Iowa sucked, Brayden decided for the seventeenth time since he'd driven back from across the Illinois border. While he'd left Asgard, and Astrid, to spend some of his allotted 'promised time' with his mom (and Jeremy) that didn't mean the Prince of Helheim needed to spend all of his nights in Iowa... Friday night, after convincing Jeremy he could be trusted with his car, Brayden escaped for a few lost hours in Chicago. By the time the Saturday morning sun rose, Brayden was already back in the Hawkeye state, specifically inside one of the highway's narstiest gas stations.
Rayd exited the women's room, still a little hungover from whatever those pills Troy had given him were, and he made his way toward the small aisle with the Chex Mix. On his way, he passed a rather large farmer type who'd been very interested in the yet to be filled Krispy Kreme display.
"Just cause you're a fagot, doesn't mean you get to use the ladies room," the gross fattie said to Brayden when he passed. Rayd knew he should have ignored it, but he didn't have the strength. "Well," the man with glittered cheeks and lipstick barely turned to address theis asshole. "I'd have used the men's room but it smelled like your kind," he said, his eyes focused on the rack of snacks. "I mean like feces, if that was too vague," he clarified for the idiot. "No regular mix? I'm too hungover for the bold," he yelled toward the clerk, who seemed to be on the yokel's side. Speaking of the flannel wearing shit stain, he'd decided to pull himself away from future donuts to have a word with Rayd. Brayden's head turned to give the fucker a 'do you know who I am look' but alas he didn't.
"Oh, I'mma teach you some manners fa-" he started but Rayd didn't give him a chance to finish. His arm raised and held the larger man by the throat but didn't place any pressure. He didn't need to. The potential attacker dropped to his knees, a vague choking sound from his mouth. The prince-and-vampire's face appeared bored while he sucked the life from the man and his well hidden horns grew from his skull. The man behind the register had already jumped over the counter to aid in the fight. Going against type, the store clerk pulled a knife (not a gun) and jabbed the blade into Brayden's back. Which would have hurt, had Rayd's skin not already hardened from the fresh infusion of life force. Rayd turned his body finally annoyed and snatched the clerk by the forearm. Quickly that man dropped too, but Brayden had the wherewithal to let go. Of the clerk, not the original fucker. He lorded over the man until his body was a dried husk of a thing.
Finally, Rayd released the long-dead shell of a man and stomped from the aisle, his footprints melting the tile beneath him. "Fuuuuuuuuck," he yelled in his new growl of a voice and walked through the wall, his skin being hot enough to burn the drywall and melt the metal, and entered the backroom cooler. He breathed in the cold air of the soda and beer refrigerator and his body slowly returned to normal. He snatched a bottle of Fiji water and cracked it open while he walked back out into the store, which was destined to be consumed in the flames he'd begot. "This is why I don't come to Iowa," he told the one he'd left unconscious between gulps of water. The now naked Rayd bent down and snatched the stabby clerk by the shirt and dragged him from the store. He pulled the man away from the burning building and left him on the gravel ground. He knelt by him and touched one finger to the other man's forehead and pulled just enough to cause short term memory loss. "Oh fuck," naked Brayden said after he stood and patted his thighs where his pockets would have been. "I left my keys in there," he sighed, took another long drink of water and walked back into the store and a faint Sideshow Bob vs. the rake sound leaked from his lips.