Low Tide

One of the things GW really enjoyed about Key West was the festive atmosphere that permeated the city year round. It reminded him of New Orleans back home in Louisiana with the mix of cultures and how there was always something going on. For a professional musician it was a paradise. With the dense collection of bars and clubs and a thriving live music scene, it wasn't hard for a good band to find gigs.

Today though, he was on his own and for once there were no classes to teach or maintenance to perform on his boat. The Cajun stood in the gardens of the Oldest House, conch in hand and waiting his turn to blow on the shell and participate in the 48th Conch Shell Blowing Contest. He'd been practicing with the natural instrument, and judging from some of the other contestants it was a good thing he had. Who knew so many different sounds could come out of a crustacean's shell?

A few spots ahead of him, a petite blonde stood hugging an enormous conch shell. The outside of it was still pearly pink, but the inside had been hand-painted into a vibrant ocean landscape. Hurricane Hannah's was written in curly letters across the blue sky. While waiting for her turn, Hannah ran her thumb over the nodules of the shell, only stopping when she came across a prominent one that reminded her of a nipple. Grimacing, she flailed a bit. "Eww."

( There She Blows? )

GW smiled and waved as his last (and youngest) student in the 12:30 karate class left the room with her mother, and then breathed a silent sigh of relief. Mrs. Jenkins had been not-so-subtly trying to pick him up for a few weeks now and he'd been doing his best to indicate he wasn't interested, short of actually telling the woman off, as he made a point not to date other men's wives. If Sally wasn't such a dedicated and gifted student, he'd probably have tried to find another instructor for her to go to, but the girl was a joy to teach.

The Cajun took a swig from his water bottle and then checked his watch; he had a good half hour before his next class. That meant he had a little time to stretch and practice some of his more advanced katas before the students started trickling in.

Old Town Fitness was a modest building with dark windows and a sea-green front. The owners could've just as easily sold tire rims in there as taught fitness classes; from the outside, one couldn't tell what went on inside. Hannah had passed it before, back when it was called Iron Bodies. Being a naturally petite sort who walked her dog and liked to swim, organized fitness didn't make the list of things Hannah was burning to try. A pilates video in her Christmas stocking had put the nail in that coffin, thanks to a particularly grueling set of flutter kicks and a pulled ass muscle. And that was that.

( Or Its Diminutive Friend )

GW waved goodbye as the taillights of Henri's van sped off down the street after dropping him off at the Marina. They'd had a couple gigs up in Miami and the upper keys over the weekend and it had been easier for all the band to go up together, and it certainly saved on the gas!

It had been a profitable trip, both in exposure and money, but traffic had been terrible. GW had spent the last eight hours in a van crammed full of musicians and gear during the ride back to Key West, and the Cajun was definitely ready to stretch his legs. He really needed to decide what he was going to concentrate on professionally, trying to juggle fitness/martial art instruction and music was getting to be a hassle.

That thought in mind, GW hefted his guitar case and duffel bag and started down the dock toward his boat.

"No, would'ja listen, I--" Whistler paced to and fro in front of his houseboat, glowering at the static voice in his ear. He hated phone calls with the Council. They always knew best. Forget that their ranks were decimated almost a decade ago, their headquarters destroyed by a bomb. An enemy they didn't see coming. They were blind to the obvious.
( Meeting again for the first time )

The heat of the day had disappeared with the setting sun, leaving a pleasantly cool evening in Key West with only a few clouds here and there to dim the moonlight in an otherwise clear sky. GW leaned back in his seat and brought his beer glass to his lips as he listened to an obviously drunk tourist from Minnesota try to imitate Kenny Chesney with 'When The Sun Goes Down'. Some musicians looked down on karaoke, but GW enjoyed singing for the fun of it and didn't really care if he was being paid to perform with his band or just kicking back with friends and belting a few out. Tonight he was doing just that down in Two Friends Patio Bar with a civilian cop he'd befriended shortly after arriving in Key West.

The Marine winced as the doughy faced tourist mangled another verse and turned to the other occupant of the table. "Kenny Chesney isn't poetry to begin with, but this is painful."

Kris grimaced as the drunken tourist all but butchered the song, abusing her eardrums and everybody else's. "This is really painful," she agreed with a nod of her head. "I wonder who put him up to it." Her eyes regarded the group of people he'd obviously come with and bit her lower lip, nodding at the cackling blonde in the middle. "I'd say she did. What about you?" She picked up her beer and took a slow pull from it, catching wayward drops of it in the corner of her mouth with her tongue. It felt good to be out, with a friend, and just enjoying some time away from everything that made reality so real.
( Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play. )

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” GW shook his head, thankful of the fact that the object of his derision wasn’t within earshot.

“’Fraid not Robichaux,” the Sergeant Major drawled, and Gunnery Sergeant Robichaux wasn’t sure if he should laugh or cry.( personnel changes )