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Chapter 2
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The door slowly swung open, my knee resting securely on the knob, now several feet off the ground as the cold, empty street lay before me. This was hardly the most concerning portion of the current dilemma, as now the doorknob was threatening to disconnect from the rest of the door while I am several feet off the ground. It’s the impending contact with a hard surface at a considerable velocity which is the most worrying, not simply my distance from the impact zone.
Out in the cold, dark street, silence reigns supreme. Outside of the creak of hinges from the door I cling to, no sound permeates that pause in ambience. Not even the wind makes a noise. The entire world is poised to watch me drop, hoping the knob would break.
And yet, I know- I know somewhere out there someone is watching. Peering out of the void, just beyond what I can see here, wondering what it was that sounded just a moment ago. Could this person see me, know me from such a distance? The street light fell full upon my body, and I stare daggers at it in return. No sense of privacy. If Ghid did one thing right, it was to-
Oh no. The top screw is stripping the threading in the wood. A moment too long, a position incorrectly timed or thought-out, and the doorknob will entirely disengage. If I can possibly redistribute my weight to my hands where I grip the edge of the door, perhaps I can-
Hm. I should put in a proposal that all doors and doorways have cat latches or something so there’s some possible way for me to get in and out alone without having to deal with this garbage.
If you’re wondering, yes. I am now tasting brick.
Picking myself up, I realized in utter disgust that my fall had thrown my hat into the street. Swinging the busted door shut, I shuffled over to retrieve it- oh, for crying out loud, now I have to explain that too, don’t I? If I keep going at this rate there won’t be any vagueness or mystery about my attire, stature, age, dental plan, or whatever else you clods reading this pester me about.
It’s a newsboy cap. What color? None of your business. One must fight for one’s comforts, and if I don’t start now I won’t have any left.
Regardless, I barely have time to place it on my head before I feel a knife at my throat. My hands unfolded into the air, tense with anticipation at whirling around and smashing this would-be assailant against the wall. As the figure lowers himself to my height, I could feel the comically large brim of his hat push against my own scalp attire, and in that moment I realized this person had no fashion sense whatsoever.
The steely head crept towards mine across a stiff leather collar, two pinpoint lights serving as the pupils of what was otherwise a void in each socket. His head was skull-ish in appearance, with exposed teeth, a nose cavity, and a built-in grin, but calling it a skull in a true sense would be incorrect. It seemed to be comprised of rock, grey in appearance with a very matte texture and no radiance of warmth.
As for the rest of his appearance… I could not see much then, but he suddenly gave me the great benefit of grabbing me by the chin and forcing my neck at an uncomfortable angle, the side effect being the revelation of the rest of his appearance. He was dressed like a stereotypical cowboy who somehow has modern-enough attire to be a stereotype in the fullest sense. Bone-thin legs arched into black bellbottom jeans and extremely pointy cowboy boots, while his leather jacket hid two revolvers to add to the existing pair on his hips. His shoulders were boxy and angular, and his hat - oh, his absurd, idiotic, overly wide hat - was wider than his shoulders could ever dream to be. Evidently he thought he was something special else he would never go out in public looking like such a clown.
At least, I hope he wouldn’t.
“It’s a bit late out tonight, mister.” He spoke, charging his voice with the worst attempt at a manly southern drawl that you could conceive. I’m telling you, it was hard not to laugh spontaneously at it. Very.
“Weren’t you supposed to be in bed by ten?” I quipped back, earning a nice knee in the side and a rethreatening of the knife. “Your mother will be very cross at you, you know.”
Oh, and fingerless gloves. He had fingerless gloves.
My retort quip didn’t seem to dissuade him. Instead he began standing back up and, perhaps just to see if he could, lifted me into the air by the collar. “Tell you what son, why don’t we go have a chat with the man and see if he’s willing to let you tag along. Alright?”
I didn’t have much choice. In response I folded my arms and glared. As this story proceeds I imagine I will be glaring an awful lot.
“By the way, my name’s Diero.” He continued his horrible south of the dixie line drawl as we - or perhaps I should say he, with me as luggage - started walking toward the darkness. “In case you’re left alive you ought to know. If not, there’s no harm in telling you, is there?”
“None for you.” I replied. “Me, I’ll have to think about how dumb Diero’s hat is for the next ten minutes.”
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