Who: Vassago and Open What: Blending in as best as he can while telling off some wannabe punk When: Night, 11 pm Where: The side of a building, across the street from a club with loud music that could possibly make you lose your hearing when inside. Rating: PG-13
“You know what I hate? The law. I mean, what the hell do we need that shit for anyway? It’s like… retarded and shit. Right? You think that’s just about how it is, right man?”
Vassago sucked in a mouthful of air between his teeth, not relishing the impact of it on the back of his throat, not like some loved to do. Each new breath was another chance at life, another second spent living to the fullest or grasping for another few minutes to hold fast to. Vassago didn’t want that. Vassago hated that. He wanted to snuff it all out; he wanted life to be a candle that was going to lose its flame when he approached it and pinched the wick with his fingers. Thinking that way roused a shiver of delight, one which shook his bones and retrieved a newborn laugh from the center of his chest.
It was too bad that the laugh didn’t stick around.
Green hair plastered to his greasy skin at all angles, a black leather jacket torn at the elbow, boots that shuffled and made way too much noise when they hit the pavement: This was how you could describe Jerry Malone, a wannabe rebel who didn’t get that he wasn’t gloriously cool. He wanted to be, yes. He longed to be, of course. He failed to be. Oh, did he ever. You could put it this way: If someone on the street were looking to give away a free “loser” t-shirt, they had the perfect customer standing right there, trying to make small talk with the real James Dean-like rebel without a cause.
Somebody didn’t swallow their smart pills before leaving the house.
He peered out at him from behind his sunglasses, worn at night not to make him look trendy, but to protect his eyesight from the light that stung like needles being shoved into the pupils. Pulling out an Oreo from his jacket, Vassago brought it to his mouth and bit into it. An appreciated thing that came with being the walking dead, was that he could eat as many sweets as he wanted, and not have to worry about health risks or getting fat. God forbid if he were to get fat. Pigs were fat. And lazy people who spent all day on the couch, eating potato chips and watching Days of our Lives.
Vassago spoke as soon as the last crumb was gone. “I am not your friend. I am never going to be your friend. And if you stick around you’re going to find out why you don’t want me as a pal. Understand?” The way that he said it, the way that his mouth turned into a glower of discontent, was enough to send Jerry packing. Vassago watched him stutter and then flee back into the direction of the club.
Good boy. He didn’t belong next to him. Nobody did. It was a mistake trying.