walter reid, the man in black (walkin) wrote in thereincarnates, |
He had been anticipating this not on just one, but several, layers. This was to be a feast of fortune, a parade of promise. A stack of surprise, as a deck of cards, a tower, perhaps, of aces and spades. First, and foremost, of course, there was the snake — a king who had long since lost his crown to pride, to pity. A whimpering dog with his tail between his legs and no wag to lick his wounds with. Tragic, in its own right, in its own way, but there was no reason for that. One had to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive! Up and over! Onwards and upwards, pip pip!
This was, after all, a sign of the times. And as the times changed, so too, did the core of him. As it always had been, as it always would be. The snake idolized the old magics, and oh, it'd get no older than he. He wanted a show — all in the business of business did. He wanted a reason to live. To crawl out from beneath his rock and try, try again. But alas, the time for this had passed. That ship had sailed. Far off toward setting sun and over the edge of the world. That sign was now: Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here! The end has come.
By now, Walter had set the glass three across the countertop. His lips turned down in an impressive consultation, eyes moving from him, to her. His palms sat to the surface and there was a bow at his waist, not mocking. Earnest. Awe. It's what they craved, old dogs. Manners. Exaltation. "As I live and breathe." As he looked upward again, standing now to his full height, he shook his head in bountiful disbelief. "Mr. Robert Kingsley." His hands clapped in front of him, arms spreading wide, then. There was Walter, then, as he had been; a follower, a worshiper, a simple man living only to serve. No business like show business. "It's an honor, sir." He seemed to remember himself, then, offering those same long fingers to the sight of the libation. "Please, help yourselves."
Walter moved, then, crossing out from behind the counter, and smiling broadly to the pair of them. He never allowed his gaze to cross her way for long — not yet. That time would come. It had been months in the making, or, no — was it years? How he whispered to her, how she so allowed herself to be whispered to. She took to him, ripe, willing, hungry for her darkness, aching for it. He saw to the core of her and understood her. Felt that same, kindred urgency to turn this world inside out. She was one more layer. One more luscious layer and she would have her fill.
"Forgive me —" Another act of false humility. "Walter. Walter Reid." He steepled a hand to his chest, identifying himself for what he wasn't, what he hadn't been in some decades now. In the long appointed distance, the jukebox changed its tune. Please allow me to introduce myself — Walter's grin spread, broad. "If you'll allow me sayin' so, sir — I think I can be of some real service."