A.N./ So...any story already going has been blocked by evil little sprites and is not reachable. Do you know what happens when I get writer's block? That right, I write shorties, drabbles, and oneshots. This is a product of tiny-evil-fairy attacks.
I don't own the Blues Brothers, though I wish to the moon and back that I did.
Elwood Blues was a man of few words.
That didn't mean he didn't have anything to say.
Elwood Blues never removed his sunglasses.
That didn't mean he wanted to hide his eyes.
Elwood Blues was wanted by the police.
That didn't mean he was crazy, or emotionless, or a delinquent. That didn't mean he was a criminal. That didn't even mean he had done it on purpose. Just because some traffic violations and "I took the liberty of bullshitting you" turned into angry country singers and a couple of car chases and a few lies didn't mean he had bad intentions.
Because it wasn't lies, really. It was just...bullshit.
Elwood Blues was a musician. A blues musician—one with the notes hidden deep in his blood, where they would rise to the surface from time to time and bubble out in a medley of revved engines and lonely window-watching and dry white toast crisping around the edges.
Elwood Blues was a man who could make a harmonica squeak out what it meant to be on the streets, to be raised by a violent nun, to soak a bit of morbid humor into a morbid life. Elwood Blues was a man who could sing about love when he had never had any.
Elwood Blues was a man trying to pay his taxes.
And Elwood Blues was not all he seemed.