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 Fuck that guy...

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David Hammerthall

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Posts : 7
Join date : 2014-07-13

PostSubject: Fuck that guy...   Thu Aug 21, 2014 1:05 pm

David strides across Blackthorne Lane, humming to himself, carrying a small stepping ladder and a plastic bag of goodies. It may be nearing four am, but you’d think David had just woke up to the song of bluebirds on his window sill, to see him now. Chipper, damned jolly, Mr. Morning extraordinaire. A boot lands on the sidewalk, near the corner where Raven intersects with Blackthorne, and David steps to the wall of that cute lil nerd’s, wasn’t her name Moxxi? Weird broad, but yeah, her building. The step ladder is unfolded, dropped, as the large, retired metal head starts singing, “Oh…… I went down town..” David bends, opens the crinkling back, producing a can of spray chalk, “and I went around the block…” Shaking said can, he climbs the little ladder, “and I walked right in…. to the bakery shop…” Where did he learn this diddy? Must have been the man’s grandmother, the recent funeral charged and spurred a lot of memories from his childhood, “and I picked up a doughnut… right outta the grease… Wait. Who does that?” David asks himself, as HIIIISSSSS, he starts laying down a fairly large base for his little project, then continues the old song, “and I gave the man my Five Cent Piece….” Bending, dropping a foot from the ladder to land on the concrete, he continues spraying, “WELL….. he looked at the nickel…” The can is chucked into a nearby public waste bin, “and he looked at me… and he SAID ‘this nickle’s no good to me…” From that bag of goodies he snatches out a few large, sticks of chalk, “there’s a hole in the middle and it goes right though…” David climbs the ladder again, and begins artfully detailing his work, “I said HEY! There’s a hole in your dough… nut… too!” Some time passes, while David whistles the tune over again, getting lost in the gleeful nature of this silly, fuck you guy, task, enjoying it, letting the mortal kid his host recalls take over until he finally steps back, appraises his work with a, “I should get the peace prize for this…” He gathered up his materials, what was left of them, in the plastic bag, cheerfully jerks up the step ladder, and begins crossing the street, singing another tune that wormed it’s way up from his chemical, electric, fleshly memory, “Beautiful, beautiful brown eyes…. Beautiful, beautiful brown…… eyeyeyes… Beautiful,” he stomps up the steps to his bar, his demeanor kid in candyshop chipper, “beautiful brown eyes! I’ll never..” his song dips into bass notes, “love blue eyes…. Again…” His country rich accented voice is cut off by the slamming of the door of The Thirsty Raven.

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