Islands In The Sun
Chapter 2
Stuffy. Smokey. Full of hot, humid, lethargically moving air, and--
SLAP!
"Mosquitoes."
Stamitos stared pensively at the glass of amber liquid before him, gold and brown as his eyes. He drank in a quick mouthful, feeling guilty about it. He had hoped the liquid would fill him to the top, leaving him all the same color and all the same hazy feeling. Though, he knew, that he presently required his perception. The men in the corner had been watching him for two hours.
He shivered, inadvertently, and smoothed his hand over the withered bag collapsed on the stool
beside him.
"What's your problem, buddy?" Questioned the crumpled old man. He was leering over the bar at Daimon. This barkeeper must be around seventy, Daimon mused to himself as he sipped placidly at his drink. Of course, he was making this assessment upon the man's age, judging from the thin hands the keep had slapped threateningly on the table dividing them. They were white and veiny, like notebook paper soaked in water and pinched in all the wrong places.
This guy was ancient and bearing down on him as if he had judged Daimon to be just some sad youngster ungracefully stumbling though a mid-life crisis. While Daimon could not refrain from admiring his spirit, he wondered if this barkeeper, who was denying him the benefit of the doubt, would even guess that he, Daimon Stamitos, was just barely thirty?
Just barely, even.
Looking at the man's crumbled hands, and then glancing down at his own, he wondered if this man felt as old as he did. What it boiled down to, was that Daimon admired his spirit, enough to not turn him into one of the mosquitoes he was currently slapping into jelly.
This time, last year, such a thought would have never even entreated upon his darkest wandering thoughts. When such an annoyance was entreated upon his character, he would not have even questioned it- he would have accepted it, and he still would have cared-- He would have cared for the long-term well-being of this one angry gentleman. Now, Stamitos questioned everything, and he
cared even less.
"They're watchin' you, y'know." The keeper nudged roughly at his customer, sending a splash of
luke-warm drink into the table. Daimon's eyes drifted lazily a little to the right. It was
useless. He could not recognize who it was behind him. And he dare not turn around for a set of reasons:
One. If he turned around, they would definitely recognize who and what he was, and then, also...
Two. Maybe they were just trailing him for curiosity's sake, with a date for the capture, set
sometime in the near future. The 'future', Daimon had come to recognize, was the time in which
resided the measure of moments between 'narrowly missed' and 'eventually caught'. If he did not
turn around, he could sneak out of the bar in a means-inconspicuous, perhaps, say, by climbing
through a bathroom window. He might just survive to tell the tale (to whom, he wasn't quite
sure). But if he moved an inch, if they knew he noticed them, if he let them -know he knew they
noticed them- by turning around- he was as good as canned spam.
Sip.
Then, he would no longer move even an inch for the rest of his life.
The old man's revolting sneer was creating dribble that sploshed into the glass, "I'm meeting
someone." Daimon stated, wearily. Yes. He had come to the conclusion that he was not going to be
moved.
"Is your name 'someone', too? Hmm?"
"My name's Rem-- Stamitos. Will you leave me alone?" Stamitos dragged a scarred hand down his
face washing new weariness over his eyes, "Please?" He had forgotten to ask nicely, "I wouldn't
want to be impolite--" The words were robbed from him by the crack of thick wood upon his
cranium.
That was one quick old man!
And he had seemed so friendly, too. Deep inside. Hadn't he been a not-so-bad person?
Quickly, after having reclaimed his vision, he realized it was not the old man who had laid him
down flat.
"That's not protocol! Beatings are not protocol!" Whined a voice from the back of a massive shape
attempting to configure within Daimon's frame of blurred perception. They were two cardboard
cut-outs dancing before his eyes.
"Honestly, Muffins!" The larger figure chided.
Daimon looked over the stars flying around his nose towards the spindly young man shaking behind
the slightly more offensive looking gentleman with the walking stick in hand.
Stamitos winced and crossed his eyes at a thin wooden apparatus now pointed between his eyes, in that oh-so-familiar un-friendly fashion.
"Muffins? Your name's, 'muffins'?"
"That's Mr. Muffins, to you!" He snapped, before ducking back behind his cohort.
"Muffins!!!" Boomed a voice from the shadows. The entire bar rang out with echoed laughter, "You got knocked out by a guy named Muffins?"
Daimon covered his head against a deafening squeal of high fear.
"Wizard's Toes!! It's Crazy Cass Cadarn!"
Daimon dove for the floor.
The large administrative man, muttered feebly, "What- I don't see any--"
"BONZAI!!!"
A flailing mass of leather clad limbs flew from the ceiling to make an acrobatic-like landing of
questionable grace upon the skull of, said, massive adversary.
There was a "scuffle". Stamitos scampered across the floor in furious pursuit of the long wooden
stick that was flying across the dirty floor, just inches from his frantic grasp, "Accio! Accio!"
Daimon summoned futilely. He finally caught the object as it sailed between the wrinkled old hands of the keeper huddling under his bar table.
Daimon smiled wearily, sympathetically, "Don't worry, it will be over soon." He heard a scream
and flipped around, wand outstretched and at the ready.
"Oh Please! What are you going to do with me!?" Muffins screamed. The larger man was passed out,
and Cadarn had his lackey down with a fist in his hair and a boot in his back.
"I'm Crrrazzzy Cadarn! So, I'm going to use your own wand!"
The much-weaker man below him cried and flailed, "No! Mercy! What are you gonna do!"
"What am I gonna do?" Cadarn leaned down at him, "What am I gonna do?!"
Deafening screams.
"I'm gonna stick it up yer nose!" He cackled wickedly.
Scream, scream, scream- The man in black lithely jumped off and let poor little Muffin bolt out
the door. Doubled up with laughter, Cadarn sunk to his knees. "Oh! Rich! Too good..." He wiped
away a forming tear.
Daimon rose from his squatting council with the trembling service. He dusted himself off, first.
Then, he turned slowly towards his untouched bag, picked it up gingerly, and held it at his side.
He, now, made a point to sound unamused, "His own wand?"
"If he weren't so insanely delirious with irrational fear- he'd have realized it was a coffee
stir.." There was a pause. Cass began to dance around the disrupted bar.
Daimon stared at him blandly, "His fear was irrational because he judged you and did not know
you. Had he known you, personally, his fear would have been completely justified..."
"Ricooo... Suaaavee... Ricooo..."
They burst out the doors of the bar: Cass Cadarn first, Daimon Stamitos a far-second.
"Ricooo... Suaaavee... Ricooo..." Cass was moving around in a gyrating fashion, with his hand set
firmly on his belt buckle. Perhaps he even thought it was dancing.
Daimon hadn't seen Cass in decades, well, up until very recently. The man had gotten thinner. He
seemed to continue on with this unnatural preoccupation involving the upkeep of his hair, a trait
so focused that it seemed to defy natural law- but, he also appeared slightly happier and even
optimistic. Frankly, he seemed to be enjoying the tropical culture.
Smack!
Cass turned around and looked at Daimon oddly.
"Mosquitoes..." Daimon muttered. Cass shrugged and went back to his confident strut, "I don't
notice them, anymore."
Ah, how the tables had turned.
Chapter 2
Stuffy. Smokey. Full of hot, humid, lethargically moving air, and--
SLAP!
"Mosquitoes."
Stamitos stared pensively at the glass of amber liquid before him, gold and brown as his eyes. He drank in a quick mouthful, feeling guilty about it. He had hoped the liquid would fill him to the top, leaving him all the same color and all the same hazy feeling. Though, he knew, that he presently required his perception. The men in the corner had been watching him for two hours.
He shivered, inadvertently, and smoothed his hand over the withered bag collapsed on the stool
beside him.
"What's your problem, buddy?" Questioned the crumpled old man. He was leering over the bar at Daimon. This barkeeper must be around seventy, Daimon mused to himself as he sipped placidly at his drink. Of course, he was making this assessment upon the man's age, judging from the thin hands the keep had slapped threateningly on the table dividing them. They were white and veiny, like notebook paper soaked in water and pinched in all the wrong places.
This guy was ancient and bearing down on him as if he had judged Daimon to be just some sad youngster ungracefully stumbling though a mid-life crisis. While Daimon could not refrain from admiring his spirit, he wondered if this barkeeper, who was denying him the benefit of the doubt, would even guess that he, Daimon Stamitos, was just barely thirty?
Just barely, even.
Looking at the man's crumbled hands, and then glancing down at his own, he wondered if this man felt as old as he did. What it boiled down to, was that Daimon admired his spirit, enough to not turn him into one of the mosquitoes he was currently slapping into jelly.
This time, last year, such a thought would have never even entreated upon his darkest wandering thoughts. When such an annoyance was entreated upon his character, he would not have even questioned it- he would have accepted it, and he still would have cared-- He would have cared for the long-term well-being of this one angry gentleman. Now, Stamitos questioned everything, and he
cared even less.
"They're watchin' you, y'know." The keeper nudged roughly at his customer, sending a splash of
luke-warm drink into the table. Daimon's eyes drifted lazily a little to the right. It was
useless. He could not recognize who it was behind him. And he dare not turn around for a set of reasons:
One. If he turned around, they would definitely recognize who and what he was, and then, also...
Two. Maybe they were just trailing him for curiosity's sake, with a date for the capture, set
sometime in the near future. The 'future', Daimon had come to recognize, was the time in which
resided the measure of moments between 'narrowly missed' and 'eventually caught'. If he did not
turn around, he could sneak out of the bar in a means-inconspicuous, perhaps, say, by climbing
through a bathroom window. He might just survive to tell the tale (to whom, he wasn't quite
sure). But if he moved an inch, if they knew he noticed them, if he let them -know he knew they
noticed them- by turning around- he was as good as canned spam.
Sip.
Then, he would no longer move even an inch for the rest of his life.
The old man's revolting sneer was creating dribble that sploshed into the glass, "I'm meeting
someone." Daimon stated, wearily. Yes. He had come to the conclusion that he was not going to be
moved.
"Is your name 'someone', too? Hmm?"
"My name's Rem-- Stamitos. Will you leave me alone?" Stamitos dragged a scarred hand down his
face washing new weariness over his eyes, "Please?" He had forgotten to ask nicely, "I wouldn't
want to be impolite--" The words were robbed from him by the crack of thick wood upon his
cranium.
That was one quick old man!
And he had seemed so friendly, too. Deep inside. Hadn't he been a not-so-bad person?
Quickly, after having reclaimed his vision, he realized it was not the old man who had laid him
down flat.
"That's not protocol! Beatings are not protocol!" Whined a voice from the back of a massive shape
attempting to configure within Daimon's frame of blurred perception. They were two cardboard
cut-outs dancing before his eyes.
"Honestly, Muffins!" The larger figure chided.
Daimon looked over the stars flying around his nose towards the spindly young man shaking behind
the slightly more offensive looking gentleman with the walking stick in hand.
Stamitos winced and crossed his eyes at a thin wooden apparatus now pointed between his eyes, in that oh-so-familiar un-friendly fashion.
"Muffins? Your name's, 'muffins'?"
"That's Mr. Muffins, to you!" He snapped, before ducking back behind his cohort.
"Muffins!!!" Boomed a voice from the shadows. The entire bar rang out with echoed laughter, "You got knocked out by a guy named Muffins?"
Daimon covered his head against a deafening squeal of high fear.
"Wizard's Toes!! It's Crazy Cass Cadarn!"
Daimon dove for the floor.
The large administrative man, muttered feebly, "What- I don't see any--"
"BONZAI!!!"
A flailing mass of leather clad limbs flew from the ceiling to make an acrobatic-like landing of
questionable grace upon the skull of, said, massive adversary.
There was a "scuffle". Stamitos scampered across the floor in furious pursuit of the long wooden
stick that was flying across the dirty floor, just inches from his frantic grasp, "Accio! Accio!"
Daimon summoned futilely. He finally caught the object as it sailed between the wrinkled old hands of the keeper huddling under his bar table.
Daimon smiled wearily, sympathetically, "Don't worry, it will be over soon." He heard a scream
and flipped around, wand outstretched and at the ready.
"Oh Please! What are you going to do with me!?" Muffins screamed. The larger man was passed out,
and Cadarn had his lackey down with a fist in his hair and a boot in his back.
"I'm Crrrazzzy Cadarn! So, I'm going to use your own wand!"
The much-weaker man below him cried and flailed, "No! Mercy! What are you gonna do!"
"What am I gonna do?" Cadarn leaned down at him, "What am I gonna do?!"
Deafening screams.
"I'm gonna stick it up yer nose!" He cackled wickedly.
Scream, scream, scream- The man in black lithely jumped off and let poor little Muffin bolt out
the door. Doubled up with laughter, Cadarn sunk to his knees. "Oh! Rich! Too good..." He wiped
away a forming tear.
Daimon rose from his squatting council with the trembling service. He dusted himself off, first.
Then, he turned slowly towards his untouched bag, picked it up gingerly, and held it at his side.
He, now, made a point to sound unamused, "His own wand?"
"If he weren't so insanely delirious with irrational fear- he'd have realized it was a coffee
stir.." There was a pause. Cass began to dance around the disrupted bar.
Daimon stared at him blandly, "His fear was irrational because he judged you and did not know
you. Had he known you, personally, his fear would have been completely justified..."
"Ricooo... Suaaavee... Ricooo..."
They burst out the doors of the bar: Cass Cadarn first, Daimon Stamitos a far-second.
"Ricooo... Suaaavee... Ricooo..." Cass was moving around in a gyrating fashion, with his hand set
firmly on his belt buckle. Perhaps he even thought it was dancing.
Daimon hadn't seen Cass in decades, well, up until very recently. The man had gotten thinner. He
seemed to continue on with this unnatural preoccupation involving the upkeep of his hair, a trait
so focused that it seemed to defy natural law- but, he also appeared slightly happier and even
optimistic. Frankly, he seemed to be enjoying the tropical culture.
Smack!
Cass turned around and looked at Daimon oddly.
"Mosquitoes..." Daimon muttered. Cass shrugged and went back to his confident strut, "I don't
notice them, anymore."
Ah, how the tables had turned.