Authors Note:
Here's another new story for you folks. I posted this snippet on deviantART, but only two people liked it - maybe you guys will give me better reception, or advice on how to improve? Either way, I hope you enjoy this despite the flaws! =3
Prologue
The glowing embers of the smoldering cigarette illuminated the night through the dirty window like a dying firefly, weak, as it filled the air with formaldehyde and hydrogen cyanide. However, the person behind the human-made cancer stick really didn't give a damn, rolling the cylindrical tube back and forth across his lips with his tongue idly, causing the burnt out parts to fall off the end onto the overused diner table before him. The coffee cup stationed there was empty, with only remnants of the black liquid it previously contained clinging to the sides and bottom of the mug. The man twirled said cup in circles, causing it to scrape lightly against the ivory-coloured plate it was on. He wondered for a second why the waitresses insisted upon putting a cup on a plate; it seemed completely pointless to him. However, most of the things he did now days were completely pointless, so he had no room for argument.
"You want some more, hon?" A woman with a raspy voice questioned him, jerking him back to an even duller reality. The waitress's hair was a flat blonde, damaged from heat and formed into wiry bunches. Her eyes were a muddy, washed-out brown that may have once been beautiful before she had started the methamphetamine that he could smell in her blood stream. Part of him wanted to wrinkle up his nose in disgust, but the majority overruled.
"Sure," He muttered, his blue eyes flickering to her expression when he spoke.
"You ain't from around here, huh?" The druggie asked, amused. He sighed internally, but gave a misleading smile to her.
"I was born in Great Britain," He told her, only because he knew that was what she would be expecting. She was done pouring the coffee then, and put a hand on her hip.
"Well, I sure hope you got some real money. We don't take no euros or shit here in Kentucky, buddy." The man just shook his head knowingly as the woman practically stumbled away, scratching at some scabs on her arm. His gaze turned to the flickering television located in the far corner, the interest becoming evident in his eyes as he did so. A CNN reporter was talking rapidly into a bulky microphone, chattering about an event that had occurred in the Pacific Northwest earlier during the day.
"…reports keep coming in of an unidentified aircraft flying over the Seattle-Tacoma area, some even claiming to have heard a sonic boom characteristic of fighter jets when they break the sound barrier, Wolf. All eye witnesses say that the craft was traveling in a South-Eastern direction. The local authorities say that the craft was picked up on radar that was installed after the Decepticon attack on Seattle three years ago, which is attuned to Cybertronian energy signatures," The reporter explained. The screen changed to an image of a man with glasses and grey hair standing in a news room.
"And you said earlier that the Autobots have made no comment thus far, correct, Ashley?"
"That's right, Wolf. Optimus Prime told the media there will be a press conference-" The screen went black. The man blinked, flabbergasted, until he saw a hefty woman walking away from the television with a look of irritation.
"Them goddamned aliens need to go home, if you ask me," She grunted, going back to the bar that she was wiping clean almost obsessively.
"Isn't their planet uninhabitable?" The man said in a low voice, looking the diner owner warily. She glared at him from behind the counter for a moment.
"They can go to Mars for all I care. 'S long as they leave us the hell alone," The woman replied. Again, the man shook his head, running a hand through his shaggy blonde locks with a look of aggravation. He merely whispered consoling phrases to himself, puffing on the cigarette in his mouth with more urgency to get the fumes into his lungs faster. He reminded himself that he had been lucky thus far that no one had recognized him by the eyes that almost glowed and the looks impossible for a nicotine addict. He had clean, white teeth; soft, healthy hair; muscles that were indeed meticulously looked after. The man would be perfection in most any woman's (and some men's) eyes. Of course, he didn't care about their opinions. He was already incredibly and perfectly biased. The only thing that concerned him was whether or not they thought he was human. So far, his act was going pretty well. As long as nothing like ignorant humans broke his façade…
"Excuse me, ma'am," He spoke up a little louder, "Can you tell me which road I need to take in order to get to Lexington?" The woman spent the next fifteen minutes explaining which road to take, which ones had bad traffic at certain times of the day, which ones had the most pot holes and et cetera. He soon zoned out of the conversation, nodding appropriately to make her believe he still listened attentively. When she was finally finished, he gave her the money due, grabbed his leather coat, and made sure to stick the cigarette deep into the ash tray to ruin any traces of DNA he may have left behind.
I hope you enjoyed the prologue of Flightless Bird, American Mouth. And yes, I know this is the title of a song from the Twilight soundtrack, but it has nothing to do with the movie or book! :/Nor is this a 'song fic' so to speak; I just liked the title!
Can has review now? :3