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Wrong Turn

Started by Lion, July 24, 2016, 07:04:07 PM

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Lion

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"Hey!  You gonna pay for that or d'ya think you can just walk out with that bottle of hooch you thought I didn't see ya stuff in you're pockets," the old woman at the counter said with a growl.  She was something in the realm of her late sixties, and ornery, and not afraid to use her anger when it came down to it. 

Vance cut her a grim glare, and pulled the whiskey he'd stuffed into his coat out for her to plainly see.  It wasn't that he couldn't afford a few shots at a tavern, but what was the thrill in that?  That was boring.  He said nothing to the old woman, but it was clear she wasn't going to have any nonsense out of him.  So he did the only sensible thing and popped the cork, took a swig and slammed the rest down on the shelf he got it from.

He sneered at the old hag.  And the fire ignited in her eyes.  With a rush she flung herself over the counter and revealed the bullwhip she'd been hiding in her hand beneath the counter.  A loud crack and it lashed Vance across the back.  The crack had been enough to tear open the back of his coat, where it'd been mended a few times before, but that particular gash was the largest.

Vance dashed for the door, throwing himself out of it and dodging another crack of the whip, and skittering around the corner and he bolted down the alleyway.

"Dirty fuck!" she howled, chasing him as far as she could.  "Get back here!  Ya hear me?"  Her voice echoed as if in a wind tunnel.   Luckily Vance ran faster than her whip could crack.

He gave a laugh until he saw a small crate smash open when her third lash came sailing at him.  He narrowly dodged it and continued to run until he made a sharp turn and turned up onto a set of boxes that launched him up over a wood wall.  Falling over the other side, Vance didn't see the others hidden in the shadows.

He laughed when he heard the cursing on the other side of the wall.  When he was sure the woman had walked away he turned around, about to come out the other end of the alley when he saw one of them come out from an doorway that led to the rear of a tavern.  Vance paused again, looking the figure up and down and scowling.

"Griff," he said with a nod.

"What're you doing here, Vance?  I thought I told you to stay off my turf," the hulking mass of muscle said.  He clearly had seen better days, his face half burned from an 'accident' with a bottle of whiskey and playing chicken with a bonfire.  Vance was sure he would probably still be mad about it.  In all honesty, he thought he'd done Griff a favor.  It wasn't like he had much to show for beforehand.

"Damn son, I guess I just made a wrong turn somewhere."  He sniffed, grinned, and tried to walk past him.

"No so fast!  You think you're just gonna get off that easy?"

"Only in a whorehouse," Vance spat and wrenched the man's grip from his collar.  Except Griff really meant business and turned his other arm out to grasp Vance around the neck.  Vance reached into his jacket and slipped his hand into his claw.  He grasped his arm around Griff's, wrenching down hard and making three firm slashes deep into his flesh. 

Griff growled and he dropped the smaller man and Vance took that chance to book it out of the alleyway.  And ran headlong into a passerby.

Shit, just his luck.




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Wrong Turn

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