Go with the Flow

[MurderWeasel]

((Enter Richard Ormsby))

Sand and water, heat and sweat. Richard was not amused, not in the slightest. No, no, this could all go burn. Kill or be killed? Laughable. Fight? Fah, like the students of Alderbrook High could fight their collective way out of a paper bag. No, Richard could think of maybe—and this was quite the strain—five people in class he wouldn't be able to yank out back and shake down for lunch money, were he inclined that way. He'd given enough of the school fat lips and bruised egos to know that they were a lot of wimps and losers. So he wasn't worried. Even if somebody lost their grip on reality, even if someone decided to go after everyone with a meat cleaver or whatever they'd been given, he'd just take 'em down and hold 'em 'til the cops arrived. No sweat. No problem.

Except, of course, for this desert nonsense. Richard flicked his tongue over his lips and tasted the salt of sweat. Oh, it was hot. This entire thing was quickly losing what little charm it had possessed by virtue of its novelty. No, this kidnapping business was just about the stupidest thing to happen to Richard in his life so far. He was ready to just call it a day, go home, and see whoever had been taking them wherever they'd been going originally sued into bankruptcy for their negligence. Yeah, someone had dropped the ball here, hard. Even if this was a total joke, even if these terrorists or whatever thought they were cowboys and couldn't even scare extras in a crummy movie, there would be a reckoning.

And man was his neck itchy.

Richard reached up, scratched, paused. He was wearing some sort of necklace or choker or something. That wasn't cool. He hooked his fingers under the edge, was about to yank, and then paused. That could be a bad idea. He could get a nasty cut if there was some wire in there or something, strengthening the contraption. Instead, he felt around for a clasp. No luck.

He gave it a tentative little pull.

The contraction was not what he expected, not at all. It left him gasping and kneeling in the sand, heaving and cough and hoping he wasn't about to die. This was different. This was wrong. This was something he couldn't understand, something scary. Right, then. As the collar loosened, Richard had to reassess. He had to consider that just maybe everything that had been said was true, that just maybe they all were going to die because of that sick freak of a sheriff, that maybe the world just had gone insane. That meant things were going to go a little bit differently.

Regaining his breath and composure, Richard looked through his belongings. Water. Food, crappy food. Some medical junk he didn't know much about. A cowbell.

That was a problem. He needed something better than a cowbell. He needed some guns and some knives or something. He needed extra food. He needed to make sure he didn't end up on the losing end of this mess. No, he wasn't going to die. He just needed the right gear.

If this was as serious as he now suspected, somebody would have it. What other people had could be taken. People who stood in his way could be neutralized. It wouldn't be so hard. He'd get enough food and weaponry to just roll over anyone who tried to hurt him. The best defense could be a good offense, and Alderbrook was sorely lacking in people who could match Richard. He'd just have to find his first targets. Everything from there would be simple.

People would need water if they rationed poorly. He was near a river. The strategy was obvious.

So Richard started walking, paralleling the river, keeping an eye out for anyone. He'd find someone, and he'd take their stuff. Easy.

((Richard Ormsby continued in Water Under the Bridge))