So, this takes place in the same world as Pay Attention, but it doesn't follow on from what I wrote so far. It's definitely set some time after that story finishes, but I've had this idea in my head for a few days so, whatever, have a thing.
Harley stood in line at the Eerie Bait Shop and Sushi Bar lunch counter, twisting the large ring on his forefinger and worrying.
"It is very cool," he thought, staring at it. Seen from a distance, the ring was a plain band of lead-grey and badly scratched al over it's dull surface. Up close, however, the seemingly random scratches resolved themselves into dozens of tiny, intricate drawings.
Elvis crooned into a microphone. The World o' Stuff sign caught the light and winked in a way that resembled flickering neon. The Foreverware symbol was made out of thousands of tiny Eerie No. 2 pencil stubs, and in one of the loops, Bigfoot was rummaging in a large garbage can. All their stories were there, etched in metal that had come from another world, if only you were paying enough attention when you looked.
That was the problem, of course; Harley did pay attention, to drawings, to stories, to jewellery. So he knew that when a ring showed up in a tale, it almost always carried more significance than it ought to.
The line shuffled forward, and Harley gave his order to a tentacle monster in a truly ridiculous Nic Cage mask. If he hadn't been preoccupied, he might found a polite way to point out to the otherwise amiable creature making his bento box that, if you wanted to pass as a normal, regular human, you absolutely did not run around wearing a picture of Nic Cage's face printed out and stuck on a paper plate with holes cut out for the eyes.
The ring had been a birthday present, his first in over a decade. Sara Sue had flushed and ducked her head when she thrust the newspaper-wrapped bundle at him, and her long hair had swung forward to obscure her face, while her eyes remained fixed on her shoes to avoid his gaze.
As Harley left the shop and opened the styrofoam box that contained his lunch, one of the pteranodons which nested in the attic of the Mark Twain boarding house swooped down and tried to steal it. His thrown punch was instinctive; but the spiked metal gauntlet that enveloped his fist and forearm just before he made contact came as a surprise.
The pteranodon shrieked in pain and outrage and wheeled away, squawking insults over its shoulder as it fled. Harley stood in the middle of Main Street, watching it go, and laughed until his sides ached.
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timeasmymeasure
Um... like, Pay Attetnino verse, but not related. PG?
Date: 2015-09-05 03:39 pm (UTC)Harley stood in line at the Eerie Bait Shop and Sushi Bar lunch counter, twisting the large ring on his forefinger and worrying.
"It is very cool," he thought, staring at it. Seen from a distance, the ring was a plain band of lead-grey and badly scratched al over it's dull surface. Up close, however, the seemingly random scratches resolved themselves into dozens of tiny, intricate drawings.
Elvis crooned into a microphone. The World o' Stuff sign caught the light and winked in a way that resembled flickering neon. The Foreverware symbol was made out of thousands of tiny Eerie No. 2 pencil stubs, and in one of the loops, Bigfoot was rummaging in a large garbage can. All their stories were there, etched in metal that had come from another world, if only you were paying enough attention when you looked.
That was the problem, of course; Harley did pay attention, to drawings, to stories, to jewellery. So he knew that when a ring showed up in a tale, it almost always carried more significance than it ought to.
The line shuffled forward, and Harley gave his order to a tentacle monster in a truly ridiculous Nic Cage mask. If he hadn't been preoccupied, he might found a polite way to point out to the otherwise amiable creature making his bento box that, if you wanted to pass as a normal, regular human, you absolutely did not run around wearing a picture of Nic Cage's face printed out and stuck on a paper plate with holes cut out for the eyes.
The ring had been a birthday present, his first in over a decade. Sara Sue had flushed and ducked her head when she thrust the newspaper-wrapped bundle at him, and her long hair had swung forward to obscure her face, while her eyes remained fixed on her shoes to avoid his gaze.
As Harley left the shop and opened the styrofoam box that contained his lunch, one of the pteranodons which nested in the attic of the Mark Twain boarding house swooped down and tried to steal it. His thrown punch was instinctive; but the spiked metal gauntlet that enveloped his fist and forearm just before he made contact came as a surprise.
The pteranodon shrieked in pain and outrage and wheeled away, squawking insults over its shoulder as it fled. Harley stood in the middle of Main Street, watching it go, and laughed until his sides ached.