No soundtrack in this chapter but the national lampoon magazine is the actual one created during that month and year the story is written in.
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Chapter 4 Good things come in bottles
Walter J. Kovacs heaved his declaration of universal finality onto a well-practiced shoulder, and began his ritualistic wandering of the bustling New York streets. Most pedestrians cleared a path around the apparently homeless mess of angry red hair, ancient white scars and blue bruises. Colouring on any other creature would have gained instant recognition as beautiful, but the stench of the man, a mixture of sweat, grime and toxic aftershave, caused watering eyes and a distorted view of the dishevelled being.
Reaching a daily checkpoint, he paused to admire, without any admiration, the view of the faded newspaper stand and its overly fed owner fondling over a female form. It took a few moments for Kovacs's brain to decipher the information it was receiving, the scent of lavender and peppermint punctuating first, for him to come to the realization his nightly acquaintance was standing before him.
"-ot reading that shit. Got anything with a little fact or comedy?"
"Comedy?" Bernard, tugging his hat from his head to scratch at the scalp beneath, murmured.
"Yeah. Like some politician declaring freedoms we'll never experience. I could do with a good laugh."
"Oh. Ah, I know what you want!" Flopping the hat back on, the middle-aged bulge of a man turned abruptly and began fiddling with a few piles of folded paper. "National Lampoon."
A cigarette now lightly dangling from her cracked lips, she took up the proffered magazine and stared blankly at the cover depicting a little boy dressed as a cowboy whilst a Native American waited behind a door ready to axe him. A smile slowly traced her lips as she began reading the index of the magazine and wordlessly dug in her pocket for change.
"How often does this crap come in?" The woman looked over the magazine to the vendor currently counting the coins in his hand.
"Monthly. I get a new batch every first Sunday of the month." Bernard nodded as his calculations were finished and offered a few pennies as change. "Anything else I can get you? We've got the new Cosmopolitan in."
"Have you ever read that shit?"
"Once."
"And?"
"And? Well it-" The news vendor stuttered into silence as an overwhelming feeling of dread surfaced. "Ah it's you!"
Walter continued to stare at the woman flipping through her magazine, with unwavering blue eyes, as Bernard hurried with his customary paper. A short pause encapsulated the three, each as still as statues and Bernard trying not to breath in the heady scent of his regular customer, until finally the redhead moved his gaze to his vendor.
"New Frontiersmen." Bernard audibly sighed as Kovacs accepted the parcel of paper.
"You'll keep a copy for me." The rusty voice permeated the air and caused the woman currently folding her magazine under an arm to frown amidst lighting her lip-fastened cigarette.
"Of course."
"Good."
Walter handed over the correct change, as always, to the puffy man before the sensation of being watched reached his trained senses, and he followed the feeling back to the woman beside him. She continued to frown at something, though surprisingly not at him. Following her gaze to its point of conclusion, the redheaded vagrant found his eyes neatly focused on the front picture of his half folded newspaper. A monochrome scene of death and destruction tucked into a fermenting alleyway looked back at him.
Blowing a cloud of pale smoke, with Bernard quickly attempting to distribute the herbal scent away with a flailing hand, the woman dug into her pockets for a little more change and requested a New Frontiersman of her own. Upon receipt, her eyes flicked disinterestedly towards the sound of scraping wood on concrete to witness the dishevelled man lifting a great sign into place.
As she scanned over the painted words, 'the end is nigh', an unhindered upturn of the corners of her mouth surfaced.
"Amen, brother." She chuckled, shaking her head, and left the glaring street prophet to his business.
The time was currently twelve minutes past one, the afternoon sun high in its orbit and attempting to add some colour to the otherwise inert city, as Kovacs paraded the street outside the police station. The woman, he'd been tailing on and off for some time now, was currently inside the station as she was every Tuesday afternoon. He assumed it was something to do with the probation officer she had mentioned before in her drunken stupors, though what form of criminal she was still eluded him.
Her activities, from what he'd seen, mostly consisted of drinking, fighting, swearing and watching spy movies in her flat before going to work. Her work seemed highly disorganised, often taking her right around the city, and involving musicians. Walter was sure the woman was not a singer, her tuneless singing of nights previous still ringing in his ears as if a bomb had exploded, and he never saw her with an instrument. He considered this highly suspicious and presumed these circumstances were the basis of her unlawful conduct but his investigations were still fruitless in discovering her master plans.
He'd considered interrogating her numerous times but on every visit he made to her apartment, to complete this task, he'd been unable to rouse her into consciousness. When he met her on the streets she was normally fighting or otherwise preoccupied, or worse, telling him how much she loved him in some drunken manner and calling him by a random name before stumbling home. He'd checked and checked again but there was never anything but whiskey and herbal cigarettes in her apartment. One night Rorschach had even taken to peeling her floorboards loose whilst she slept in the recovery position on the rug. It was beginning to infuriate the vigilante, searching for dirt so obstinately, that he could not find drugs or a stash of money. Even a lopped off finger would do.
As a nearby clock dropped its largest hand lifelessly to the six, the redheaded vagrant turned abruptly to the creaking of the police department's front doors. Predictable as always, the woman emerged from the rundown station, fists tightly clenched before being violently forced into her denim jackets pockets. She made a noise deep in her throat, a mix between a sigh and a growl, as she ducked her head to stare at the ground before jogging down the porch steps.
Taking off, in a long legged stride of defiance, the woman began a fuming excursion through the ambling crowds of people, refusing to budge a step as they knocked against her. As she rounded a corner a few blocks away from her starting point she suddenly stopped as if caught in some spider's web and turned into a little corner shop.
A few minutes later Walter watched as the alcoholic reappeared clutching a heavy brown bag and he glared at it in disgust. She was going to start drinking earlier than usual today, though some part of him relished in the idea that she would be too drunk by nightfall to leave her home and cause him trouble.
Continuing his observation from a distance, Kovacs was directed a few more blocks as the woman seemed to be growing faster and angrier footed. Something seemed very off with the woman today, her monthly cycle he mused, as they turned yet another corner before she disappeared into the park.
For a moment he thought he'd lost her in the dense summer foliage before hearing her foul-mouthed intonation apparently threatening someone. Stashing his sign in some bushes he rounded the corner in time to see her sitting alone on an old and dishevelled wooden bench. The brown paper bag, her only companion, sat beside her as she stared at her hands tightly clutching her knees. He watched as she swore again at a woman passing her by, for looking at her hunched form, before pushing her head back to look up at the sky. Her body leaned tentatively against the wrecked back of the woodworm mauled bench.
She sighed long and deeply, raising her hands to wipe the city's grime from her eyes, and turned her attention to the brown paper bag. Shaking, nervous, hands reached forward tentatively and peeled the creased opening of the bag until it was large enough to dip a hand within. Withdrawing a glass bottle, hues of amber flashing in the sunlight like wings of the fey promising childish adventures and better times, she brought it to rest on her lap and read the label with great deliberation.
It wasn't long before she began, as he had expected, to untighten the cap of the bottle. It was at this moment Walter was ready to leave and let the whore drink herself sober again, when something he hadn't expected happened.
Lifting the bottle high, the discontented woman turned the contents of her purchase upside down, allowing the liquid to drench her body from her raggedly brown hair down. As the last drops fell, she opened her cleansed eyes and tossed the empty glass container with as much force as she could muster, sending it hurtling across the pathway before cascading into dozens of tiny crystal shards.
The vigilante in disguise had to double take at the occurrences before watching in dumbfounded silence as she withdrew a thick silver lighter and lit the flame. It was his body that jumped into action, before his mind had time to react, instinctively diving forward and knocking the open flame from her grip.
"The fuck!" The woman screamed indignantly at the pile of messy redheaded human at her feet, now picking himself off the ground. "What is your fucking problem? God damn son of a bitch! I oughta fuckin' kick your puny shit infested cunt whoring a-"
The move was so sudden she wasn't sure if it had actually happened until the pain reached her foggy senses.
"Did you just… did you just slap me?"
Special thanks to Carnageincminor for Betaing.