The Dark Brimmed Hat
Disclaimer: Bleh, Blah, Bloo. Rating: Still R. Especially now that Shooter's here. Archive: You can. If you want. Thank you. Blush. Tell me where please. Summary: Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well, until Shooter shows up. Anyway, here's the second chapter. So glad you're interested. Please review, is this good? or shit. I would like to know. K. Back to the couch.
The Dark Brimmed Hat
Mort let his head droop, believing for an instant that maybe if his head was lowered, ideas would pour from his mind onto the keys. Parts of his blonde hair hung down over his forehead, his hands resting in his lap, waiting, expectantly.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Mort's head shot up, causing several loose strands of his hair to fall back onto the sides of his cheeks. With a quizzical look on his face, he stood and glanced over the side of the small balcony he had between his living room and the stairs. There was a figure looming between the curtain shrouded front door window.
"Company." He said, almost reluctantly, and hurried himself downstairs to see who it was.
When he opened the door, light filtered in through the crack, illuminating parts of the floorboards and Mort's tattered robe. The rush of sunshine sent chills up his spine. He had to get out more. The sun was too bright at first, making it difficult to pick out the stranger from the front stoop.
As the light began to soften, a frail breeze floated in and around Mort's shuddering body. Blinking a few times, Mort met eyes with a strange man dressed slightly casual on his front porch, eyes forward, staring expectantly at him.
His body was slender, sturdy, and fit easily into the frame of the door, that Mort could easily tell. His clothes were tight but loosely fitted, and hung on him like they'd been designed to fit the exact curve of his torso. He wore a blue ruffled shirt that was swallowed by a less than clean overcoat. His pants were dark brown, or least, they were. Mort guessed he'd been trudging up around the foothills, hiking or something; He didn't look like a hiker though, but something about him felt 'country' at first glance. The rims of his jeans rode over a pair of shabby work boots. The only thing Mort felt unease by, other than his presence, was his hat.
The stranger fashioned a black hat, which ran a sharp circle around his head, topped with a bowl shaped crown. It seemed to stare at him in his ragged old robe. Mort straightened a little, realizing that neither had spoke since he'd opened the door.
"You stole my story." The stranger said finally, very calm and collected like, considered what he'd just said.
Mort detected a southern accent, or somewhere around those parts. That kind of drawl that makes a syrup ripple on the mind as its words are being soaked in. Mort blinked in surprise, shifted his weight at the stranger's words, and stared stupidly at him, speechless. What?
"What?" he repeated, dumb-struck.
"You stole my story." he said again, with the same slow and easy tone of voice. Mort quickly found himself clenching the door handle. Crazy folks tribe. He'd heard of them. People from that tribe who followed writers around for one insane reason or another. His surroundings were pretty secluded. Hell, the only sheriff in town was at least ten miles away, and here was he, face to face with a member of the crazy folks tribe.
Mort, you're getting ahead of yourself--
"I know you did it." he said, breaking Mort's train of thought. "You're the one. Now I com' to collect what's owed me."
"Uh, which is?" Mort asked, genuinely curious.
"Credit." the man in the dark brimmed hat said flatly, and waited. His eyes were so glossy and cold, that Mort found himself trembling under its scrutiny. He readjusted his glasses on his face and stared directly at him, speaking hastily against his fear.
"Look, Mr. uh, whatever you're name is, I don't know you,"
"That don' matter Mr. Rainey I know you. You stole my story." the stranger interrupted with his stony glare.
"You can contact my literary agent, to resolve any grievances, you feel you may have," this time the stranger didn't interrupt with words, but simply stretched out his hand, revealing a manuscript in his grasp. Mort jumped back slightly in surprise.
"I don't read those." Mort said.
"You read this one already. You stole it." the tall and somber man replied. He spoke in such a way that was quiet and serene. Like someone complimenting the sky, or admiring a batch of flowers. Not likely a tone to be taken while accusing someone of plagiarism.
The stranger held out his hand for Mort to take it, but Mort just took a few steps back. No way am I letting anything of his into this house. Absolutely not.
"I'm not taking that." He said glancing over it. Under the shaded line crossing his face from beneath the brim of his hat, the stranger's face seemed to redden, becoming a soft shade of red.
"You'll take this, one way or the other." the husky southern stranger said forcefully, pushing Mort involuntarily further into his house.
"As far as I'm concerned, this matter is closed." he said quickly and shut the door before the man could make a rebuttal.
Mort waited, fear clutched in his gut, small sweat beads dotting his forehead. He heard a car engine start, and glanced through his large kitchen windows, seeing for the first time the stranger's Junker. It looked like a Dodge, but it was too caked with mud and rusted with age to make out the model. The license plate, though faded and slightly distorted through Mort's glasses, read:
MISSISSIPPI
In thick blue letters. The stranger tossed his hat aside into the passenger's seat and then sunk behind the wheel, apparently disinterested in the hunched figure watching him through tinted windows.
After the car had gone, Mort turned around, forgetting for a moment about the thud he'd heard moments before; He was just happy to see the man leave; He'd heard about things like this happening before in newspapers and tabloids. They usually played out like this: (though Mort couldn't be sure whether he was just exaggerating)
MANIAC TERRORIZES LOCAL MAN OVER STOLEN APPLES
Mort saw a flash of an image copied onto some nameless paper:
TASHMORE LAKE'S RESIDENTIAL WRITER SPOOKED BY BLACK BRIMMED STRANGER
Then, for some reason he did not care to get into, added the words:
EX-WIFE AMY NOT CONCERNED. SOON TO WED TED AND MOVE INTO BLOCKED WRITER'S HOME
Chico whimpered at him, shattering the headlines and leaving him standing there, wondering why he had heard a thud. He crossed the kitchen cautiously, into the living room and to a window overlooking the porch.
"Cracker Bastard." Mort muttered, then at the memory of the stranger picking up and leaving in that old junk trap, found something a miss. It was then that he remembered the stranger had not being carrying the manuscript.
Heedful of the stranger's words:
You'll take this, one way or the other
He glanced outside, but couldn't see past the unrecognizable glare radiating off the windowpanes. He scoffed; his scoffs were more of a gurgling sound made at the back of the throat. He did this a lot he decided, but regarded even further, that he wasn't exactly bothered by how many times he found himself doing it. He probably did it without even realizing, just like the screaming.
He screamed sometimes after naps. He'd be dreaming of Amy, and next moment he was falling off the couch into a muffled shout. He scoffed again, scratching at bits of his disheveled blonde hair, then padded to the front door.
The engine of the old beater car had dissipated into the soft noisy afternoon, and Mort inched onto the stoop, at first not seeing it. But as his eyes traveled to three feet in front of his own, he found what the disturbed stranger had left him.
It was the manuscript. Lying securely under a heavy rock, squarely on his front porch.
"I'm not taking that." Mort repeated, feeling a spike of anger, but thought better of it. His cleaning lady would be there any time now (just now remembering she was coming to clean up his sloppy habits) These included trash wedged between the cushion seats, crumpled Doritos bags askew about the kitchen and living room floor, as well as a couple hidden upstairs near his laptop. General clutter everywhere Mort turned until Mrs. Gavin appeared to swipe it away. She would surly notice, and wonder as to what it was and why it was lying there unattended.
"I didn't steal it." he said tossing the rock aside. He carried the load of typed paper into the kitchen and apply shoved it into the garbage bin, satisfied it would stay there, buried underneath a pile of orange peals and spilt mountain dew. He washed his hands of the dirty rock and god knows what from the script, shook them out into the air irrationally, and moved his way back into the living room.
He muttered something and let his body go slack into the couch, where, after a few hours of writing shit and meeting cracker bastard hicks, found that comfort came soothingly fast.
"I don't think." he said, slowly letting his thoughts run together, and his eyelids droop.
Disclaimer: Bleh, Blah, Bloo. Rating: Still R. Especially now that Shooter's here. Archive: You can. If you want. Thank you. Blush. Tell me where please. Summary: Doritos, Mountain Dew, and writer's block. Well, until Shooter shows up. Anyway, here's the second chapter. So glad you're interested. Please review, is this good? or shit. I would like to know. K. Back to the couch.
The Dark Brimmed Hat
Mort let his head droop, believing for an instant that maybe if his head was lowered, ideas would pour from his mind onto the keys. Parts of his blonde hair hung down over his forehead, his hands resting in his lap, waiting, expectantly.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Mort's head shot up, causing several loose strands of his hair to fall back onto the sides of his cheeks. With a quizzical look on his face, he stood and glanced over the side of the small balcony he had between his living room and the stairs. There was a figure looming between the curtain shrouded front door window.
"Company." He said, almost reluctantly, and hurried himself downstairs to see who it was.
When he opened the door, light filtered in through the crack, illuminating parts of the floorboards and Mort's tattered robe. The rush of sunshine sent chills up his spine. He had to get out more. The sun was too bright at first, making it difficult to pick out the stranger from the front stoop.
As the light began to soften, a frail breeze floated in and around Mort's shuddering body. Blinking a few times, Mort met eyes with a strange man dressed slightly casual on his front porch, eyes forward, staring expectantly at him.
His body was slender, sturdy, and fit easily into the frame of the door, that Mort could easily tell. His clothes were tight but loosely fitted, and hung on him like they'd been designed to fit the exact curve of his torso. He wore a blue ruffled shirt that was swallowed by a less than clean overcoat. His pants were dark brown, or least, they were. Mort guessed he'd been trudging up around the foothills, hiking or something; He didn't look like a hiker though, but something about him felt 'country' at first glance. The rims of his jeans rode over a pair of shabby work boots. The only thing Mort felt unease by, other than his presence, was his hat.
The stranger fashioned a black hat, which ran a sharp circle around his head, topped with a bowl shaped crown. It seemed to stare at him in his ragged old robe. Mort straightened a little, realizing that neither had spoke since he'd opened the door.
"You stole my story." The stranger said finally, very calm and collected like, considered what he'd just said.
Mort detected a southern accent, or somewhere around those parts. That kind of drawl that makes a syrup ripple on the mind as its words are being soaked in. Mort blinked in surprise, shifted his weight at the stranger's words, and stared stupidly at him, speechless. What?
"What?" he repeated, dumb-struck.
"You stole my story." he said again, with the same slow and easy tone of voice. Mort quickly found himself clenching the door handle. Crazy folks tribe. He'd heard of them. People from that tribe who followed writers around for one insane reason or another. His surroundings were pretty secluded. Hell, the only sheriff in town was at least ten miles away, and here was he, face to face with a member of the crazy folks tribe.
Mort, you're getting ahead of yourself--
"I know you did it." he said, breaking Mort's train of thought. "You're the one. Now I com' to collect what's owed me."
"Uh, which is?" Mort asked, genuinely curious.
"Credit." the man in the dark brimmed hat said flatly, and waited. His eyes were so glossy and cold, that Mort found himself trembling under its scrutiny. He readjusted his glasses on his face and stared directly at him, speaking hastily against his fear.
"Look, Mr. uh, whatever you're name is, I don't know you,"
"That don' matter Mr. Rainey I know you. You stole my story." the stranger interrupted with his stony glare.
"You can contact my literary agent, to resolve any grievances, you feel you may have," this time the stranger didn't interrupt with words, but simply stretched out his hand, revealing a manuscript in his grasp. Mort jumped back slightly in surprise.
"I don't read those." Mort said.
"You read this one already. You stole it." the tall and somber man replied. He spoke in such a way that was quiet and serene. Like someone complimenting the sky, or admiring a batch of flowers. Not likely a tone to be taken while accusing someone of plagiarism.
The stranger held out his hand for Mort to take it, but Mort just took a few steps back. No way am I letting anything of his into this house. Absolutely not.
"I'm not taking that." He said glancing over it. Under the shaded line crossing his face from beneath the brim of his hat, the stranger's face seemed to redden, becoming a soft shade of red.
"You'll take this, one way or the other." the husky southern stranger said forcefully, pushing Mort involuntarily further into his house.
"As far as I'm concerned, this matter is closed." he said quickly and shut the door before the man could make a rebuttal.
Mort waited, fear clutched in his gut, small sweat beads dotting his forehead. He heard a car engine start, and glanced through his large kitchen windows, seeing for the first time the stranger's Junker. It looked like a Dodge, but it was too caked with mud and rusted with age to make out the model. The license plate, though faded and slightly distorted through Mort's glasses, read:
MISSISSIPPI
In thick blue letters. The stranger tossed his hat aside into the passenger's seat and then sunk behind the wheel, apparently disinterested in the hunched figure watching him through tinted windows.
After the car had gone, Mort turned around, forgetting for a moment about the thud he'd heard moments before; He was just happy to see the man leave; He'd heard about things like this happening before in newspapers and tabloids. They usually played out like this: (though Mort couldn't be sure whether he was just exaggerating)
MANIAC TERRORIZES LOCAL MAN OVER STOLEN APPLES
Mort saw a flash of an image copied onto some nameless paper:
TASHMORE LAKE'S RESIDENTIAL WRITER SPOOKED BY BLACK BRIMMED STRANGER
Then, for some reason he did not care to get into, added the words:
EX-WIFE AMY NOT CONCERNED. SOON TO WED TED AND MOVE INTO BLOCKED WRITER'S HOME
Chico whimpered at him, shattering the headlines and leaving him standing there, wondering why he had heard a thud. He crossed the kitchen cautiously, into the living room and to a window overlooking the porch.
"Cracker Bastard." Mort muttered, then at the memory of the stranger picking up and leaving in that old junk trap, found something a miss. It was then that he remembered the stranger had not being carrying the manuscript.
Heedful of the stranger's words:
You'll take this, one way or the other
He glanced outside, but couldn't see past the unrecognizable glare radiating off the windowpanes. He scoffed; his scoffs were more of a gurgling sound made at the back of the throat. He did this a lot he decided, but regarded even further, that he wasn't exactly bothered by how many times he found himself doing it. He probably did it without even realizing, just like the screaming.
He screamed sometimes after naps. He'd be dreaming of Amy, and next moment he was falling off the couch into a muffled shout. He scoffed again, scratching at bits of his disheveled blonde hair, then padded to the front door.
The engine of the old beater car had dissipated into the soft noisy afternoon, and Mort inched onto the stoop, at first not seeing it. But as his eyes traveled to three feet in front of his own, he found what the disturbed stranger had left him.
It was the manuscript. Lying securely under a heavy rock, squarely on his front porch.
"I'm not taking that." Mort repeated, feeling a spike of anger, but thought better of it. His cleaning lady would be there any time now (just now remembering she was coming to clean up his sloppy habits) These included trash wedged between the cushion seats, crumpled Doritos bags askew about the kitchen and living room floor, as well as a couple hidden upstairs near his laptop. General clutter everywhere Mort turned until Mrs. Gavin appeared to swipe it away. She would surly notice, and wonder as to what it was and why it was lying there unattended.
"I didn't steal it." he said tossing the rock aside. He carried the load of typed paper into the kitchen and apply shoved it into the garbage bin, satisfied it would stay there, buried underneath a pile of orange peals and spilt mountain dew. He washed his hands of the dirty rock and god knows what from the script, shook them out into the air irrationally, and moved his way back into the living room.
He muttered something and let his body go slack into the couch, where, after a few hours of writing shit and meeting cracker bastard hicks, found that comfort came soothingly fast.
"I don't think." he said, slowly letting his thoughts run together, and his eyelids droop.