"Take another hit, Marsh. 'An apple a day', or so they say". Her words soothed their way into Marshall's ears, their unintended sultriness worked their magic.
It had been one of those days for, what three months now? He wasn't a user on any ordinary day. He also didn't spend time with most people on any ordinary day. Comfort was in his own head, where his mind served as the architect to so many different worlds -- some exciting, others just as drab and insignificant as his own.
Fiona had a way about her, though. Her calm demeanor a perfect match for her sky blue eyes, which often reminded Marshall of cold, crystalline waters one might find in the middle of a desert. When he looked into them, when he allowed himself to get lost in their depths, it was like nothing else on Earth.
He certainly wasn't a dupe by any means, but Fiona could sell a years worth of grass clippings so long as he submerged himself in those pools.
She passed Marshall the glass pipe with great care. "So what's the deal with the briefcase, Marsh?" She chuckled, "Rob a bank or something?"
Marshall took the pipe, his attention on the hand-me-down leather-bound case that had sat at his feet for the last four hours. He couldn't tell her, not because he didn't want her to know but because her, himself, had no idea what may have rest inside.
Fiona listened close, a faint rhythm echoed through the case. "Some sort of clock or something?"
Or something, Marshall thought to himself. Hell if he knew. But it throbbed, whatever it was. The dead frenchman didn't leave him any hints, nor instructions. That was for sure. Just handed it over with his last breath, a river of crimson velvet flowing from his stomach.
Hell if I know, he thought. Hell if I know.
It had been one of those days for, what three months now? He wasn't a user on any ordinary day. He also didn't spend time with most people on any ordinary day. Comfort was in his own head, where his mind served as the architect to so many different worlds -- some exciting, others just as drab and insignificant as his own.
Fiona had a way about her, though. Her calm demeanor a perfect match for her sky blue eyes, which often reminded Marshall of cold, crystalline waters one might find in the middle of a desert. When he looked into them, when he allowed himself to get lost in their depths, it was like nothing else on Earth.
He certainly wasn't a dupe by any means, but Fiona could sell a years worth of grass clippings so long as he submerged himself in those pools.
She passed Marshall the glass pipe with great care. "So what's the deal with the briefcase, Marsh?" She chuckled, "Rob a bank or something?"
Marshall took the pipe, his attention on the hand-me-down leather-bound case that had sat at his feet for the last four hours. He couldn't tell her, not because he didn't want her to know but because her, himself, had no idea what may have rest inside.
Fiona listened close, a faint rhythm echoed through the case. "Some sort of clock or something?"
Or something, Marshall thought to himself. Hell if he knew. But it throbbed, whatever it was. The dead frenchman didn't leave him any hints, nor instructions. That was for sure. Just handed it over with his last breath, a river of crimson velvet flowing from his stomach.
Hell if I know, he thought. Hell if I know.
theennis:
Cool profile pics! 
yanna:
thank you verry much