((Bryant Carver continued from Deception))
"What I fucking tell you, boy? If you white, you ain't right."
Bryant sat in Uncle Ronnie's ancient Ford pickup (A real AMERICAN car), sullen as his uncle lectured him. He'd been kicked out of school again. A white kid had called him a nigger. Standard fare, but he didn't want to take it today. He had swung first, and three of the kid's buddies jumped on him. Ronnie had came to get him.
"Tired of this shit." Ronnie said.
Bryant didn't respond, kept his eyes on the road ahead of them as his hand crept up to his face, gingerly touching the purpling and tender skin under his eye where one of the kids had booted him in the head while he lay on the ground. The tears that had dried up earlier threatened to rise up again, but he held them back. No way he was going to cry twice for what those white fuckers did to him.
Ronnie cut the wheel to the left, speeding past a light that had just turned yellow. The Ford squealed in protest, the rusty axle strained under the intensity of the turn.
"Surprised one of these gov'ment pigs don't stop me for that. They always get on your black ass. I remind you time and again, Bryant. They ALWAYS get on your black ass."
Bryant sniffed, kept quiet. He didn't care about pigs. He didn't care about the road. He just wanted it all to stop. Just wanted to be left alone.
And short of that, he wanted to make everyone who ever did hurt him pay.
"I got a friend, Washington. Only fucking white man I think's worth a pound of dogshit in this world. Runs him a boxing gym. I'm takin' you to meet him right now."
Bryant noticed now that they weren't heading back to Ronnie's house. He didn't know these streets, these neighborhoods.
Ronnie was glancing at the child now as he drove. "Cause I'm telling you right now, boy. If a white boy lays his hands on you again..."
Ronnie stopped, pausing to cough into the sleeve of his oil-stained jacket.
"You better make sure he pays for it. If people start shit with you, you DAMN sure better end it. My man Washington'll make sure you got the tools."
Bryant didn't respond, but even as the statement danced around in his head, it made sense. It had an appealing ring to it.
Make them pay.
- - -
Bryant half-walked, half-staggered to the squat building that he figured was the jailhouse. Neither of the twins had followed him, and he was grateful. But once the adrenaline of the situation had worn off, the burn in his side had turned into a fucking inferno that made his knees weak. He just wanted to sit down, to rest.
He hit the jailhouse. Literally, hit it, as his last step was more or less a trip that sent him into the wall to the side of the front door. He stayed there for a minute, sweating, bleeding.
"Gotta. Gotta move." He was out in the open, and he had to rectify that. He used the wall as a support as he pulled himself with his hands, the shotgun in his left clattering against the wall as he dragged himself to the side of the building, out of immediate sight.
He dropped to a sitting position. When he looked up, he saw that he had left a light trail of his own blood along the side of the building.
Let 'em fucking see it.
He stayed still for a minute. Maybe he was thinking, for a second, that he could just bleed to death. Be dead and to American, be another dead nigger to laugh at.
"Fuck that. Gonna...gonna get out of here and ram my black fucking cock down America's throat."
With that conviction, Bryant set about trying to patch himself up.
With some difficulty he managed to take his shirt off so he could get a look at the injury. What he could see didn't look too bad, which was, at least, a small blessing. He pulled his first-aid kit from his bag and popped it open. There were painkillers; he took a few of those immediately and dry-swallowed them.
As he looked down at the wound, he could see something metallic just beneath the surface of one of the holes. It looked like even though he had just been winged by the Mason's shot, he was still carrying a little bit of it around with him. He tried to push it out with his fingers, but that only hurt like a motherfucker and didn't accomplish anything.
There were tweezers in his kit, and he brandished them. He wasn't happy about this next part, but he wasn't about to wrap himself up with lead still inside. He took a breath, steeling himself for it, and stuck the tweezers in.
He could feel the tweezers sinking into his own side as he stifled a cry of pain. He tried to clamp down on the piece of shot, but it held fast, so he pushed farther. This time he couldn't stop himself from gasping and clamping his eyes shut.
"Ah!" The noise was involuntary, drew a line of spittle from the corner of his mouth. He closed the tweezers, caught the piece of lead. Secured, he pulled it out. He let go of his breath, inhaled sharply, once, twice.
The rest was a little easier afterwards. He took some of the alcohol he had in his pack and cleaned the wound as best he could (that did hurt a little), and taking the roll of gauze from Sechooler's kit, taped himself up from rib to rib.
The ordeal had drained Bryant, so he stayed seated against the side wall of the outside of the jailhouse, shotgun across his lap. He didn't bother putting his shirt on yet, figuring he'd do it when he got on the move. Right now he needed to move.
The Mason twins needed to die. Fucking both of them, as far as Bryant was concerned. He was gonna split the difference, just waste the one who was killing people. But both were on his shit list.
"You white, you ain't-"
Fuck 'em.
"right." He said, trying the words out. They sounded right. They fit. White people had brought him nothing but shit since he'd been put in the compound.
"You ain't-"
Motherfuck ALL of them.
"right."
Somehow, though, he knew he didn't have the conviction to go around killing every one of these assholes. Somehow, he knew he wasn't his Uncle, who was so firm in his beliefs. He was sure Ronnie Carver would've taken that shotgun and put down every white motherfucker in here.
Ever since Sechooler, Bryant knew he wasn't the vicious nigger everyone figured him, wanted him to be.
Bryant let his head drop against the wall as he sat. He let the sky fill his vision as he took this reprieve graciously.
Trauma
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((Kendra Jones continued from Plenty of Death to Go Around))
Kendra dragged herself forward, the rubber tips of her sneakers scrapped lazily along the ground with each step she took. She lifted her head and saw the jail house where she'd started out. No doubt John Whats-his-face was gone by now. She had been running again. It was the second time she'd escaped from someone who was a killer. And though she had watched Maddie beat a boy to death with a bat, she had a feeling that Maddie wouldn't come after her. No, she would consider that rude.
Even still, it was probably best to depart from her before someone got the wrong idea and shot her for collaborating. She didn't doubt that sort of thing happened in this scenario.
Back to the jail house were she began. Back to the safest place she'd known. In a sick way, it was almost like her home on these confined grounds. Kendra hugged herself. She was cold and alone. She walked forward, dragging her feet with her arms around herself and her eyes on the floor.
Just outside the building, her head was only brought up when she heard some sort of yell. She jumped back. It was the guy from before. She glared childishly at him and her arms moved into a sort of crossed position.
Kendra dragged herself forward, the rubber tips of her sneakers scrapped lazily along the ground with each step she took. She lifted her head and saw the jail house where she'd started out. No doubt John Whats-his-face was gone by now. She had been running again. It was the second time she'd escaped from someone who was a killer. And though she had watched Maddie beat a boy to death with a bat, she had a feeling that Maddie wouldn't come after her. No, she would consider that rude.
Even still, it was probably best to depart from her before someone got the wrong idea and shot her for collaborating. She didn't doubt that sort of thing happened in this scenario.
Back to the jail house were she began. Back to the safest place she'd known. In a sick way, it was almost like her home on these confined grounds. Kendra hugged herself. She was cold and alone. She walked forward, dragging her feet with her arms around herself and her eyes on the floor.
Just outside the building, her head was only brought up when she heard some sort of yell. She jumped back. It was the guy from before. She glared childishly at him and her arms moved into a sort of crossed position.
He almost didn't notice the girl because she didn't make a sound. He only heard her feet skidding across the pavement as she stepped back. Bryant turned to look at her, saw it was Off-Whitey, and smiled a little bit. Some of the old anger threatened to burst forth, but he held onto it. Wasn't going to do him any good here.
Still, she was mean-mugging the shit out of him, like she thought she was gonna do something. He gripped the shotgun tighter, shook it a little to emphasize that he had it.
"You wanna get froggy, nigga, then leap. See how far you fucking get." He pushed himself up off the wall, slowly, wincing as he jarred his injured side. He didn't pick his shirt up yet. He wasn't about to leave anyway.
This was the second time a girl had run across him in a moment of vulnerability. He hoped it wasn't going to be a trend.
"How's fucking life been for you since you talked that shit to me a little while ago?" He asked, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He had one hand on the gauze over his injured side. Hopefully the painkillers would kick in soon.
Still, she was mean-mugging the shit out of him, like she thought she was gonna do something. He gripped the shotgun tighter, shook it a little to emphasize that he had it.
"You wanna get froggy, nigga, then leap. See how far you fucking get." He pushed himself up off the wall, slowly, wincing as he jarred his injured side. He didn't pick his shirt up yet. He wasn't about to leave anyway.
This was the second time a girl had run across him in a moment of vulnerability. He hoped it wasn't going to be a trend.
"How's fucking life been for you since you talked that shit to me a little while ago?" He asked, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He had one hand on the gauze over his injured side. Hopefully the painkillers would kick in soon.
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He looked hurt, there was something wrong with him. He was holding fast to something at his side. It was a shot gun. Kendra glowered and pulled out her grenade slowly, keeping it low by her side. She took another step back when he stood and looked up at him. She puzzled briefly over what he said, didn't make much sense to her, but she wasn't going to ask for a clarification.
He asked how she'd been since he'd seen her last and it struck her not so much that he was angry that she had been bitchy but more that she he was admonishing her for it. Like it was a lesson she was supposed to learn. Kendra wasn't entirely fond of being lectured.
"Fine," she said. "Some killer guy thought he could get one over on me so I kicked him in the balls and ran. Then I watched a girl beat a guy to death with a bat and called it an art piece."
The first incident happened before they had in fact met, but she felt she'd include it in.
It was then she realized that the first time they had met he didn't have a shotgun. He'd killed someone and stolen it, was her guess. No one was just gonna hand over a shot gun and no one would leave it lying around.
"Are you gonna start trouble?" she said looking at his bandaged side. "Cause I've already had the worst day of my life and I feel like asking for even more bad shit to happen is just being an overachiever."
He asked how she'd been since he'd seen her last and it struck her not so much that he was angry that she had been bitchy but more that she he was admonishing her for it. Like it was a lesson she was supposed to learn. Kendra wasn't entirely fond of being lectured.
"Fine," she said. "Some killer guy thought he could get one over on me so I kicked him in the balls and ran. Then I watched a girl beat a guy to death with a bat and called it an art piece."
The first incident happened before they had in fact met, but she felt she'd include it in.
It was then she realized that the first time they had met he didn't have a shotgun. He'd killed someone and stolen it, was her guess. No one was just gonna hand over a shot gun and no one would leave it lying around.
"Are you gonna start trouble?" she said looking at his bandaged side. "Cause I've already had the worst day of my life and I feel like asking for even more bad shit to happen is just being an overachiever."
Bryant slung his shotgun across his shoulder, giving Kendra a grim smirk.
"Kicked him in the nuts, huh? And here I thought none of you whiteys had a spine. And art? I guess I ain't the only one running into people lost they damn mind."
He winced, a light stab coming at him from his side. The pain was starting to subside, but he doubted the drugs would've been able to take all the edge off of it.
"I fucking look like I'm gonna start trouble?" Bryant tilted his head down and pointed to his gauze-wrapped ribs, where a patch of red was soaking through.
"Bitch fucking shot me after I punched out her sister. Them Mason bitches. Shoulda shot the one while she was asleep."
Bryant still didn't know if he could've really done that. He'd only killed Sechooler in a fit of manic rage. He had gunned down Latimer because he was taking shots first. Putting down a sleeping girl, even a killer, was beyond the call of what Bryant could do.
His face darkened.
"I ain't really clean. I put down two myself. Both of 'em shot at me." He looked at the shallow cut on his bicep, the injury seeming so long ago. He leaned down and picked up his shirt. "Like that makes it better."
"You wanna run now, go for it. But if you kick me in the nuts, it's your ass." He let the shotgun fall, dangling from one hand.
"Kicked him in the nuts, huh? And here I thought none of you whiteys had a spine. And art? I guess I ain't the only one running into people lost they damn mind."
He winced, a light stab coming at him from his side. The pain was starting to subside, but he doubted the drugs would've been able to take all the edge off of it.
"I fucking look like I'm gonna start trouble?" Bryant tilted his head down and pointed to his gauze-wrapped ribs, where a patch of red was soaking through.
"Bitch fucking shot me after I punched out her sister. Them Mason bitches. Shoulda shot the one while she was asleep."
Bryant still didn't know if he could've really done that. He'd only killed Sechooler in a fit of manic rage. He had gunned down Latimer because he was taking shots first. Putting down a sleeping girl, even a killer, was beyond the call of what Bryant could do.
His face darkened.
"I ain't really clean. I put down two myself. Both of 'em shot at me." He looked at the shallow cut on his bicep, the injury seeming so long ago. He leaned down and picked up his shirt. "Like that makes it better."
"You wanna run now, go for it. But if you kick me in the nuts, it's your ass." He let the shotgun fall, dangling from one hand.
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Kendra tracked him with her eyes as he got up to stand, but didn't move otherwise.
"Maybe that's cause I'm not all a whitey. I got the lucky draw, but my sister are tan. Part Lebanese."
She sat down now that it was clear he wasn't going to shoot her. She was tired from running and her feet hurt. She looked up at him, handling the shotgun.
"You shouldn't assume stuff about people," she said seriously.
He'd admitted to being a murder and to wanting to lay out one of the Mason girls, but she sat calmly and spoke steadily and it seemed she wasn't afraid.
"At least you're honest. That guy I sack tapped, he tried to be a buddy buddy and pretend he was a friend. Then I heard the announcements right after he introduced himself. And that art girl, she didn't let on either. Who knows how many people she'd killed before I met her and watched her spread that guy's brains on the floor."
He was giving her a chance to go away. He was injured. He wouldn't hurt her. And even if he did, it would take him a minute with all his injuries to heft up that gun. She stayed sitting cross legged on the floor.
"So there's that at least. You don't bullshit."
"Maybe that's cause I'm not all a whitey. I got the lucky draw, but my sister are tan. Part Lebanese."
She sat down now that it was clear he wasn't going to shoot her. She was tired from running and her feet hurt. She looked up at him, handling the shotgun.
"You shouldn't assume stuff about people," she said seriously.
He'd admitted to being a murder and to wanting to lay out one of the Mason girls, but she sat calmly and spoke steadily and it seemed she wasn't afraid.
"At least you're honest. That guy I sack tapped, he tried to be a buddy buddy and pretend he was a friend. Then I heard the announcements right after he introduced himself. And that art girl, she didn't let on either. Who knows how many people she'd killed before I met her and watched her spread that guy's brains on the floor."
He was giving her a chance to go away. He was injured. He wouldn't hurt her. And even if he did, it would take him a minute with all his injuries to heft up that gun. She stayed sitting cross legged on the floor.
"So there's that at least. You don't bullshit."
"Leba-what?"
Bryant was nothing if culturally sensitive. It was ok, though. She wasn't white.
"Well, shit. My theory stands, then. White folks are still invariably chickenshits."
The girl sat down, apparently at ease around him.
Jury's still out on if that's a good idea.
He spread his hands out, gave a little half-bow with his head in response to her "compliment" to him.
"I may be a hateful, murdering nigger, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here and lie about it." He flinched a little, the gesture having jarred the wound.
He started putting his shirt back on. "Got a lot more going for me. Got a sparkling personality, and MAN do I got a nice set of abs."
He smirked again and slid his arms and head into his shirt. He looked down at the side where he'd been shot, taking note of the shredded section where the buckshot had skimmed him. He reached into his bag, slid out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and took a pull.
He swallowed, leaned his weight back against the wall. "So I'm not assuming anything. What I'm supposed to think about you, then? You just waiting to take this gun from me or did I luck out and find someone who ain't tryna finish me off?"
Bryant was nothing if culturally sensitive. It was ok, though. She wasn't white.
"Well, shit. My theory stands, then. White folks are still invariably chickenshits."
The girl sat down, apparently at ease around him.
Jury's still out on if that's a good idea.
He spread his hands out, gave a little half-bow with his head in response to her "compliment" to him.
"I may be a hateful, murdering nigger, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit here and lie about it." He flinched a little, the gesture having jarred the wound.
He started putting his shirt back on. "Got a lot more going for me. Got a sparkling personality, and MAN do I got a nice set of abs."
He smirked again and slid his arms and head into his shirt. He looked down at the side where he'd been shot, taking note of the shredded section where the buckshot had skimmed him. He reached into his bag, slid out a bottle of water, uncapped it, and took a pull.
He swallowed, leaned his weight back against the wall. "So I'm not assuming anything. What I'm supposed to think about you, then? You just waiting to take this gun from me or did I luck out and find someone who ain't tryna finish me off?"
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"Lebanese," she repeated. "From Lebanon. It's in the middle east. We don't tell a lot of people for obvious reasons."
She watched him put on a shirt. He was hurting more than he let on. She didn't seem worried when he sat down beside her.
"Yeah, regular Mr. Rodgers, huh? We'll just get you the sweater vest and it'll be like looking at twins."
She was quiet for a long while. Finally she looked up at him again. "I'm not sure if I can finish anyone. I'm tough but that's something maybe too tough for me. I don't know. But I also would start doing trust falls with me if I were you."
She watched him put on a shirt. He was hurting more than he let on. She didn't seem worried when he sat down beside her.
"Yeah, regular Mr. Rodgers, huh? We'll just get you the sweater vest and it'll be like looking at twins."
She was quiet for a long while. Finally she looked up at him again. "I'm not sure if I can finish anyone. I'm tough but that's something maybe too tough for me. I don't know. But I also would start doing trust falls with me if I were you."
"Middle East? So you a towel head?" Bryant took another sip of his water.
"No wonder you keep that shit under wraps. 'Merica almost hates camelfuckers worse than it does niggers." Bryant said, being very tactful in his speech.
If the people at home didn't like it, he figured they had themselves to blame. He was a high quality export of the US. A racist, murderous motherfucker who presently didn't give any sort of a fuck.
"Don't think I could pull off a sweater vest. There's one people white people can do, it's that." He laughed, capped his water bottle and replaced it in the bag. He winced a little, a dull finger of pain creeping up from his side.
They were silent for awhile, until Kendra broke it with an affirmation of where they likely stood with each other.
"I don't trust no-fucking-body round here. Nobody proved shit to me that they deserve it."
He thought briefly of Marilyn, of Juliet, wondered if he should revise his statement. He held silent. He didn't think Kendra would care anyway.
"Fact you ain't white and you ain't tried to kill me yet goes a long fucking way, though."
At that moment, the announcements cut on, and Adam's shiteating voice was soon reverberating throughout the complex. Bryant listened, waiting for his name. Tyler came up first, and Bryant was surprised, almost saddened. The kid had been so serious about being pacifistic, and here he was, a killer like the rest of them. There was that kid Jethro Stuarts; another black boxer, one Bryant often thought of as a good little Uncle Tom'ing nigger because he kept his head down, who was now dead.
Bryant's name came up, and he spit on the ground. "Yeah motherfucker. I'd put your cracker ass down too." He muttered.
Then Joanne Seguin's name was spoken, and his face fell again. He hadn't been 'friends' with her, so much, but he'd come close to respecting her. He'd never see her in the weight room again, the body she'd worked so hard to keep in fine shape now laid up somewhere, a corpse. He wouldn't be able to exchange vitriolic words with her again.
Before now no one Bryant had actually gave a shit about had been on the announcements. In truth he figured it'd be Juliet, activist that she was. He expected she'd be running headlong into a gunfight or something. Or maybe Marilyn, who seemed almost incapable of protecting herself if running wasn't an option. Joanne's name caught him by surprise, drew him to see as much reality as killing Sechooler had.
"Fucking bullshit. S'all fucking bullshit."
He sniffed, much like he had back at the gatehouse. He didn't cry, but his eyes did slightly well up. He turned away from Kendra, looked down at the ground. He kept his gaze on a crack in the pavement, trying to fight back whatever it was he was feeling.
"No wonder you keep that shit under wraps. 'Merica almost hates camelfuckers worse than it does niggers." Bryant said, being very tactful in his speech.
If the people at home didn't like it, he figured they had themselves to blame. He was a high quality export of the US. A racist, murderous motherfucker who presently didn't give any sort of a fuck.
"Don't think I could pull off a sweater vest. There's one people white people can do, it's that." He laughed, capped his water bottle and replaced it in the bag. He winced a little, a dull finger of pain creeping up from his side.
They were silent for awhile, until Kendra broke it with an affirmation of where they likely stood with each other.
"I don't trust no-fucking-body round here. Nobody proved shit to me that they deserve it."
He thought briefly of Marilyn, of Juliet, wondered if he should revise his statement. He held silent. He didn't think Kendra would care anyway.
"Fact you ain't white and you ain't tried to kill me yet goes a long fucking way, though."
At that moment, the announcements cut on, and Adam's shiteating voice was soon reverberating throughout the complex. Bryant listened, waiting for his name. Tyler came up first, and Bryant was surprised, almost saddened. The kid had been so serious about being pacifistic, and here he was, a killer like the rest of them. There was that kid Jethro Stuarts; another black boxer, one Bryant often thought of as a good little Uncle Tom'ing nigger because he kept his head down, who was now dead.
Bryant's name came up, and he spit on the ground. "Yeah motherfucker. I'd put your cracker ass down too." He muttered.
Then Joanne Seguin's name was spoken, and his face fell again. He hadn't been 'friends' with her, so much, but he'd come close to respecting her. He'd never see her in the weight room again, the body she'd worked so hard to keep in fine shape now laid up somewhere, a corpse. He wouldn't be able to exchange vitriolic words with her again.
Before now no one Bryant had actually gave a shit about had been on the announcements. In truth he figured it'd be Juliet, activist that she was. He expected she'd be running headlong into a gunfight or something. Or maybe Marilyn, who seemed almost incapable of protecting herself if running wasn't an option. Joanne's name caught him by surprise, drew him to see as much reality as killing Sechooler had.
"Fucking bullshit. S'all fucking bullshit."
He sniffed, much like he had back at the gatehouse. He didn't cry, but his eyes did slightly well up. He turned away from Kendra, looked down at the ground. He kept his gaze on a crack in the pavement, trying to fight back whatever it was he was feeling.
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Kendra laughed a little to herself. She looked back up with a bitter smile.
"Yeah, a towel head. Though my mom's family were Jewish Lebanese, not that people stand still long enough to listen to anything after the hear the first part."
She played with the laces of her shoes idly. Her movements had a certain joylessness to them.
"I never fucked a camel though. Can't say I know anyone who has. We don't call much attention to ourselves. Head down, lay low, lots of money.....people let you off most of the time. If you just don't make too much noise you can pass for one of them with some luck. You can slip under the radar as normal. It's easy to pretend when you get used to it. So easy."
The announcements came on now. Kendra half listened until it was all over. Bryant was named, but it was about as big of a shock as learning I can't believe it's not butter really isn't butter. Well fucking duh.
"Least you told me before hand. I hate finding out like that that I've been suckered."
He looked broken up about something. She raised an eyebrow, but didn't pry.
"Do what you have to, dude."
She was sitting still and made no move to get up.
"Yeah, a towel head. Though my mom's family were Jewish Lebanese, not that people stand still long enough to listen to anything after the hear the first part."
She played with the laces of her shoes idly. Her movements had a certain joylessness to them.
"I never fucked a camel though. Can't say I know anyone who has. We don't call much attention to ourselves. Head down, lay low, lots of money.....people let you off most of the time. If you just don't make too much noise you can pass for one of them with some luck. You can slip under the radar as normal. It's easy to pretend when you get used to it. So easy."
The announcements came on now. Kendra half listened until it was all over. Bryant was named, but it was about as big of a shock as learning I can't believe it's not butter really isn't butter. Well fucking duh.
"Least you told me before hand. I hate finding out like that that I've been suckered."
He looked broken up about something. She raised an eyebrow, but didn't pry.
"Do what you have to, dude."
She was sitting still and made no move to get up.
Bryant pushed the heels of hands into his eyes. He rasped, deep from within his throat, and one could tell he was fighting to hold back tears. One could tell he had almost lost it, but a few minutes later he managed to hold it back. His eyes were still red, and he still had to sniff back his sinuses, but he managed to hold it back.
"I ain't have to do nothing. I'm fucking....I'm fucking cool."
He shook his head, as if clearing the negativity of the moment out of his head.
"Y'all lucky y'all have that option," he said, responding to Kendra's earlier statement about the passing. "I'm just a little too brown for that, you know? Unless I got one hell of a motherfucking tan.
He managed a half smile. "Let's see if I can pull it off." He straightened his back as much as the sitting position and his injury would allow.
"Hello. I am a white person. I have a 401k plan, health insurance, and sometimes I ride my bike to work despite having plenty of money to buy gas for my luxury sedan." He said, managing what he thought was a pretty damn good cracker accent."
"What you think? Should I paint myself white and apply for a job with the government?" He smiled again, bigger this time.
"I ain't have to do nothing. I'm fucking....I'm fucking cool."
He shook his head, as if clearing the negativity of the moment out of his head.
"Y'all lucky y'all have that option," he said, responding to Kendra's earlier statement about the passing. "I'm just a little too brown for that, you know? Unless I got one hell of a motherfucking tan.
He managed a half smile. "Let's see if I can pull it off." He straightened his back as much as the sitting position and his injury would allow.
"Hello. I am a white person. I have a 401k plan, health insurance, and sometimes I ride my bike to work despite having plenty of money to buy gas for my luxury sedan." He said, managing what he thought was a pretty damn good cracker accent."
"What you think? Should I paint myself white and apply for a job with the government?" He smiled again, bigger this time.
He stayed and talked with her a little while. It was something Bryant didn't expect to take pleasure out of, but just like with Marilyn, being at rest and not worrying about what was going on did wonders for him. Still, he had to leave, and he didn't think it was a good idea for Kendra to come with him. Seemed like trouble followed his ass around the compound.
He managed to get up under his own power (the injury throbbed still, but nowhere near as bad), and he started away from the jailhouse. He gave Kendra a few words before he left.
"You stay alive. And be easy, towelhead." It was an epithet delivered with the minutest indication of respect. It certainly wasn't an insult.
((Bryant Carver continued in Absolution))
He managed to get up under his own power (the injury throbbed still, but nowhere near as bad), and he started away from the jailhouse. He gave Kendra a few words before he left.
"You stay alive. And be easy, towelhead." It was an epithet delivered with the minutest indication of respect. It certainly wasn't an insult.
((Bryant Carver continued in Absolution))
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Carrion Queen
- Posts: 427
- Joined: Tue Aug 14, 2018 6:35 am
Kendra watched him as he moved to leave and didn't budge. Her large doll eyes observed him quietly and she was sure now that he wouldn't hurt her.
"Same to you," she returned.
He walked off and she was left alone again. She was starting to think she was going to go through the whole game alone. And yet there was some strange element of luck that seemed to be with her. Three killers she'd encountered and all three let her go without a scratch. She sighed and laid her head down on the concrete.
Kendra closed her eyes and cuddled her grenade as she got a little bit of much needed rest.
((Kendra Jones continued in Fancy Footwork ))
"Same to you," she returned.
He walked off and she was left alone again. She was starting to think she was going to go through the whole game alone. And yet there was some strange element of luck that seemed to be with her. Three killers she'd encountered and all three let her go without a scratch. She sighed and laid her head down on the concrete.
Kendra closed her eyes and cuddled her grenade as she got a little bit of much needed rest.
((Kendra Jones continued in Fancy Footwork ))