Low Tide

The streets of Key West were quiet, and Connor was ambling home from the grocery store with a plastic bag in each hand. Now that he was fully settled here, he had the route to the grocery store worked out, having traced his footsteps back from the shopping center often enough that he remembered the route home. All in all, he felt like he had a good handle on things.

The Destroyer rounded a corner, watching a bicyclist cross the street ahead of him. He was glad for the mild weather. It was a relief to shake Chicago's cold out of his bones. He hadn't figured out all the trouble spots yet, but in a place this small, he didn't suppose that would take long.

Trouble often found people on Duval Street. The long, rambunctious strip was home to hotels, cafes, bars, restaurants, and shopping outlets. Even a few art galleries were tucked between the rowdier places. It was a street that came alive after sunset. Groups of women stumbled from place to place, intoxicated and sunburned, their arms linked as they strolled under the awnings. Motorcycles roared. Laughter bubbled from patios where people drank margaritas and beer on tap. Everywhere, there was music.

John walked the block from Sloppy Joe's to Fat Tuesday's. His physical appearance didn't stick out. He was better dressed than some, but the mop of messy, black hair kept him casual. It was his quiet observation that was noteworthy, the slow gait and lack of friends or a lover on his arm. He kept his hands to himself and his remarks to a minimum. He held open a door for a couple of happy women and kept going.

( I See You )

( Trespassing )

"No, Mark, there's nothing to discuss." Izzy bit her tongue and counted to ten as she walked to her car after work, almost wishing her ex-fiance was in front of her to drop kick instead of only having his voice on the phone. "I've told you before, we're done. We want different things and you obviously don't think enough of me to respect my wishes. Goodbye." She hit the 'end' button a bit more savagely than she probably should have, but he just hadn't been getting the message. The witch wondered for the umpteenth time what her other self had seen in him. For a supposedly smart man he was remarkably dense.

This called for a night out. She didn't have to work tomorrow and she deserved some fun after dealing with her ex.

John had awoken that night with a brutal headache, which was partly due to a tequila hangover and partly to thirst.

( An Excuse to Talk )

Body disposal was nothing short of dirty work, from the moving of the body to the dispatching of certain parts of the anatomy that would hasten an identification.

The fortunate thing about Bethany Richards was her willingness to get her hands dirty, to finish the brutality she’d started, so she didn’t flinch when she did what needed to be done. It was truly amazing what one could do with a pair of wire cutters, pliers and knife, if you truly put your mind to it and had the ferocity that the ill deed required.

The neighbourhood was by far the roughest that this new city had to offer, which was perfect for this. Nobody asked questions and nobody stopped to inquire as to what an attractive blonde was doing in the dark alley with a set of tools usually seen on tool belts or kitchens.

Long hair had been swept back into a highly efficient plait that was then curled around on itself, forming a low bun, keeping wayward strands from escaping and ruining her vision.

( Nothing Personal )

( Introductions )

Since 1937, Sloppy Joe's Bar occupied the corner spot at Duval and Greene Streets. The rustic interior and attached 'mercantile' made it feel genuine, like an honest-to-god hang-out instead of the chain establishment it had become. Ultimately, its fame made it a must-see for sunbaked tourists. Most of them were mellow, simply searching for a comfortable place to have an overpriced beer and buy a souvenir tee shirt. But every bar also hosted a man who talked too loud, wore layered polo shirts with upright collars, and whose tan looked suspiciously storebought. He wrested the center of attention away from its rightful owner, the girl at the bar who'd been blindsided by a wall of testosterone and Axe body spray.

John's interest in the man, whose name was Jim, was based not so much on admiration as ardent disbelief. He sat with his back to the wooden wall, using it to scratch an itch between his shoulders. His teeth worked a toothpick. So that was the modern day 'catch'... A man of rehearsed pick-up lines, Corona pale lagers, and eyes that wandered to the plasma screens when a woman spoke about herself. John wondered if he had cracked a book since freshman year literature at whatever state-funded school he attended. When Jim declared his intention to 'take a leak', John finished his beer and followed him down a hallway, past a payphone (practically a relic) and a stack of plastic drink trays.

Once inside the bathroom, Jim realized someone was behind him and turned around, looking suitably homophobic and pissed off. The question -- What the fuck do you want? -- never left his mouth, because John slammed his head into a paper towel dispenser. He hoisted the semi-conscious man's arm over his shoulders and walked him into the hallway and out the emergency exit.

( Taking Control )

Ow...

Rolling over, Katherine was not yet ready to wake up. Light was filtering through the drapes and the vampiress wanted nothing to do with it. Every so often, a brain decided to get more of a head start on things than the body was prepared for, like it wanted to sabotage its own internal clock. It was especially upsetting for those, like her, who were forced to rely on nocturnal hours. So it was that with fingers curling into the sheets, Katherine promptly decided to show the rays of the sun her backside and-

Wait, those weren't sheets. It was... Dirt. Squinting eyelids, dark locks of black hair were brushed away from face and... Who was cooking bacon?

With a sudden woof of flame, Katherine realised the 'who' of it was the sky and the 'bacon' was, well, her.

( Having Choice Words )

After six months in the Burlesque theatre troupe, Heather had barely made a dent in her debts.

Nobody dropped out of veterinary school after three years -- it was insane. At $20,000 a year, who could afford to pay back the loans without a white coat? She slogged through her classes and clinical rotations, but that fucked-up feeling like the walls were closing in didn't go away. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. It isn't for me. Well, she'd made her bed, they told her. Now she had to lie in it.

That bed was a cot in the converted den of a Key West cottage. Her costumes hung from pegs on the walls, bright splotches of pink and turquoise against the wood paneling. Close up, they weren't sexy. You could see the spots where sequins popped off and had to be re-stitched. Her feet kept blisters from the acrylic platforms she wore on stage.

( The Blue Convertible )

God, he was drunk. Three sheets to the fucking wind. John recognized it but did nothing to prevent himself from becoming quite sloppy over a cluster of shot glasses and a pile of discarded lime wedges.

They designed these places for loners, he thought, his chin resting sleepily on his palm. The tiny tables had room enough for one chair, two if gentlemen didn't mind rubbing knees, which most of them did, for fear of accidentally rubbing something else. He supposed they all looked like starved, neglected dogs, too, a few dodgy enough to paw the buttocks of waitresses who wore top hats and glittery bow ties, and who shook their breasts like maracas above the cocktail trays. At least, those waitresses who weren't in drag.

( Strange Art )

"Sasha." The vampire reached for a lock of silky hair, rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. The twenty-four-year old's hair was like a red sunset. It was dyed. He knew that bit without a doubt, didn't he?

He met her in New York, or rather, saw her there and began to follow her. A few days, nothing overt, enough to overhear of an impending vacation to Key West and a stay at the Westin. A signature on a restaurant check told him her name. They took separate flights. He found her in a bar on Duval Street. After a flirtatious introduction and drinks, they walked back to her hotel room, where he sat her on the bathroom sink (thankfully she didn't turn around and check her make-up in the mirror). A slap-happy mess of intoxication and dehydration from the sun, she bunched her skirt around her waist and wiggled out of her panties. They dangled from her toes, which a nail technician had decorated with palm trees.

She smelled like coconut.

( Mysterious Visitor )

( An Entity With Many Names )

( The Journal of John Abbott ~ Nov. 14, 2009 )