Post by David Hunter on Feb 25, 2019 21:07:59 GMT -5
A shitty gas station in the middle of Kentucky.
No, it’s not the answer to ‘where could one find the setting of a horror movie with a fat guy wielding a fireplace poker?’ It’s where we find David Hunter leaning against the side of. The dingy, graffiti filled, peach brick walls of this…establishment fit in well with the level of alcohol David is consuming.
Wearing his usual t-shirt (black with a magic girl wielding a star wan on it), blue jeans combo, David continues to take gulps from the low-grade beer he tries to call a beverage. The blue Honda Civic he and his compadre have rolled in on sits nearby, collecting a cool breeze, full of gas and waiting for another long-hour ride.
He just…leans there and sips his drink for a good couple of minutes until an even more beaten up, shitty, rusted pick-up drink rolls in. A couple of young women—probably not much older than David himself—are seated in the cab.
They stop near one of the pumps. One of them—in a plaid button-up shirt, open with its sleeves rolled-up and some faded, tattered jeans—stays by the pump and starts to get the fuel ready. The other one—adorned in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt with a deer on it—rushes past the truck and David, flying inside.
When they are both sure that everything is okay in their world, the woman with the button-up shirt approaches David.
She has blue hair.
David scowls in response, something the woman takes none too kindly to.
“What? Does my style offend you?” she asks.
Oh and she’s sarcastic. That’s always a good thing.
She takes out a small, white, rolled-up piece of paper from her pocket, placing it between her lips.
David responds in kind.
“Nah. Just had a recent situation with somebody who had blue…everything,” he says.
“That fuckin sucks,” the woman responds.
David shrugs his shoulders before taking another sip of his shitty drink.
The woman checks around her pockets for…what David assumes is a lighter.
“Fuck…shit…I know I brought it with me…” she says.
David rolls his eyes, taking one more drink of the alcohol for the hell of it.
“Hey…guy…” she says.
David lowers the liquor, glancing over at the woman.
“You got a lighter to go with that cheap beer?” she asks.
David sticks a hand in his pants pocket—the one without the pistol—and takes out a simple gray zippo lighter. He tosses it to the woman, who lights up the orange flame on the tip of the white paper. Custom made, probably. The guy he jacked it from didn't say.
Couldn't say.
Once the lighter finds its way back home, the woman lets go of the huge gust of air she had breathed in.
It takes all of five seconds before the smell of weed floods their area.
“Oh man….I needed that. Five hours with your girlfriend is fine but listening to hipster shit called 'music' gets old,” she says.
“Says the girl who lives in its hot-bed,” David says.
The woman narrows her eyes. David motions with his head towards the truck, which contains an Oregon license plate, a ‘Go Trail Blazers’ bumper sticker, and a cap on the antenna of a cute little otter.
“Right,” she says, her eyes returning to their upright position and her weed returning to its new home of her mouth.
“I’m curious as to why an Oregon girl is in the middle of ‘Appalachia redneck’ territory,” David says.
“I’m curious what makes you so curious,” the woman.
“I’m a man traveling myself. You’re from one of the most progressive areas of America. You’re smoking some decent weed. You’re clearly on your way somewhere east, maybe DC if I had to guess. You’re very clearly traveling with your partner in one of the most homophobic parts of this country. It leads a man to question the why.”
The woman stares on, an eyebrow raised and weed temporarily forgotten.
“Also, please don’t quote Django Unchained to me.”
The woman smirks, letting out a small chuckle before resuming her smoking.
“Well then, smart guy. Here you are all by your lonesome with a cheap as fuck bottle of beer in one of the worst places of America. You have a cheap as fuck Civic with a cheap as fuck animated shirt. What brings you out here?” she asks.
David shakes his head in response, taking another sip of his drink. The shirt cost him 40 bucks.
“My compadre…partner…comrade, let’s go with comrade, is currently refilling his stock on hourly alcohol before we resume our trip down to Tampa. I’ve got some family I’m going to see and…let’s just say I need all the help I can get,” he says.
“Yeesh. I can understand that. I got a step-father I need to forget sometimes,” she says.
“In that same boat, may we share our vices.”
David raises his bottle while the woman raises her blunt. They take a respective sip and hit, upon which the glass doors open.
Deciding to ease it out, David finishes the bottle. The woman lets her smoke go. Her partner walks out, holding a bag of snacks, no doubt to appease a hungry woman.
“Chloe. I thought I told you to watch the pump this time,” her partner says.
The woman—Chloe—shrugs, putting out her blunt temporarily on the side of the gas station before setting it on her ear.
She whispers to me, “Sorry if she’s ornery. Love the girl but she’s kind of goin red on me right now.”
“I can relate to that,” David says.
“Really? Does she threaten to tear down the entire city if she isn’t satisfied?” Chloe.
David’s left eye twitches at the word.
“Nah,” he says.
Chloe looks smug for a moment.
“She tears down an entire city if she isn’t.”
Chloe drops to a scowl, her eyes widening.
“You’re joking,” she says.
“Chloe! Let’s go!” her partner calls, already in the truck.
“Josefine Stalin calls.”
Chloe shakes her head, smiling at the man in front of her.
“You got a name there smart guy?” she asks.
The glass doors open once more.
“David, let’s go,” Qrow says.
Carrying more in a plastic bag than it possibly can, Qrow sets their stash of liquor in the back seat before making his way around the building.
“So then Davey…guess I’ll see ya around eventually,” Chloe says, making her way towards the truck, walking backwards, naturally.
David throws the empty bottle towards a trash can. When he completely overshoots it, the glass shatters towards a nearby pile of weeds in a concrete crack.
“You do realize that the amount of time in this world makes that damn near impossible, right?”
Chloe merely smirks once more before saying, “Time for me is…subjective.”
“Yeah, and life is strange, doesn’t mean it’s a guarantee,” David says.
Chloe opens the truck door.
“Make it one. If you’re ever in Oregon, stop by, I’d love to share some smoke with you,” she says.
David does a quick wave before the door closes.
As the two lovebirds talk in the cab of the truck, they back-up on the road and roll on out of there.
David walks towards his car, stolen when he and Qrow stopped in Decatur when they lost Revy’s trail.
The familiar black bird lands on his shoulder, letting out a sharp squawk.
“Please. Considering they screamed Blackwell alum, the ‘Town That Lives on Present Ruin’ is the last place I’d wanna go. Besides, I’d never go back there as long as the Falls still stand,” David says.
Another squawk in David’s ear is enough to get his hand moving. With a quick shoo, the bird begins to fly away.
Damn crows.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
A low quality, 240p cell-phone camera starts up. We can see David in the front seat of his car, aided in light only by those provided by the Civic inside. In the backseat, we can see Qrow laid out, snoring ever so softly.
“Hello everybody. Me and Qrow, Qrow and I are presently on the side of the road on I25 near Augusta, Georgia. My old stomping grounds for some pretty crazy shit. We are probably about two hours away from Greenville. It’s a Saturday night. Qrow and I tried to make it to Tampa by Sunday but I guess times just didn’t want to work for us. Strange…
Anyway…tomorrow we’ll begin the trip back to Greenville where I will face Razor Blade for…”
David grabs the Underground Championship in the passenger seat. He lifts it up to show it to the camera.
“…my crown, which I so gracefully won back on the last episode of Trauma.”
He sets it back into the seat.
“This week, going into this match, I’m refreshed. Everybody who needed a proper rematch has received one, which means the docket can be reset. No more rematches, all new matches going forth.
And the first challenger they give me, in another main event match—you're welcome my friend—is the beautiful hunk of human they call Razor Blade.
I mean look at the guy. Long black hair, buff as fuck, hardheaded, the guy was made to be admired.
Unfortunately, all the good looks in the world will not stop you from winning the throne. I’ve done too damn much these past few months to decide to lose it to you of all people.
Don’t get me wrong. I love ya man. I respect the hell out of ya for being able to take so many losses and so many beatings and come back into this division ready for more. I’ve taken a shine to ya that not many people manage to secure, Holden Ross being the obvious exception.
However, as Holden learned last week, absolutely nothing comes between me and my crown. So Razor, you can talk about your aspirations, you talk about your desires, you can talk with Kassandra Black about braiding hair if you want—seriously, I bet she’s a fuckin master at it—but at the end of the day, and at the end of Trauma, you will find out…it doesn’t matter.
Now you can crush a 40 if you want, but it doesn’t change anything. My otis reads the same: I am the once and future king, and the last thing you will see before that ironic blade falls while your head is stuck in the guillotine…is my right arm around your neck…before you feel the personal sting…of the thrill…of the hunt.”
The camera cuts off.
No, it’s not the answer to ‘where could one find the setting of a horror movie with a fat guy wielding a fireplace poker?’ It’s where we find David Hunter leaning against the side of. The dingy, graffiti filled, peach brick walls of this…establishment fit in well with the level of alcohol David is consuming.
Wearing his usual t-shirt (black with a magic girl wielding a star wan on it), blue jeans combo, David continues to take gulps from the low-grade beer he tries to call a beverage. The blue Honda Civic he and his compadre have rolled in on sits nearby, collecting a cool breeze, full of gas and waiting for another long-hour ride.
He just…leans there and sips his drink for a good couple of minutes until an even more beaten up, shitty, rusted pick-up drink rolls in. A couple of young women—probably not much older than David himself—are seated in the cab.
They stop near one of the pumps. One of them—in a plaid button-up shirt, open with its sleeves rolled-up and some faded, tattered jeans—stays by the pump and starts to get the fuel ready. The other one—adorned in faded blue jeans and a t-shirt with a deer on it—rushes past the truck and David, flying inside.
When they are both sure that everything is okay in their world, the woman with the button-up shirt approaches David.
She has blue hair.
David scowls in response, something the woman takes none too kindly to.
“What? Does my style offend you?” she asks.
Oh and she’s sarcastic. That’s always a good thing.
She takes out a small, white, rolled-up piece of paper from her pocket, placing it between her lips.
David responds in kind.
“Nah. Just had a recent situation with somebody who had blue…everything,” he says.
“That fuckin sucks,” the woman responds.
David shrugs his shoulders before taking another sip of his shitty drink.
The woman checks around her pockets for…what David assumes is a lighter.
“Fuck…shit…I know I brought it with me…” she says.
David rolls his eyes, taking one more drink of the alcohol for the hell of it.
“Hey…guy…” she says.
David lowers the liquor, glancing over at the woman.
“You got a lighter to go with that cheap beer?” she asks.
David sticks a hand in his pants pocket—the one without the pistol—and takes out a simple gray zippo lighter. He tosses it to the woman, who lights up the orange flame on the tip of the white paper. Custom made, probably. The guy he jacked it from didn't say.
Couldn't say.
Once the lighter finds its way back home, the woman lets go of the huge gust of air she had breathed in.
It takes all of five seconds before the smell of weed floods their area.
“Oh man….I needed that. Five hours with your girlfriend is fine but listening to hipster shit called 'music' gets old,” she says.
“Says the girl who lives in its hot-bed,” David says.
The woman narrows her eyes. David motions with his head towards the truck, which contains an Oregon license plate, a ‘Go Trail Blazers’ bumper sticker, and a cap on the antenna of a cute little otter.
“Right,” she says, her eyes returning to their upright position and her weed returning to its new home of her mouth.
“I’m curious as to why an Oregon girl is in the middle of ‘Appalachia redneck’ territory,” David says.
“I’m curious what makes you so curious,” the woman.
“I’m a man traveling myself. You’re from one of the most progressive areas of America. You’re smoking some decent weed. You’re clearly on your way somewhere east, maybe DC if I had to guess. You’re very clearly traveling with your partner in one of the most homophobic parts of this country. It leads a man to question the why.”
The woman stares on, an eyebrow raised and weed temporarily forgotten.
“Also, please don’t quote Django Unchained to me.”
The woman smirks, letting out a small chuckle before resuming her smoking.
“Well then, smart guy. Here you are all by your lonesome with a cheap as fuck bottle of beer in one of the worst places of America. You have a cheap as fuck Civic with a cheap as fuck animated shirt. What brings you out here?” she asks.
David shakes his head in response, taking another sip of his drink. The shirt cost him 40 bucks.
“My compadre…partner…comrade, let’s go with comrade, is currently refilling his stock on hourly alcohol before we resume our trip down to Tampa. I’ve got some family I’m going to see and…let’s just say I need all the help I can get,” he says.
“Yeesh. I can understand that. I got a step-father I need to forget sometimes,” she says.
“In that same boat, may we share our vices.”
David raises his bottle while the woman raises her blunt. They take a respective sip and hit, upon which the glass doors open.
Deciding to ease it out, David finishes the bottle. The woman lets her smoke go. Her partner walks out, holding a bag of snacks, no doubt to appease a hungry woman.
“Chloe. I thought I told you to watch the pump this time,” her partner says.
The woman—Chloe—shrugs, putting out her blunt temporarily on the side of the gas station before setting it on her ear.
She whispers to me, “Sorry if she’s ornery. Love the girl but she’s kind of goin red on me right now.”
“I can relate to that,” David says.
“Really? Does she threaten to tear down the entire city if she isn’t satisfied?” Chloe.
David’s left eye twitches at the word.
“Nah,” he says.
Chloe looks smug for a moment.
“She tears down an entire city if she isn’t.”
Chloe drops to a scowl, her eyes widening.
“You’re joking,” she says.
“Chloe! Let’s go!” her partner calls, already in the truck.
“Josefine Stalin calls.”
Chloe shakes her head, smiling at the man in front of her.
“You got a name there smart guy?” she asks.
The glass doors open once more.
“David, let’s go,” Qrow says.
Carrying more in a plastic bag than it possibly can, Qrow sets their stash of liquor in the back seat before making his way around the building.
“So then Davey…guess I’ll see ya around eventually,” Chloe says, making her way towards the truck, walking backwards, naturally.
David throws the empty bottle towards a trash can. When he completely overshoots it, the glass shatters towards a nearby pile of weeds in a concrete crack.
“You do realize that the amount of time in this world makes that damn near impossible, right?”
Chloe merely smirks once more before saying, “Time for me is…subjective.”
“Yeah, and life is strange, doesn’t mean it’s a guarantee,” David says.
Chloe opens the truck door.
“Make it one. If you’re ever in Oregon, stop by, I’d love to share some smoke with you,” she says.
David does a quick wave before the door closes.
As the two lovebirds talk in the cab of the truck, they back-up on the road and roll on out of there.
David walks towards his car, stolen when he and Qrow stopped in Decatur when they lost Revy’s trail.
The familiar black bird lands on his shoulder, letting out a sharp squawk.
“Please. Considering they screamed Blackwell alum, the ‘Town That Lives on Present Ruin’ is the last place I’d wanna go. Besides, I’d never go back there as long as the Falls still stand,” David says.
Another squawk in David’s ear is enough to get his hand moving. With a quick shoo, the bird begins to fly away.
Damn crows.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
A low quality, 240p cell-phone camera starts up. We can see David in the front seat of his car, aided in light only by those provided by the Civic inside. In the backseat, we can see Qrow laid out, snoring ever so softly.
“Hello everybody. Me and Qrow, Qrow and I are presently on the side of the road on I25 near Augusta, Georgia. My old stomping grounds for some pretty crazy shit. We are probably about two hours away from Greenville. It’s a Saturday night. Qrow and I tried to make it to Tampa by Sunday but I guess times just didn’t want to work for us. Strange…
Anyway…tomorrow we’ll begin the trip back to Greenville where I will face Razor Blade for…”
David grabs the Underground Championship in the passenger seat. He lifts it up to show it to the camera.
“…my crown, which I so gracefully won back on the last episode of Trauma.”
He sets it back into the seat.
“This week, going into this match, I’m refreshed. Everybody who needed a proper rematch has received one, which means the docket can be reset. No more rematches, all new matches going forth.
And the first challenger they give me, in another main event match—you're welcome my friend—is the beautiful hunk of human they call Razor Blade.
I mean look at the guy. Long black hair, buff as fuck, hardheaded, the guy was made to be admired.
Unfortunately, all the good looks in the world will not stop you from winning the throne. I’ve done too damn much these past few months to decide to lose it to you of all people.
Don’t get me wrong. I love ya man. I respect the hell out of ya for being able to take so many losses and so many beatings and come back into this division ready for more. I’ve taken a shine to ya that not many people manage to secure, Holden Ross being the obvious exception.
However, as Holden learned last week, absolutely nothing comes between me and my crown. So Razor, you can talk about your aspirations, you talk about your desires, you can talk with Kassandra Black about braiding hair if you want—seriously, I bet she’s a fuckin master at it—but at the end of the day, and at the end of Trauma, you will find out…it doesn’t matter.
Now you can crush a 40 if you want, but it doesn’t change anything. My otis reads the same: I am the once and future king, and the last thing you will see before that ironic blade falls while your head is stuck in the guillotine…is my right arm around your neck…before you feel the personal sting…of the thrill…of the hunt.”
The camera cuts off.
