Post by Padre Romero on Apr 1, 2007 7:16:22 GMT -5
Someone new charges out of the closet at the back of the bar. Which in retrospect you consider slightly odd because that thing was DEFINITELY too small to house a human being for any length of time.
Even if he wasn't carrying a tank of acetyline under one arm and a bright pink cricket bat under the other, he would be a good contender for the strangest fellow you've seen in this whole insanity-filled vortex of a city that drinks people down like stale wine.
He's got bleached dreadlocks, died at the ends, and shoved sloppily under a weatherbeaten blue turban. His hands are covered in brass rings, his face is covered in scars.
The oddest thing is that it's really tough to peg his age...he could either be a chainsmoking, sunburt teenager or a youthful, vigorous fifty-year old (You're leaning towards the latter).
He walks, or rather, stumbles in...you are concerned at first, but then realize that every step this man takes is a sort of offhand stagger, the slouching gaint of a drunken dancer.
He reaches the window and hurls the tank of explosive gas he's carrying into the street.
"Soll'Soll" he says, turning to melody, "No time to expllain...Names Terence, don't laugh, I'm here to save the worlld...now...anyone want to shoot that!"
Even if he wasn't carrying a tank of acetyline under one arm and a bright pink cricket bat under the other, he would be a good contender for the strangest fellow you've seen in this whole insanity-filled vortex of a city that drinks people down like stale wine.
He's got bleached dreadlocks, died at the ends, and shoved sloppily under a weatherbeaten blue turban. His hands are covered in brass rings, his face is covered in scars.
The oddest thing is that it's really tough to peg his age...he could either be a chainsmoking, sunburt teenager or a youthful, vigorous fifty-year old (You're leaning towards the latter).
He walks, or rather, stumbles in...you are concerned at first, but then realize that every step this man takes is a sort of offhand stagger, the slouching gaint of a drunken dancer.
He reaches the window and hurls the tank of explosive gas he's carrying into the street.
"Soll'Soll" he says, turning to melody, "No time to expllain...Names Terence, don't laugh, I'm here to save the worlld...now...anyone want to shoot that!"