:36pm] |
At night she dreams of rain falling heavily from three different skies, each one of them home. The first is the barest memory, a small glimmer in her mind of what she thinks she may remember, tied together with bits and pieces of someone else’s memories and the things she’s seen in films.
Just clouds, and rain, and cold.
( Skies )
* text from King Lear.
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| The Ghost of a Good Thing |
[06 Sep 2007|11:27pm] |
“One little, two little, three little Indians…”
Dusk had settled down up Las Vegas and its surrounding areas. The hues of the desert landscape were slowly fading, moving as if they knew that it would be another twenty four hours before they had another fifteen minutes of fame. They were a luxury to be enjoyed for the fleeting time they presented themselves; a truth that could be recognized by anyone who took a few moments to appreciate them.
“Four little, five little, six little Indians…”
Braden had been told that this patch of desert that sat five miles North of Vegas was actually an Indian burial ground. Childish as it may seem, the leprechaun had not been able to suppress his natural interest in such a place. He loved nature, and in a country as diverse in scenery as America, Braden felt like a kid in a candy store. The heat and dry weather had bothered him much less than he had anticipated. But that was just his kind of luck.
“Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians…”
From the deep folds of his pant pockets he produced a small flask, just big enough for a little fun. Braden was taking it rather easy this night. While it was not typical for him to take it easy on any type of booze, this was a place that he wanted to remember in the morning. The land was suppose to be completely sealed off from visitors, but it was not a difficult task for a magical being to get into somewhere that was off limits. And it was even easier for Braden to get into trouble. He unscrewed the cap of the flask while he finished his song.
“Ten little Indian boys.”
Not breaking stride, he lifted the liquor to his lips and took a sharp draw. As he came up a small hill, suddenly the land before him sprawled out with large mounds of sand and clay. The sun had vanished, leaving the moon barely visible in sky. Braden felt as if he could follow that sky forever.
[thread is open to Hannah]
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