Some people say I'm only out at night
Maybe those folks might of got it right
And some people say I drive a Cadillac car
Or sell my wares hauntin' hotel bars
-AC/DC
The Man With No Name lay under an overpass next to a river that looked like dirty dishwater; gnarled vines grew along its banks and empty beer cans, cigarette butts, syringes, and used condoms were scattered across the frozen ground like the debris of a fallen world. Which, when you got right down to it, it was.
A bed roll was under his neck and his legs were crossed. His heavy trench coat rattled with a thousand trinkets each time he moved. Potions, pills, amulets...a flavor for every taste, a cure for every ailment. His stock magically rotated, and he always seemed to have what you needed.
It was bitterly cold that day, but he did not feel it. He had not slept in...how long?...but he did not feel tired either. Things like weariness, hunger, and pain were foreign concepts to him. At least he thought they were. He couldn't remember very far back; his earliest memory was of striding down the center of a no name highway in Kansas, the moon full above and the wind blowing through the corn like the whispering of a thousand phantoms. Everything before that was darkness punctuated by the occasional recollection looming forward like a strange, indistinct shape from dense fog: A woman with white hair and a desert sunset, a man with six-guns the size of cannons, a nuclear holocaust, cultists and the FBI.
Since coming awake way back in Kansas, he had walked a thousand miles...and not all of them in the same world. Sometimes he had money in his pocket that was green and bore the portraits of dead presidents...sometimes he had money in his pockets that was red and white and bore the portrait of a long dead dictator. Sometimes the radio he carried in his worn green knapsack said things that didn't make sense. A disc jockey on a Memphis station played a single by a one hit wonder group called The Beatles, and a news program in Des Moines mentioned the passing of a former president named Al Gore.
Today he was in a town called Royal Woods. He blew in last night on the railroad tracks, which he had been following since Detroit. Strange name for a town, he thought; sounded more like a subdivision where old people drove around in golf carts and broke their hips getting out of bed. What world was it? Who was the president? Who won The Second World War?
Eh. It didn't really matter. People are the same wherever you go: They always want something. In fact, he could feel someone wanting something now...
Ah, there it is, the crunch of approaching footsteps in the gravel. The Man With No Name sat up and watched as a homeless man in dirty clothes appeared. He stopped, regarded him with a wary expression, and seemed to consider turning away. The Man With No Name flashed a wide, cannibal smile.
"Hey, man," the hobo said, "d-do you have a cigarette?"
The Man With No Name chuckled darkly – it was the kind of chuckle that killed birds mid-flight, sent pacemakers bursting in chests, and popped the cherries of pious nuns. Fear crossed the hobo's face. "Those things are bad for you," The Man said, reaching inside his tattered overcoat. His face was cast in shadows under the brim of his fedora.
The hobo licked his lips. "E-Everything's bad for you."
"That is true," The Man said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and flipped the top open. The hobo hesitated, but came forward, his need winning out...as it always did. The Man held the pack out, and the hobo took one. "Those Marlboros?" he asked.
The Man didn't know. He looked at the pack. "Morley's."
"Never heard of them," the hobo said, pulling a lighter from the pocket of his hoodie and lighting his smoke.
The Man shrugged one shoulder. "Neither have I."
The hobo took a drag and let the smoke out slowly. "You new here?"
The Man spread his hands and smiled. "Just passing through."
"Lucky you," the hobo said. "This place is a dump."
The Man looked at the concrete wall to his left. Graffito covered it. Gang signs, floppy penises, the names of a dozen nobodies, this one loves that one, this one loves dick. Dumpster writing, the voice of the people. He chuckled. Who said that? Was it Plato?
"Looks like it," he finally said.
"I worked for the city for ten years," the hobo said, "paid my taxes and everything...now look at me."
They always had a sob story. They were always misunderstood, done wrong – they were never meth addicts or losers. No siree.
"It kind of..." the hobo coughed into his hand, "...makes you hate America. You know? You give and give and give and the moment you slip just a little bit –" he coughed again, hacking deeply. The Man's smile widened. He drew his knees up to his chest and watched the hobo bend at the waist.
When the hobo stood up straight, her looked quizzically at his hand. It was covered in rich, red blood. "Jesus...what the hell's in this thing?"
The Man chuckled. "Carbon monoxide," he said, holding up a finger, "tar," he held up another finger, "arsenic," another finger, "DDT," another finger, "and cyanide." He held up five fingers and wiggled them. "Told you they were bad for you."
The hobo was coughing again, blood shooting from his mouth. With a strangled gurgle, he pitched over and fell face-first into the gravel, his body twitching. The Man threw back his head and laughed, an evil sound full of bomb-blasts, crying children, and crackling fire. "I've never seen cancer move that fast," he said. He shook his head. People always want something, but you know what? When they get it, they're just never happy. Take that old man in The Monkey's Paw. He wanted his son back from the dead, yet when his son knocked on the door in the dead of night, he suddenly didn't want him anymore. Tsk, tsk, tsk. The great sin of human beings is that they can't make up their goddamn minds.
Getting to his feet, The Man walked over to the body and looked down at it. Standing, he was over six-feet tall with shoulders as broad as the face of a barn. A lot of people never saw him, though. Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see. I know you, you know me. You want it, I got it. The Man With No Name Medicine Show, traveling from town-to-town with needful things...things you think you want...but don't.
Laughing, he turned around, grabbed his bedroll, and climbed the embankment to the street, leaving the hobo with his cigarette. In a town like this, there's bound to be lots of wants and needs, and The Man With No Name was happy to meet them.
Luna Loud sat cross-legged on her bed, her arms wrapped around her chest and her stomach rippling with the pangs of unrequited love.
I'm a total pussy, she thought as she unconsciously rocked back and forth.
How long had she loved Sam? How long had she yearned to take her hand and spill out her heart and her soul? And how long had she been so scared of doing so that she trembled at the mere thought? She didn't know, but it felt like years. Every time she worked up the confidence to tell her, she found herself stumbling and shaking like a little girl...every time she walked up to her in the hall at school, intending to declare her love, she chickened out and ran away with her tail between her legs.
She couldn't help it, though. She was scared shitless. What if Sam rejected her? What if Sam thought she was gross and weird and didn't want her around anymore? That thought terrified Luna, because Sam meant everything to her, and if the only way she could have her was from afar, well...that was better than nothing, right?
Pausing, she bent and scooped her phone off the bed. She opened her text messages and reread her most recent exchange with her beloved.
Luna: Heyy, wanna hang today?
Sam: Sure. Your place or mine?
Luna: Yours is cool.
She sent the first text with the intention of making today the day, but even as she built herself up to it, the foundation of her resolve crumbled like sand. She wouldn't do it. She knew that deep down. She wasn't brave enough...or strong enough...or...or anything else. She was a pussy.
Sighing, she got up, grabbed her phone, and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt. In the hall, she found Lucy waiting for the bathroom, her arms crossed. She was wearing her normal black blouse and leggings. Her hair was still up, and her eyes still covered by her bangs. Why she suddenly wore a ponytail (or, ugh, pigtails) was beyond Luna. She wondered, not for the first time, about her relationship with Lincoln. They were a little chummy lately, especially after that pedo guy next door kidnapped Lucy and Lincoln rescued her. She wasn't the only one who said so. It wasn't a coincidence that they picked on them about having sex this morning. If so, whatever, it wasn't her business. She had plenty of her own worries.
Falling in line behind her, Luna drew a deep breath. Could she do it? She pictured herself confessing her love to Sam, but she didn't dare imagine Sam's reaction. It would either be the best thing in the world...or the worst. There was no middle ground.
Lynn came out of the bathroom, ducked around Lucy like she was an opposing lineman, and dove forward, her hands up to catch an imaginary ball. She landed hard on the floor and the air rushed out of her.
"Not very smart, brah," Luna said.
Lynn got up and dusted herself off. "Sometimes you gotta break a few eggs."
"You're gonna break your neck like that guy who played Superman."
"Pfft," Lynn said, waving her hand, "I'm a professional."
"Right," Luna said, turning away and diving back into her thoughts.
As she went down the stairs, Lynn sighed. She was fast and she was tough...but she was neither as fast nor as tough as she wanted to be. That little dive she did hurt like hell...her hip was even now screaming out in pain; it took everything she had not to limp and hiss through her teeth. In football, and other contact sports, you have to be tough as nails and stronger than everyone else.
And Lynn Loud was not stronger than everyone else, no matter what her sisters or brother thought. Did they think she trained for fun? No, she trained because she wanted to get better...and that wasn't happening.
Outside, she snatched a football from the front porch and bounded down the stairs. Her bike was parked in the garage, leaned against Dad's work bench. Not long ago this bike belonged to Lincoln, and while she knew he didn't choose the pink color scheme, she couldn't help but think of it as his paintjob. She would get around to changing it...one day. For now, though, it was girly, but, hey, it was a sick bike and everyone knew it, so whatever.
Dropping her ball into the wicker basket, she climbed on and pushed off with one foot. When she was mobile, she rode to the bottom of the driveway and hung a left onto the sidewalk, swinging around a teenage boy with baggy pants and a heavy sweater. The air was cold against her face as she pedaled, her ponytail streaming behind her like a flag. At the end of the street, she waited for a truck, then crossed. Rosedale Park was up ahead: She could see the stately pines rising above the houses along Park Place. How come pine trees didn't completely shed in the winter, anyway? Were they like a super tree or something? She imagined a pine tree in red-and-blue tights, its hands on its hips in a heroic pose, and smiled despite herself. Here I come to save the daaaaaay! Who would his archenemy be? Dr. Pollution? The Evil Lumberjack? Franky the Firebug? Now there's a comic she would read.
The park sloped away from the sidewalk. Lynn rode down the embankment and pedaled past the playground, where a few kids played on the platform, one hanging from the monkey bars and another standing at the mouth of the slide, hesitantly deciding whether to go down or not.
Lynn threw a glance around, and was mildly disappointed to see that none of the girls from school were around. More often than not, you could find them playing ball of some kind. Today, however, the field stretching from the playground to the river (what was it...a mile?) was completely empty. Oh well. She slowed, hopped off the bike, and walked it to a tree. She leaned it against the gnarled trunk and grabbed her ball.
Time to train.
Time to get faster...and stronger.
Will it hurt? she wondered. She was sitting Indian style on her bed, a notebook in her lap and the end of a pen pressed contemplatively to her chin. Of course it will, but in a good way. Lucy personally did not cut herself, but she understood why people do, as cutting releases endorphins in the brain, and endorphins provide a rush (maybe that's why zombies like brains so much...). Would the pain of her hymen tearing release endorphins?
She blushed furiously at the bluntness of her own mind. She was a poet...and the first rule of poetry is never use technical terms. Say...hm... 'the veil of her virginity' or...hell anything but what Lisa would call it. When it came to sex, though, she found it hard to beat around the bush (heh) because...well...she took it pretty seriously. Since she and Lincoln began...whatever you want to call it...she had entertained the idea of lying herself upon his altar (I gotta write that down...) many times. She was not as interested in the physical act itself (though sometimes she did feel a little bit of a tingle down there). She was more interested in the spiritual aspect. You could say she didn't want to have sex, she wanted to make love, she wanted to be joined in union to Lincoln and become one with him: One body, one spirit, and one heartbeat. That thought always brought a tiny smile to her lips.
In the books she read, sex was always such a romantic thing. Not romantic as in candles and rose petals (none of her favorite authors from Stephen King to John Saul ever wrote a scene like that...at least not one that she had read), but romantic as in idealized. It wasn't the slapping of flesh or the thrusting of hips that drew her attention, at least not entirely, it was the wedding of hearts, the intimacy, the thought of being as close in every way you can be to the person you love.
Lucy wanted that with Lincoln. Very badly. A few things were stopping her, however. For one, she was honestly afraid of that initial thrust, of being parted and of having the veil of her virginity ripped like the altar cloth on the death of Christ. She'd read that a girl's first time was supposed to hurt, and that she was supposed to bleed. Pain and blood did not bother Lucy, per se, but hurting and bleeding during such a holy moment seemed like sacrilege. She might as well release her bowels when he entered her. For another thing, they had only been together for a month. That seemed kind of...soon. Would she look like a slut if she brought it up, or made a move? She did not want to look like a slut.
Lastly, and at the bottom of the list, was getting in trouble. She was fairly certain they could pull it off late at night, but there was always the chance Lynn would wake up, see she wasn't in bed, and get nosey. A small chance, but when you're doing something as taboo as what she and Lincoln would be doing, even the smallest of chances is pretty big.
Tapping the pen against her chin, Lucy tried to come up with a rhyme for "smoldering lust" but couldn't. Dust. Must. Cussed. Rust. Bust. What about 'smoldering'? Was there even a word that rhymed with that? Shouldering...that was a word, right? 'She was shouldering her way through the crowd.' Yeah, that sounded right. So...shouldering rust? Shouldering must?
It hit her.
Shouldering thrust! To thrust shoulder first. She smiled. Good job, Luce. She jotted that down in the margin and read what she had:
Each night, awake in the dark
I yearn for your touch
Like a flickering spark
My spirit's smoldering lust
Longs for your spirit's shouldering thrust.
That sounded kind of stupid, though. She tapped the pen against her lips. She didn't want the poem to come across as overly sexual; she wanted it to be about longing for her spirit to be one with his. Did that show through? She didn't know, but once you start rhyming 'lust' with 'thrust' you send the wrong signals. Sigh. She tore the paper out, crumpled it up, and threw it into the wastebasket next to her bed. Hm. It was starting to get full.
She poised the tip of her pen over a fresh sheet and tried to come up with something better. Okay. You want to write about the coming together of two hearts and two souls. That's your theme. Use language that fits your theme.
Okay. Language that fits my theme. Hmmm. An image came to mind: Two smoke-like spirits curling around one another until they were literally one.
The words just wouldn't come, though.
Sighing with frustration, she tossed her notebook aside and crossed her arms. How come she could write about skeletons and demons – things that were far, far away from her – but she couldn't write about something so dearly close?
She didn't know, but it was irritating. Every time she tried to write about Lincoln, she smashed into a brick wall and burst into flames. Why couldn't she write about the man she loved?
Ugh.
Would it hurt? she thought or would it hurt so good, like the song?
Her idea of a first time didn't involve blood and a burning, ripping sensation between her legs, but how did the song go? Sometimes love don't feel like it should?
She glanced at the wastebasket. It was starting to get full. Maybe she should take it out.
Procrastinate, much?
Oh, shut up.
She grabbed the wastebasket and started for the kitchen. I'll work on my poem later...and think of my veil being ripped asunder too...I just need a break right now.
