Zeke Graves (why_agonize) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-10-17 14:45:00 |
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Entry tags: | angel, cinnamon spider, graverobber |
Who: Zeke and whoever decides to put in an appearance
What: Just another shift
When: Tonight. Whenever it's convenient.
Where: A cemetery in Ranier Valley, probably a few blocks from Hamartia if that helps
Warnings: Drugs. Use, just selling, depends on what happens, but either way drugs are implied. Probably language too.
The moon was high and the stars above twinkled...not that you could see them, with all the smog and smoke from the city around him. Nevertheless, even without their light the headstones and gravemarkings were clear enough to see, the tall iron lamps that lined the streets providing more than enough visibility for his purposes. Just the right amount, really; while once Zeke had been a day-dweller like most of the rest of the city's occupants, what felt like a lifetime ago, he'd long since become a creature of the night, doomed to roam the pavement and cemeteries and peddle his wares to the desperately cringing masses. No more for the sun's warm rays on his face or the twinkle of the light in the reflective surface of the skyscrapers, enough to blind a man if he was foolish enough to look directly at it, Zeke contented himself with the cool glow of television sets in the windows, the crumbling apartment buildings, the glitter of broken bottles and discarded syringes in the grass beneath his feet. The smell of death and decay that enveloped the city's darker half, reassurances that endings and chaos were just as vital to things as beginnings and order.
Damn. He was actually starting to get poetic about the whole thing. That was always a bad sign, even if the poets were right and there was a strange kind of beauty in tragedy. It held more appeal for the public, anyway; it's far more comforting to hear about the misfortune of others who have things far worse than you do than to hear of their triumphs, after all. Blood and misery keep them rapt far longer than joy and happily-ever-afters, and nobody knows this better than the media and those who live amongst it.
The tall figure of our "hero", of a sort (although the label is dubious, as he is heroic neither by disposition nor deed, so perhaps a better term would be simply "protagonist"), crossed the final resting place for many of the city's less savory characters, carefully stepping around the latest overturned stones out of some latent respect for the dead and making his way to the tall marker that was his usual "office", for lack of a better word. An angel of mercy, wings outstretched in preparation for flight, her hair and robes twisting in an invisible breeze for eternity, and she might have been called beautiful once upon a time, before time and the local hoodlums and gang members had taken their toll and left their marks. He was more than aware of the irony. It was, after all, why he'd selected it. After checking his bag to ensure he was fully stocked, Zeke pulled his greatcoat tighter around himself in an attempt to keep out some of the cold; there was no telling how long he would be out here, and based on the past week's sales it was entirely possible he wouldn't be heading home until the first few pinks and oranges signifying dawn's approach began to appear.
Graverobber was open for business.