Post by Jack O'Conner on Nov 18, 2013 21:26:03 GMT 2
It started, as most things do, with booze.
Jack was sitting on a rickety lawn chair with another one positioned in front of him. The butt end of a rifle was nestled against his shoulder, its barrel propped up on the backrest of the empty chair while he looked through the rifle scope with eyes lacquered from too many beers...
Ah, who was he kidding?
'Too many' lands you in the hospital getting charcoal shoved down your gullet while you're wishing you were fucking dead...
No, he hadn't had too many beers at all. Just enough. Enough to feel good, and enough to be stupid but not too stupid.
His old time buddy, Travis, was sitting on the lawn chair beside him, rolling a bottle between his restless hands while giving, what he'd like to call, a few pointers.
Getting shit-faced had been Jack's idea. Getting shit-faced and shoot some coyotes had been Travis'.
They'd climbed onto the roof of Travis' old trailer about an hour ago, before sundown. Now the falling dusk was steadily beginning to cast the town in a dreary shadow, adding to the already depressing atmosphere of Dessert Shores. It reminded Jack of the time when he used to live here after having left the nest; when he still had to scrape by, breaking his back or pride every day, with minimum wage and a rusty trailer of his own to show for it. Damn, the day he leaned against an old train car with a thousand dollars in cash, he knew there was no fucking way he was settling for a (below) average life when there was easy money to make in other ways. Hell, maybe some people were just born with an overriding apathy toward the law. He supposed--
"Hey, Jackie boy. Are you gonna meditate on the meaning of life for the rest of the day, or are you gonna shoot somethin'? Shit, you always were a boring drunk."
Travis' fingers snapped an inch from his face and Jack snapped back to present time, slapping the hand away.
"Boring drunk or no, still a better shot than you."
"Bullshit," Travis drawled, baring a grin (given his meth habbit, the man actually had good teeth) that says it's a challenge, not an attack, and it's then that Jack squeezes the trigger.
The makeshift suppressor on the front of the weapon absorbed the loud report of the rifle, making it nothing but an angry hissing puff. His eye stayed glued to the sights to watch the outcome. The coyote yelped when the bullet hit in the right area, just where the heart was, and a moment later the animal dropped, falling dead to the ground.
Lifting his gaze from his rifle scope, the last light of the day caught the glint of Jack's grin when he turned his head to look at his friend.
"Like I said..."
Travis snorted, less scornful than usual. Bastard was probably more wasted than he was.
"Was a lucky shot, sugartits."
It was on the tip of his tongue to come back with some smart ass remark, but those words were silenced when the glimmer of headlights up ahead caught his attention. Instead of saying anything, Jack settled his eye back on the scope of the rifle, moving it towards the headlights and tracking the vehicle in the cross-hairs. With the absence of the sun it was hard to make out who the driver was, but it was clear that, whoever it was, they were headed in their direction.
"Yo, T. You expecting company or something?"
Jack was sitting on a rickety lawn chair with another one positioned in front of him. The butt end of a rifle was nestled against his shoulder, its barrel propped up on the backrest of the empty chair while he looked through the rifle scope with eyes lacquered from too many beers...
Ah, who was he kidding?
'Too many' lands you in the hospital getting charcoal shoved down your gullet while you're wishing you were fucking dead...
No, he hadn't had too many beers at all. Just enough. Enough to feel good, and enough to be stupid but not too stupid.
His old time buddy, Travis, was sitting on the lawn chair beside him, rolling a bottle between his restless hands while giving, what he'd like to call, a few pointers.
Getting shit-faced had been Jack's idea. Getting shit-faced and shoot some coyotes had been Travis'.
They'd climbed onto the roof of Travis' old trailer about an hour ago, before sundown. Now the falling dusk was steadily beginning to cast the town in a dreary shadow, adding to the already depressing atmosphere of Dessert Shores. It reminded Jack of the time when he used to live here after having left the nest; when he still had to scrape by, breaking his back or pride every day, with minimum wage and a rusty trailer of his own to show for it. Damn, the day he leaned against an old train car with a thousand dollars in cash, he knew there was no fucking way he was settling for a (below) average life when there was easy money to make in other ways. Hell, maybe some people were just born with an overriding apathy toward the law. He supposed--
"Hey, Jackie boy. Are you gonna meditate on the meaning of life for the rest of the day, or are you gonna shoot somethin'? Shit, you always were a boring drunk."
Travis' fingers snapped an inch from his face and Jack snapped back to present time, slapping the hand away.
"Boring drunk or no, still a better shot than you."
"Bullshit," Travis drawled, baring a grin (given his meth habbit, the man actually had good teeth) that says it's a challenge, not an attack, and it's then that Jack squeezes the trigger.
The makeshift suppressor on the front of the weapon absorbed the loud report of the rifle, making it nothing but an angry hissing puff. His eye stayed glued to the sights to watch the outcome. The coyote yelped when the bullet hit in the right area, just where the heart was, and a moment later the animal dropped, falling dead to the ground.
Lifting his gaze from his rifle scope, the last light of the day caught the glint of Jack's grin when he turned his head to look at his friend.
"Like I said..."
Travis snorted, less scornful than usual. Bastard was probably more wasted than he was.
"Was a lucky shot, sugartits."
It was on the tip of his tongue to come back with some smart ass remark, but those words were silenced when the glimmer of headlights up ahead caught his attention. Instead of saying anything, Jack settled his eye back on the scope of the rifle, moving it towards the headlights and tracking the vehicle in the cross-hairs. With the absence of the sun it was hard to make out who the driver was, but it was clear that, whoever it was, they were headed in their direction.
"Yo, T. You expecting company or something?"
