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It's a slow night downtown

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  1. #1
    T
    The Confessor

    With a cool, rumbling purr the classic Shelby Mustang turned the corner and came to an easy stop outside of Low Places. Age had not been kind to the classic car and she was pock marked with spots of rust and bondo as well as a collection of dings and dents. In surprising contrast to its world weary exterior, the engine gave the deep, confident rumble of a well oiled machine. A moment after stopping, the vehicle fell silent and the headlights were dimmed.

    The gentle twinkle of street lights off the rain slicked streets blurred the horizon separating the skyline and the pavement. The driver's side door of the vehicle opened and a lean man stepped onto the streets. His thin frame was almost consumed by a dully gray duster and the details of his face were obscured by a matching fedora. A single cigarette stuck out of his grim face, the meager light of its embers offering a glimpse at his stormy blue eyes and three day old beard.

    He let out a sigh and took a hand from his pocket, looking up and down the road as he leaned against the car. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he let out a single bitter chuckle. Soon, the drunks would be spilling out of Low Places, looking for a ride home. He hoped this time things went better than last week, when he'd been forced to give some drunk punk a shot to the jewels and then keep him down with some improvised brass knuckles.

    "Damn goons," he muttered to himself as he flicked the remaining of the still-burning cigarette into the street. It landed in a small puddle, going out with a sizzle. The man only hoped that someone, anyone would call him, now that he finally gotten his ad into the Bee. He was tired of hauling drunks home and he was definitely tired of scrubbing puke out of Nelly's upholstery. He patted the car softly, as if to offer the car a kind of preemptive apology for whatever the night brought.

  2. #2


    **Narration**

    Donovan sees a group of three women exit the club one is a red-head standing in her heals about five foot eight the other two appear to be twins with brunette hair standing about five foot three. The women are hanging all over each other the one in heels seems to be having a hard time standing up on her own.

    Also exiting is a man with a crew cut and standing about six foot five he seems to be on his one and walking a swaggered line.

  3. #3


    Aura walks, having gone out long ago, Darren working and it her off night from the Lily. She clicks down the street in heels, long blonde hair falling to her waist.

    She tosses her hair over her shoulder, shockingly lovely in the moonlight.

    She finds herself not remembering how to get home, looking around at street signs.

  4. #4
    T
    The Confessor

    Jonesy saw the usual creatures of the night starting to spill from Low Places and a couple of the other nearby dive bars and let a lop-sided grin slip onto his face. The Shelby might not be the best choice for a cab, with it being a fastback and only seating three passengers at most - but she was stylish and people appreciated that in this town.

    He walked around the driver's side of the car to the pavement, now leaning against the passenger's side with a kind of detached air of calm about him. He glanced from the moose with the crew cut and his trio of lady friends and then to the drop dead doll face of a dame who looks entirely too lost to be in this part of town. He was always a sucker for a damsel in distress.

    "Where you trying to get to, doll face?" he calls out to her in an even, polite voice marked by a touch of gravel.

  5. #5


    "Home," she smiles, that smile like diamonds sparkling in her perfect face, impossibly lovely, not realizing she is halfway across the huge city in her wandering.

  6. #6
    T
    The Confessor

    He mutters more to himself than to her, "Aren't we all?"

    He shakes his head and smirks before turning his full attention to her. By God it was hard to resist someone so young and innocent. It brought back the good old days, the days that had long since slipped into memory. Sometimes he wondered if they'd ever been real at all. He tore himself from the past that he so regularly lived in and turned his attention back to the stranger.

    "If you need a lift," his hand slipped into the interior breast pocket, and an instant later a tiny white card was tucked between his fingers, "the name's Donovan Jones, but everyone calls me 'Jonesy'. I run Jones Transportation Services."

    He offered her a polite smile, trying to come across as charming, "Yeah, I know. Original ain't it?"

  7. #7


    "I think Donovan is perhaps much more magnifique a name for a gentleman such as yourself," she smiles, her French accent incredibly alluring, she tosses long blond hair back over her shoulder so she can read his card better.

    "Oui? Are you free now Monsieur Donovan?"

  8. #8
    T
    The Confessor

    French.

    Why did she have to be French?

    He smiled, chuckling again to himself and flushing a slight shade of red, "Sure doll. You want a lift?"

    He reached down, opening the passsanger's door to his Shelby and motioning with his free hand to the empty seat. Every time he took a fair, he couldn't help but hear the voice in the back of his head telling him that he was getting into the car with a complete stranger and that one day, he might end up with a bullet in his skull or a knife between his ribs. Still, he had to pay the bills.

  9. #9


    "Oui, merci Donovan," she casts him one of those smiles, slipping into the Shelby, her little black dress that is nearly appropriate while standing, is definitely not while sitting.

    She looks unapologetic, just tugging it lower as he shuts the door.

  10. #10
    T
    The Confessor

    He closed the door and despite his best attempts, was unable to avoid gazing at her long, curvaceous legs as they practically slithered into his car.

    He muttered to himself as he made his way around the hood and towards the driver's seat, "She's old enough to be your daughter." Never mind that Jonesy had never had any kids, he knew that half-hearted excuses weren't going to keep his libido from trying to cloud his judgment. Still, by the time he had the door open and slipped into the driver's seat he was almost composed.

    He retrieved the keys from his coat pocket. They jingled slightly and twinkled in the streetlight. A single white rabbit's foot and a St. Christopher medal dangled from the keys. He gave her a smile as he turned the key and the engine rumbled to life, "I never got your name."

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