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- Jun 1, 2021
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[B][COLOR=rgb(143, 174, 112)]Character:
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[HR=3][/HR]Character: Frank Liddle
Time/Location: 7am/Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Closed
Tagging: Grace (@Lydia)
Epiphanies.
That’s what they’re called, right? A sudden, unsolicited insight into the mysteries of the universe. Somewhere not long after spilling his drink on Charlie and seeing a half dead Morris Blevins come stumbling out of the woods, Frank had one of those. In all the hoopla and confusion that followed that gory scene, Frank found himself standing drunk and delirious amongst the crowd. He lost Randy somewhere in the shuffle, swept away by all the chaos and throngs of people. He was alone and all he could hear was Misty Blevins’ pitiful screams rising from the rest of it like an apocalyptical dirge. Every streetlight wore a halo. The stars shined brighter than they ever had before. The world was spinning and his mouth tasted like an ashtray, but amidst all that toil and strife, Frank Liddle saw the light.
He saw every single error of all of his ways. The shame that can only come out of years of living for nothing and no one but yourself came crashing down atop him. An ethereal calling to be better, to make amends, to be a force for good in a world full of evil echoed through the graffitied halls of his mind, echoing into the darkest recesses of his being. He stumbled through the streets a new man, reborn despite his drunken sway. He promised himself that the next morning would be the start of a new chapter in the life of Frank Liddle; no, not a chapter, it would be a whole new book!
The next day, he woke up on a park bench.
Frank sat up from where he had passed out and audibly groaned against the sun’s incessant rays. He wiped the sleep from his eyes as he put the pieces of the night before together again. How much of what happened was real and how much was just a delirious fever dream? He couldn’t even begin to guess. He had blacked out. It wasn’t the first time, and it definitely wouldn’t be the last. Epiphanies, as it turns out, only really matter if they’re remembered. Frank, unfortunately, could barely even remember where he was. At least the world had stopped spinning.
Standing up slowly with jaw clenched and teeth grinding, one hand clutched at the small of his back as it ached to the friction of a thousand knots grinding on bone. He audibly groaned again, but this time it was against his own body’s incessant pain. He surveyed his surroundings. It was still early enough that the streets were practically empty, save for a few overly enthusiastic birds trying to get the proverbial worm. He was somewhere on the northeast side of town, near the community center. Frank didn’t know how he got there, but that just seemed like par for the course at worst and grist for the mill at best. With a gnawing soreness in his calves and pangs of torment in his thighs, Frank let out a long, drawn-out sigh as he began the long march back towards Elvis Pulley Memorial Park, his trusty bicycle, and the eventual promise of a soft bed with a bottle of his favorite (see: most easily attainable) liquor on his nightstand.
The entire walk felt strange in a way that Frank couldn’t quite put his finger on. It felt like the whole of Dawn Chorus was sleeping on an acre of bone, like the whole town was in mourning. It briefly reminded Frank of his mother’s funeral, of Charlie crying on his shoulder, of his own tears burning his eyes, but he cast those thoughts back to the deepest recesses of his mind as quickly as they had sprung up. By the time he reached the park, Frank felt as depressed as he had ever been, but that likely had more to do with his blood alcohol content than anything else. Of course, the universe has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down. When it rains, so they say, it pours.
Frank went to the bicycle rack at the far end of Elvis Pulley Memorial Park. His legs hurt. His feet were sore. He could sleep for a thousand years. He dreaded the long bike ride back to his motel room, but panic soon replaced that dread when he realized his bike… just wasn’t there. Gone! Poofed! Stolen by a thief in the night! Muddy handprints covered the broken lock left to dangle from its rack. Frank groaned again. This time, it was against the world’s incessant cruelty.
He stood for a while with his hands on his hips. A thousand different thoughts went slipping and sliding in his head, crashing into each other as he tried to make sense of a senseless thing. He considered making the trek back to his motel room by foot, but he could already feel the blisters forming just from the idea. There was always hitchhiking, but we’ve all heard the stories on the news; Frank didn’t want his sweet ass to become a sweet statistic for some roughneck in a big rig on a one-way trip to The Bone Zone. They’d split him open like a coconut! Eventually, he fished his ancient cell phone out of his pocket and prayed the battery hadn’t died in the night.
It hadn’t. Have you ever had a Nokia 3310? Those things don’t die. They could survive a nuclear holocaust, I shit you not. Anyway!
Frank scrolled through his contacts, an onslaught of names he either didn’t recognize or couldn’t bring himself to dial. Charlie? Absolutely not. Randy? No. He was probably still nursing his own hangover. Dad? Well, that wouldn’t work. Mr. Doobie? Who the fuck was Mr. Doobie? And then Frank’s eyes settled on a name that made his heart swell.
Sugartits. It was a term of endearment, goddammit.
This was no ordinary woman. To begin with, she was an absolute bombshell. She had been the only woman to give Frank the time of day in… well, years, if you don’t count hand stuff. They had met at The Mothlight and wound up tangled in bedsheets. Two star-crossed lovers at the right place at the right time. Their eyes met from across the room and it was like magic; all sparks and fireworks and lightning. She was a fast machine and she kept her motor clean; the best damn woman Frank had ever seen. Even though that was all months prior and it felt a lot like a one-night stand, Frank knew better than that. What they had was special, but you should never have too much of a good thing. Playing hard to get? Psshaw. Patience is a virtue, buddy. Frank pressed the call button, and the phone rang and rang and rang and rang and… voicemail.
So, he called again. And again. And again. When she finally answered, voice steeped in annoyance, Frank started talking fast. In Frank’s experience, the faster that you talked, the easier it was to get someone to go along with what you say. Confuse them. Bury them beneath a barrage of words. Put on that ole razzle and finish it with a dollop of dazzle.
“Grace! Thank goodness! You ain’t gonna believe this, but a pack of thievin’ animals stole my bike and left me skinny dippin’ in shit creek. Crime of the goddamn century. Can’t fuckin’ explain it. There’s an ongoing investigation and, let me tell ya, vengeance is comin’ and it’s gonna be swifter than a cheetah with a heart full-a napalm. But listen, here’s the thing… I could use a ride and, uh… I ain’t got no one else to call, y’know?”
He cleared his throat. He stifled back fake tears. It was time for the coup de grâce, the final nail, the cherry on top.
“...if you could find it in your heart to help me outta this pickle, that’d be awful amazin’, Grace.”
Badum tss.
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