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The attendant of the Laundromat jerked his head up
from his paper. Some leather jacketed punk slammed through his
brother-in-law's glass doors. He frowned, a shiver of fear ran up his age
twisted spine.
The kid was empty-handed.
Benny stalked into the Laundromat. Nina had him hot,
angry with need. The urge to take Connel's gun and run a few new navels in
that soft gut ate at him. Politicos, Christ, but they were easy to hate.
The cold breeze from the air conditioner raised
goose bumps on his skin. Two Swords was nowhere near. An emboldened Owl
caressed Benny. Benny scowled at the icy fingers on his flesh. His hair
stirred, raised in warning.
The old man felt a moment's terror at the hideous
scars on the boy's face. He was a boy, wasn't he? Couldn't even be old enough
to marry. Boy or not, the kid had an aura about him that made the old man
touch the cheap bulky pace maker in his chest. The other hand reached under
the counter to a short barrel .22, trembling on its cold, oily reassurance of
his manhood.
Benny swung around. Idly, he glanced at the scrawny,
balding old man.
“You still open, Pop? I didn't see any sign.”
His voice seemed eerie, hollow and echoing through the wide room. Benny
stuffed a wad of fresh RedasCinn in his mouth and smiled in hope.
To the old man it was a savage leer, like the one
the men wore the day they raided this place for a pocketful of change and left
his brother-in-law to die on the floor.
With a slow nod, he said, “All night, kid.”
Bony fingers slipped around the grip. They closed
tight when Benny reached around his back.
Stealthily he began to draw it out.
Shoot the punk, like he shot your brother-in-law.
Kill him before he kills you for a couple of rolls of quarters. Hurry, you
ass. Do it, now.
“Shoot,” the Owl snarled at the old man. He
starved for Benny's death. He needed Benny's pain, Benny's life. “Kill
him,” he said. “Do it, you old fool, before he kills you.”
He saw Two Swords and stepped away in haste. It was
Benny's play now, and the Guardian could not interfere.
Benny grunted. He whipped out his wallet.
Ghost-like, the chain rattled in the still quiet of the Laundromat.
“Excellent. Give me something that
Washes-&-Whitens, would ya, Pop?” He took out one of his few remaining
dollars and thrust it at the old man. Growing worried for the man, Benny
scowled.
The warm tobacco brown of his skin had gone an
unhealthy grayish color. Filled with concern that went against the stand-alone
wariness he learned from his stepfather, Benny ask, “Yo, you ok, Pop? You
want me to call a doctor or something?”
Cindy rolled over. She could see Benny, dream of
him. He was washing clothes in someone's pool. Some senator's pool. How very
familiar it looked. Rather like one of her most bitter enemies.
She shot up, breath gasping in her throat.
Griffin.
Long ago she had learned not to disregard any dreams
of that naughty boy. Too many had been more than a sweaty little roll in the
hay.
With trembling fingers, she punched in the number of
her best man.
“Hello? Mike? I think I know where Benny is.”
The attendant glanced up from his paper and his jaw
dropped.
In disbelief, he shouted, “Man, what you think you
doing?”
Benny finished stripping. Eyebrow raised, he stuffed
the jeans and tee shirt in the washer.
Glaring at the attendant, Benny snarled, “Washing
my duds, dude, what do you think I'm here for? Maybe you want me to kiss your
ugly face?” Benny snorted and added under his breath, “Might catch
wrinkles doing that.” He dashed in the soap powder and slammed the lid shut.
Wearing only the eye patch and boots, Benny stalked
back towards the counter. The old man jerked his paper up and shook his head.
Pausing at the jukebox, he dumped a few of his
remaining quarters in. With a sly smile, Benny glanced at the old man. The
paper quivered with indignation.
Choking back a laugh, he eased the jukebox out and
cranked the volume. “Let's Rock-&-Roll, baby,” he said in a mutter and
shoved it back in its place. He glanced over the listing. A lot of good stuff,
not much of what he liked, though.
Yeah. There, and here's another. Cool.
The shining laser disc whipped around and dropped in
place.
In an ear splitting shriek REZ blasted into the Laundromat.
The old man shuddered. He slapped trembling hands
over his ears and snatched out his hearing aid. “You shut that racket off,
boy,” the attendant hollered. He ran around the counter, face grim, ready to
kick the juke box to a weary silence. The scars on the kid's bland, unsmiling
face made him slip the hearing aid in his shirt pocket and wet his lips with a
nervous pass of his tongue.
Feet dragging, he returned to his paper. He should
have taken the night off, but baby needed the money, Sis couldn't stay at
night, said she could hear her man's spirit. Too much. The paper rattled stiff
in his hands and he glared into it.
Lowering himself into one of those stiff vinyl
chairs that seem to have been invented for the sole purpose of tormenting Laundromat
patrons, Benny tried not to wince as warm flesh met cold plastic on
a chilling, icy surface.
He glared up intro the half shocked gaze of the
attendant. the man rattled the paper and dropped his gaze. Benny snatched up a
dog-eared magazine, impatient for the washer to cycle through his things.
Benny smothered a yawn, in his mind he cursed the
lack of sleep that made him feel slow and stupid. Stupid bimbo. His head
nodded, eye closing. Benny snorted and his head snapped back up. He glared at
the newspaper the old man held. Benny crossed a leg over his knee.
Chrisake, can't have a wet dream in public, dude.
Might not be polite. Even in these parts.
What had been her name? He didn't even know. The
attraction had been mutual. Hot. Necessary for both. She worked him like a
dog, and they both were sore in the morning.
Guilt flushed his neck and face a dull, sullen red.
Terry Marie. He left her only a few days ago. Why didn't he feel bad? Was she
safe from the Project, he wondered? Benny cursed himself. They were both
better off, separated like this. If Cindy found out about Sweet-Bottom, then
the woman would be in a training collar so fast it would make both their heads
spin. He should be ashamed. Terry was in love.
But at least for a few hours he didn't dream of Sue
. . . . Was she a nightmare, or was the girl real, like Mom claimed. Benny
shuddered. If Sue was real, the girl was going through a worse torment than
any he suffered at the hands of the feds.
The old man cackled a soft laugh at the nude kid.
“Don't hurt none. Guess there’s worse 'round
here. Kids these days,” and he uttered that soft laugh again.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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