Sam Barkley Glimpses

[Sam Barkley]

“Tell me, little Tree, why you need to leave.” Laughter, malicious when captured by his left ear, melodious by the right, tangibly fills the small, stone cell, further cramping the Wizened prisoner. Sound, on Earth, will dissipate with time, but in Arcadia, the voice of the Silver Lady is eternal. It fills his ears, then his lungs as he draws breath, and bounces around his mind like a Breakout ball, intent on smashing every memory of who he is. Blessed Summer’s teachings, the simmering rage in his belly is the glue which holds the fragile pieces together. He looks up into the shimmering light through the window high above.

“Only that I may see your radiant face, mistress,” he hisses, a snaked tongue hidden in his foliage. “Please, please, please,” he begs, his voice the very definition of earnest. “Day and night, night and day, I hear you sing, and I dream, I wonder, I hope, I pray that you will stop! Oh, I cannot bear another moment of this sweet agony! I must see the exquisite features from whence the sound comes!” C’mon. C’mon, you proud, stupid hag. I can’t stand to hear myself talk like Hugh Grant much longer. Take the bait…

“Oh, can you not bear but a little longer, Sam Barkley?” More laughter, like glass rubbed in the Hunter’s eyes. “Dolo viccia non mus pareil, antus no mosante…”

Yes, yes, the little tree thinks as a vindictive aria joins the rest of her voice in this room, c’mon! “No, NO, NONONONONO!!!” He shoves his fingers into his ears, falls onto the floor and rolls around spastically, ecstatically. The Silver Lady’s voice grows louder, stronger, crowding all available space. The angry tree’s wooden lips curl into a smile as he sees it- the tiny crack between the stones. He protests louder, and her voice, heartlessly, becomes only more voluminous. He takes the twiggy fingers out of his aural orifices and digs at the crack, hastening the destruction his new mistress ignorantly begets. It is difficult to concentrate on the work - the song surrounds the Wizened, penetrates and permeates his bark, his psyche under constant pressure to submit to this sick pleasure.

“ALOVECCI, MI ES SOMONOVE!” Even the greatest of Fae masonry can only stand so much of the Soprano’s voice before it bursts apart in a shower of dull, grey debris. Before the Silver Lady can even shout the villainous cliché of “AFTER HIM!!!” little Sam’s is halfway to the Hedge and grinning mirthlessly. Someone had set him up. Someone is going to pay.

Oh, yes. Someone is going to beg him for mercy before this is through.

[Fractured]

..."guh." WHHHPPP! "oOw."

..."hur." FRRRRRP! "ooOOw! hrugh. muh-hyuh."

Izzee? Lessee. Mm-ha, sicksee. "BRRAAAAUGH!! AUUGH- oOw."

Oh, my. That can't be good for you. Let's agree to change POV to third person, shall we, until our hero is feeling better?

Thorns, my sweet Aunt Fanny. These are white hot nails tearing into the ash-grey bark of the lone Wizened stumbling through them. They say that one can become numb to pain with practice. Not here, though. Here, the Pain stays and the mind goes numb, instead. Therefore, no man walks the Thorns. Only creatures, who, if they are determined enough, lucky enough, may become men once again on the other side.

Well, a reasonable approximation thereof. Men don't have bark for skin, leaves for hair, twigs for fingers, sap for blood, or the primal fury of Mother Nature burning in their guts.

And, even then, most approximations never have to make such a journey twice. You think it'd be easier, but no, no it is not. Quite possibly, it is more difficult. Which makes the fact that this one is keeled over, bleeding but breathing, on the side of a dark rural road somewhere in Nebraska, all the more impressive.

His eyes shut involuntarily from the bright light ahead, and panic floods the twisted roots within, bolting him upright. He hears a terrible roar as it approaches. Despite his instincts to flee, he holds his, admittedly wobbly, ground against the oncoming beast. Beast? No...

Bus.

"Ohmygodareyouok?Ithinkheneedsanambulance!Call911! " comes a breathless, high-pitched reply from the open door.

"NO!" he yells hoarsely, then raises an open palm toward the girl within. "I mean, No. No ambulance. Ride. I need a ride." He feels her eyes study him for several moments, as if she was looking for the HI, MY NAME IS SERIAL KILLER badge all dangerous hitchhikers are required to wear.

She must not have found one, because her next question is "Where to?"

Ooooh, a toughie. Lessee...

"Sac...ra...men. To? Yes." He nods vigorously in agreement with himself. "Sacramento."

"Ohmygawd, really? You are one lucky...uh..." She trails off as the evidence of her eyes contradicts her speech. "Get in. We're going to Sacramento."

"We?" he asks, trying to keep the Suspicious Bastard out of his voice. She giggles as she beckons him inside. He looks around the bus. The only other man on board is the driver, a bald, burly man who you just know is sporting a faded I HEART MOM tattoo underneath the shirt. The rest of the passengers are female, and quite decidedly so. They stare at the new arrival curiously.

"Sure. You've heard of the Pussycat Dolls, right, mister...?" She reveals a wide, cosmetically-perfect smile like a trump card, but his blank expression tells her simply to 'Go Fish.'

"Sam. My name is Sam."

[Sam Barkley]

Barkley was as close to happy as the gnarly bastard ever got when one of the other Summers turned him onto a local gun show. What a wonderful country this is, Sam thinks to himself as he learns that any American tall enough to see over the table could pay cash and walk away with a semi-automatic weapon.

He's practically humming. That is, until he finds out he doesn't have enough cash. He's about to walk off steaming, but the kindly ol' man behind the table steers Sam's attention toward the Ruger Mark II. He shows him the slim grip, the simplicity of its construction, then casually mentions that it's the gun of choice for assassins who like to make things personal. "In fact, it's the same weapon John Hinckley used when he killed the original Ronald Reagan. It took the CIA three days to clone the new one, you know," he mentions conversationally.

"That's not true," Sam says, his eyes narrowing. "It was a Rohm RG-14 22 cal."

"That's exactly what they want you to think," the gun-seller refutes with a wagging eyebrow.

Barkley shrugs. "Deal," he says, handing over the cash for the gun and as many bullets as the little man can carry back to his mud-stained, rusted up Ford F150. It backfires in greeting as he puts the truck into drive and heads towards a Kwik Stop for a twelve-pack of targets. Then it's off to the deep woods.

Sam had realized, when those paper dolls were putting a bag on his head, that he needed to broaden his martial abilities and options beyond those provided by a large stick. He runs out of cans to shoot shortly after he runs out cans to drink. Looking around, all the Woodwalker sees around him are trees. He drunkenly levels his handgun at the center of a tall oak and fires. In the twilight, he sees the bullet hit dead center, spraying bark...

sPraYingbaRKSpRAyiNgBArksPRayInGbArKLEY

Sam leans against a tree, trying to catch his breath without making a sound. He was so tired. He couldn't keep running forever. He had to hide. Hide. Aaaaaaa Hiiiiiiiiiiiide. He rubs the rough bark under his hand, and a bit flakes off and sticks to his pale skin. He rubs a little more. He must be crazy. He must be crazy, because he's covering himself with bark. He sees himself ripping it off in sheets, totally crazed, he needs as much as he can get, and twigs, yes, twigs and sticks in his hair. Then he'd be safe, the Tiger couldn't find him if he had a hiiiiiiiide...

Barkley comes to and is very, very sick to his stomach. Dazed, he collects the pistol, the ammo, and walks back to his truck, which isn't in a cooperative mood at the moment. He'll have to have a look under the hood later...in the morning. "Work, dammit, work now!" he yells, determined to exercise his rights under the Contract of Artifice. As Sam does so, he notices his words feel a little heavier...stronger...

Wyrder.

[Sam Barkley]

Sam sat at a bar, because Sam liked bars. Well, that's not exactly true. Sam liked to drink, just not alone, which was also odd, since he didn't like to talk to people. He looked exactly like any of a thousand faceless middle-aged men who haunt pubs, lounges, and taverns the world over, who are allowed to sit in as much peace as their tabs, or god forbid, their cash can buy. This one was a little more upscale than the Empty Orchestra, so the Hunter wore clean pants for the occasion. He had finally picked up a new pair of sunglasses, too, exactly like the last ones. The manager where he bought them always kept a couple of pairs in stock, since Sam went through them at an alarming, yet profitable, frequency.

Barkley was here for more than just drink today. His Contracts with Summer were extremely useful for getting people angry enough to harvest Glamour. He looks up from his bourbon to see a pale, freckled, and most importantly, red-haired man take a seat next to him. Sam smiles to himself, and looks at the man's hand as his mark summons the bartender. A married man. This must be his lucky day. Without hesitation, Sam obliges Summer to grant him the Friendless Tongue.

"The Giants picked up Lincecum," Sam says, reading the ESPN ticker off the television aloud. "That's a good pick up, don't you think, guy?" he asks the man with a smile. "Two time Cy Young winner, only 26 years old?"

"Yeah, sure," the mark nods. "He's good."

"Damn right, he's good. Oh, look at that," Sam says, pointing out the next item on the ticker. "They canceled the downhill 'cuz there's no snow. Can you believe there's no damn snow in Canada for the Olympics? That's crazy."

"Yeah, that's crazy, alright," Mr. Red agrees, but without any enthusiasm for this conversation. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his messages. Sam calmly continues to read items off the ticker and solicit the man's opinion for only a minute or two, before-

"Hey, would you shut up for two seconds!" the man suddenly yells, standing up from his stool and squaring his shoulders to face the Wizened, who stands up to face him.

"Back up, pal," he warns, pushing the man out of his face, then Harvesting the Wrath now radiating from Mr. Red. The scattered afternoon patrons turn their attention to the two men. After drawing some measure of Glamour from this one, the Hunter silently asks Summer to enforce the Goblin's Malignance on his behalf.

"Don't take it out on me, just 'cuz you're mad at," Sam looks around for the biggest looking douchebag he sees, and it's really no contest, "that guy, in the fuzzy kangaroo hat."

The mark looks confused for a split-second, then stalks off towards his new target. "Gimme that stupid hat, bitch," Mr. Red spits as he rips the hat from the stunned Mr. Kangol's head, spits inside it, and places it back on the man's head and laughs, before a fist interrupts him.

Barkley alternates between chuckling and egging on the ensuing melee as he Harvests the wrath from Mr. Spithead, too, then the bouncers trying to separate them. When it all winds down, Sam shrugs at the bartender, pays his tab, and walks out with a satisfied smile. He had Glamour, and that was good, but he had also helped two people get into a fight today, and maybe even discouraged someone from wearing those damn silly hats. Sam liked to think he was making a difference.

[Sam Barkley]

Sam looked askance at the funeral director of Blissful Pines. "That's 'top of the line?' You're breaking my balls, Bill. That's chipwood, that is. I can tell." The Woodwalker taps his hollow nose.

"Well, no, I, I, of course it's not-"

"Bill. You're discriminating against me, aren't you? You think short people don't have money to buy nice things. Don't you?"

"I, I- no! No, of course not. This was a...a...detour, on the way. To the one I want to show you. I just, I, uh..." Bill sputters, finally grasping a far branch, "I like the handles on this one. But I can see that a, uh...discerning gentleman such as yourself isn't worried about the trim. Let's look at this one here."

Sam ran his hands over the smooth, laquered wood while Bill explained the features, the comfort in this prestigious model. If you listened to this jackass, you'd expect Harry wouldn't even mind being dead. Barkley knew better. He knew the late King of Summer was kicking ass from here to doomsday. One day, Sam would join him, but that day wasn't today.

"How much?!?" he exclaims, with the promise of violence to come in his vehemence.

"Uh, less, actually," Bill backtracks quickly. "That's just...uh, sticker. Less, for you. Sir."

"Hmmmph," Barkley says, arms crossed, but clearly easing away from the edge. He may have Crunk's credit card, but he'd be damned if he'd spend one penny more than was fair. And fair, as far as Sam was concerned, was half. He smiled inwardly. He still had the caterer to straighten out.

[Sam Barkley]

Today was a special day for Sam Barkley. Last night, he had the most wonderful dream, completely spontaneously. He was dressed in full-on police riot gear, and he was leading a batallion of helmeted, shielded, tear-gas-chucking black-booted bullies to put an end to Woodstock.

The battle was glorious. They crashed upon the jobless, unshowered, drug-addicted, nymphomaniac 'flower children' like a black, malevolent sea. Sam lost himself to the thrill of battle, dropped his shield, and went berserk with his baton. The more hippies he concussed, the longer and more gnarled it grew. Freud would probably have something to say about that, but Sam awoke relaxed in his humble Hollow, wearing a wide grin on his face, like the weight of the world had been lifted from him. Eventually, you have to admit to yourself who you really are. And Barkley was a little man with a big stick.

He collected his hand ax and knife, stuffed them into the gym bag where he kept the packs of crackers and bottles of water that sustained him in the Hedge, and walked back into the real world. The only door to Sam's Hollow was tucked away just inside the Sacramento Bypass Wildlife Area, off of Old River Road. He found his cranky, coughing, sputtering old pick up right whee he had left it, and drove out past the city, until he could find some real wilderness. This was a very personal thing, the crafting of a weapon, and he couldn't chance the ceremony be interrupted.

Deep in the forest, he began to eye the trees critically. One is too young, untested against time. It will not do. Another is too old; it has experience, yes, but its branches sag, and it has grown fat and lazy with little competition around it. It will not do, either. Finally, he finds the perfect, prime California Ash. He sets his bag down and eats quickly, then begins to work as the sun reaches its zenith.

It is slow going. The small ax isn't really up to the task, but Barkley goes at a maddeningly slow pace, each stroke precise, deliberate, with maximum torque and reverence. Under this relentless onslaught, the tree finally gives up, and falls over at dusk. Sam starts a fire to craft by, and to keep the cold at bay. Just after midnight, its shape is ready, and he switches to the knife. He hones the wood, smoothes it with the fine edge, but not too much- it is important its character is intact.

Barkley finally emerges from the forest at dawn, brandishing his new staff, and goes about looking for someone to hit with it. A hippy, for preference.

[Sam Barkley]

Sam had opened Harry's Bar to the general public with some satisfaction. He would never again have to pay other Sam for a drink when he could get tight all day and all night, if he wanted, or had the time. Dammit. Well. Barkley makes time. The woman tending bar was named Sally and she had a very truck-stop waitress non-appeal that didn't bother Sam very much, and she was quick with the drinks, and so did the other drunks that had begun to inhabit the place. So did the college kids who had started comin' here for happy hour. Bright eyed, opinionated, loud-mouthed, generally useless idiots. Err. Customers. Sam beckoned Sally over.

"Hey, Sam," she purrs like an muffler with emphysema and reaches for the good bourbon under the counter to refill his glass.

"Thanks, Sally. Hey, give those kids the special beer from now on," he winks, meaning that coming from the watered down keg. He nods towards the group at the other end of the bar. "If they complain, tell 'em to fuck off. And bring their food out when it's cold. My stick, if they start trouble. Got it?"

"Sure thing, Sam."

Not fifteen minutes later, Barkley sees the signs of realization on their dopey, half-grown, terrible facial hair-wearin faces, and feels the sparks of anger as they contemplate complaining. He meanders over and accidentally bumps the only one who looks like he'd put up a fight. Sure enough,

"Hey, watch out, midget."

He peers over the edge of his sunglasses and grins at them, soaking in the all-imprtant Wrath. "Oh, a midget, am I? Call me that again, moron, and I'll shove my foot so far up yer arse we'll be Siamese midgets from here on. Eh? Look in me eyes, an' tell me Sam is lyin' to yer." The drunken college kid crooks his head down to look. Sam takes the opportunity to smack him in the face so hard the poor guy's head jerks back up suddenly, sending him off balance and on to the floor. As he's getting back up, Sally puts the staff in Barkley's hands and he spins it expertly, looking challengingly at the four young men who have risen from their seats.

"Let's just leave," one says. "This place sucks, anyway." They unanimously agree, without having to say another word to each other, that backing away from the psychotic stick-twirling dwarf was a very good idea. Sam reaches out for the anger they turn inside, the shame they feel at not fighting like men and smiles, taking it for the trials that lay ahead.

"Have yerself a drink, Sally," he says at last, returning to his seat at the bar. So he'd lost a couple customers. At his prices, he wasn't worried about it. Those assholes never tip, anyway.

Anger Eater

2010-04-25 03:23:37 Barkley rolls 5 to man3+int2 (10 Again) 6, 2, 8, 1, 8 2 successes

[Sam Barkley]

Sam sat at Harry's graveside, invisible to those mourning the grandmother of six a quarter-mile away, unseen to the itinerant flower-bearers come to pay their respects to their deceased loved ones. Sam stared at the dirt that contained the earthly remnants of his only friend and whispered, "Harry..." He sighed.

"I have served the Freehold faithfully for years, held Summer's vigil in the darkest corners of the Hedge, brought criminals and Loyalists back to face the Sovereign's justice. I did this for ye, Harry, because yeh were me friend, and ye asked it of me.

"When we first met...I never told ye this, Harry...I was all set to join Winter. I wanted nothin' to do with the Fae. The Fetch had taken me life, me wife to be, an' had a son. Hell, the Tiger took me goddam tonker off a'fore I left. I was content to be well away from it all, Harry.

"But ye were strong, and angry, yes, like Mars fallen, and ye convinced me of the righteousness of yer cause. Ye convinced me to fight, to do what little I could do to stop what happened to me from happening to others." Barkley pauses to watch a leaf fall from a tree.

"Now look at us, Harry. They got me out of the way, so they could betray ye, take yer life, and when the Silver Lady couldnae keep me, they tried to kill me, too. We were on a mission of peace, for godssake!

"I failed ye, Harry. I shouldnae fallen to the hobs; if I had been there when ye needed me the most, ye'd still be here, and I wouldnae be talkin to a pile of grass and worms, eh?

"I am so sorry, Harry. Please forgive me. I shan't fail ye twice, old friend. The Freehold ye loved is sick. A cancer eats it from within.

"I will destroy the disease that threatens it, an' after, I will stitch what's left back together. This, I do so swear. Rest easy, my friend.

"Sam is still here."

[Sam Barkley]

The fashionable pair of GSWs the Wizened was sporting healed, his Clarity intact (though just as suspect as ever), his Mantle burning hot again…Gianna had little argument to keep her charge from venturing to his Hollow. She agreed to make arrangements for him to leave the next morning. That night, Sam slept fitfully.

Sam walks alone in the woods under a bright Summer sky. As he watches the clouds through the canopy, they begin to turn grey and thick. He quickens his step. The sky grows darker, dark as twilight, while thunderheads have built overhead. The wind blows. The first drops begin to fall. Barkley breaks into a run. The storm is faster. The tempest unleashes a terrible rain upon the forest, drenching the Woodwalker, washing away the sweltering heat of his Mantle. The floodwaters rising, Sam clambers on top of a stump and looks up. The darkness stretches to every horizon, as far as the eye can see, and still growing with frightening speed, like a stirred hornet’s nest. Defenseless, with no place left to run, Barkley raises his fist to the sky and challenges the maelstrom.

Lightning strikes. Heavy, black clouds coalesce from the sky into an enormous Storm-Tiger, which bears down on the Hunter with a wide, arrogant grin. A swipe of its massive paw knocks him off his feet and pins him down. It laughs haughtily, just the way he remembers, the odd harmonics echoing throughout his body as its claws begin to tear through his bark to the bright, red blood beneath. There was a time when he would beg for mercy, back when he was first taken. Later, he would curse the sadist as he went about his work.

Now, as he feels his limbs snap like twigs, Barkley looked up into the sky and sees the truth. He looks into the Storm-Tiger’s eyes and laughs. The beast takes great affront at this. Forgoing its slow, patient torture, it shreds him to pieces, and those pieces into smaller pieces, and then again, but Sam’s laughter never stops. The strips of Barkley cling to the Tiger, whispering to it, taunting it, mocking it. It turns its claws inward in a desperate effort to tear the mad little man out and as it slashes itself apart, the darkness swallows them both.

Sam wakes up with a keen sense of disturbance, like how when your body is jostled unexpectedly, you automatically look ‘round to see what’s bumped into you, only it felt like someone had knocked into his brain instead. After a few minutes, he puts his examination aside and gets out of bed. Sam has little time to dawdle. Today he reclaims his staff.

[Sam Barkley]

"Beautiful river, how you flow into the tornado, I know, I know."

Sam finishes his drink in one gulp and motions to the waitress, a young woman with far too many piercings visible for his taste, to bring him another. "Make that two. An' a straw." She looks at him confused for a moment; sitting alone, why does he need two drinks?

"The edge I walk along is thin like crackers, I hear it snap snap snap." The poet and several members of the audience snap their fingers along. Sam shudders.

He had thought that he'd find despair in great supply at a poetry reading such as this, and there was no way he was hosting such at Harry's, so he had left the comfort of his bar for this place that was much too well-lit for any proper poetry. Sam had endured the godawful non-rhyming prose for almost an hour now. And yeah, there were plenty people dressed in black here, but snobbery, elitism, and pretension were the only things on the menu here at Kerouac's Door. Besides these little crackers with duck poop on, o'course.

"Oh, windmill, won't your arms lift us into the sky..."

Sam nods gratefully for his drinks, knocking one back with great haste, then deftly works on tearing up pieces of his napkin under the table.

"It's time to harvest all the corn-ears from the field and sit under the heaviest star-"

Ffffffpth!

Barkley laughs uproariously at the wannabe on stage choking on a spitball, perfectly aimed, perfectly timed by the Wizened. He quickly tucks the straw under his seat and looks up to see the waitress grinning at him. Sam winks at her as he sips his second drink. Maybe they weren't all bad.