76.5925 GHz.
Clarence woke up with a deep felt fear. Bolting upright, he knew he had to remember that number at any cost. He found himself frantically grasping for any paper, any writing utensil. His life depended on it. Hands settling on the first, then the second object, though he could not relax just yet. He carved the information into his book of folk songs with a screwdriver. He breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn't forget. Thank God he wouldn't forget.
Wait, why was this number so important? He frowned, hunching over the beat up song book. For the life of him he couldn't remember the contents of his dream. Bah, He leaned back. He hated when that happened. Now he had ruined the strum pattern for I Didn't Raise My Boy to Be a Solider! Slapping the page in frustration he looked again. It was definitely a mid anti-war song at best. He had only played it maybe once, back when he was trying to play every song in the book, but it still... It was the principal of the thing!
"Dumb-ass." He muttered in a tired voice.
Squinting he tried to make seance of the mystery number. 76.5925 GHz or, if he remembered his engineering units, 76,592,500,000 Hertz. A high pitched noise so far beyond human hearing that no DAW or Synth could possibly produce it. He shrugged, must have been one of those impossibilities of dream-logic. The bed creaked and he rubbed his nose, deciding to drop it. When he saw the blood on his hand, it took him about a minute to process where it had come from.
"Shit." His voice cracked, even though he didn't feel on the verge of tears or anything. He could already tell today was going to be a weird one. Methodically he got up, head tilted back and walked across the cold tile. Dodging piles of unwashed cloths and stringed instruments in various states of repair, he headed to the bathroom. He wondered how much a pair of cozy slippers with animals on them would cost. That'd be cute. He could be cute now that he no longer had a roommate. His housemate would never know.
Something about the sink felt off, but he had other things to worry about. Namely the fact that when he tilted his head down a river of blood slipped from his nose into the basin. At least it wasn't on his Mountain Goats Tee (Omu Cani, good tour). He coughed, droplets of blood flecking the sides of the yellow porcelain. Clutching the side of that ridiculous postwar fixture in one hand, and wiping his nose with the other Clarence stared into the mirror.
He met eyes so blue they were nearly white. Not his eye color. He lurched back, almost tripping over his acoustic guitar leaning against the bathtub. Only barely able to stop himself, he moved back to the sink as he felt more blood running out of his nose. Gripping the basin even harder he turned on the cold water.
Splash face, clean blood, inspect creepy eyes.
Splash face, clean blood, inspect creepy eyes.
Splash, clean, inspect... Okay what the fuck was happening to him? He grabbed the extra roll off the toilet and shoved two sheets into each nostril, and looked again at his reflection.
Time, touring, cigarettes, booze, and cocaine had not been the best to him. At 29 he looked in his late 30's. His face was rumpled, his hairline was receding, and now this fucking eye thing? He paused... Wait, his... his hairline looked like it had when he was 20. What the fuck?
He looked closer, besides, the major nose bleed and the fact that his eye's had gone gray (is that what you call this coloration?), his skin looked considerably better then when he had gone to sleep. He touched his cheek, and it sprung back full of life.
Okay, thinking time. He put his hand back on the symbol of post war opulence and looked at the mingled droplets of water and blood painted on its pastel yellow canvas. What is the most rational explanation for what's going on? He had nothing. Okay, never mind. Lets try and think up the most irrational explanation and work backwards.
In media inexplicable bloody noses meant psionic powers. Someone tries to move a thing with their brain, they do it, but blood gushes from their nose. Like in Akira (did it happen in the movie, or was it just in the books?). How does one disprove they have psionic powers? You try and move a thing with your mind.
Clarence looked around focusing on his arch nemesis, the Harry's dollar shave club razor lying helplessly on the edge of the sink. All he had to do was think about pushing it off onto the grimy cream tile of the bathroom and then bam! Psionic powers proven!
This was ridiculous. Maybe people's eyes just changed color sometimes. The nosebleed was either a side effect of the alteration or unrelated. Still... He almost never got nosebleeds spontaneously...
Fuck it.
He focused on the shaver, imagining a force pushing it off the lip. He felt blood soak through the toilet paper onto his upper lip. Then:
Splitting headache,
Knees hitting cold floor,
Electric eels writhing in brain,
Blinking rapidly,
Hot streaks down cheeks from eyes,
Down! Down!
Become the floor!
Down!
Ford the Rubicon-
Cross the line
The dice have been thrown
The razor is in pieces,
Laying on the ground,
Curling around it,
Unable to witness.
~~+-0-+~~
Jeffry Kovech woke up tired. His dream sat with him, heavy. The one person he ever shot. It always gave him the shivers.
Grope for glasses. Roll out of bed. Put on coffee. Flick on news. Check work email. Nada.
The world was being boring for once. He sighed a mix of joy and perverse sadness. He knew the sickos were out there. The good guys just weren't finding them. It was up to him.
He leaned on the granite counter, smiling with unearned pride. Letting the drip of the coffee, the buzz of TV news, and the sound of 6am birds wash over him. Just for this once he relished his life. He was here, the kid with the AR-15 was not. That fucker would not haunt his dreams forever.
Jeffry rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Way to ruin a mood. Shouldn't have thought of the kid, idiot. Now he couldn't get the boy's fear soaked mug out of his mind.
See's Jeff, panics. Raises gun, slightly. Could've been giving up. Could've been ready to shoot. Don't give him time. Wearing body armor. One through the neck. Blood sprays out. Falls on face. Looks like a chump.
You did this to a kid.
You did this to someone's boy.
He was a monster.
He he was scared.
What does that make you?
The coffee machine was buzzing at him. He rubbed his eyes again. Pour coffee into mug. Cover it with Irish Creme. Only way to get though a day. Only way to stop the horror. He downed it in one. Perfect, bliss, the pressure in his mind let out a bit. He stuffed Wonderbread in his toaster and and made another Irish.
The freeway jaunt to San Pablo from Rodeo was short, but blocked up to hell. It was times like these he wished he could just take his old patrol car home. Turn on the siren, skip traffic. He clicked on Kksb 93.8 Hardly Strictly Bluegrass. He took a hit from his flask, Evan Williams, bottom shelf whiskey, the shitness kept him steady. The traffic inched.
Roll, stop. Roll, stop. Roll, stop. Roll, stop. He watched as the sun rose, glittering off the skyscrapers. There it was, the Bay Area's second city. A city of fucking sheep, surrounded by wolves. After De Anza he was certain of it. De Anza also proved he was one of those wolves. That's why he had been made detective. Fate had decreed that he would use his evil power to protect the meek. Not a sheep, never a sheep, helpless: feminine, couldn't be. Just a savage sheep dog. He hit his flask again, winced, melting into the sounds of intentional voice cracks, fiddle and banjo.
San Pablo Central Police Station was right next to the BART/Amtrak transit hub. No officer would dare use it to commute (too many criminals used it, and it only served two or three of the Suburbs the force favored living in). He pulled into the large parking lot outside the station. Park. Straighten tie. Put on tweed jacket. Hide flask. Hide second flask. Rub eyes. Check mirror..... Monstrous as always. Good.
The car door slammed as he made his way swiftly toward the precinct building. He clocked in, grabbed a coffee, and retreated into his office. Pouring part of his flask into the chalk white mug, he stared at the case files on his desk. Homicide, hit and run, assault and battery. If he didn't wanna just pin on a witness, none of these were going anywhere without some grinding research. It was gonna be a slow day.
This looks good!!
There is a "defiantly" that appears to have meant to have been a "definitely" fairly early in the chapter!
Thanks! Its a mistake I make so much its in my f*ckin' muscle memory
I've missed seeing your stories! ty for the chapter!
Very fun start,, looking forward to seeing more of this cute blood fountain and looking forward in a different way to following this burned out car esque fash dipshit.
i am so here for this holy shit
Gritty as f*ck, I love the voice used in the writing here❣️❣️