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Collab Creation: Tracker, P.I., a film by Alan Smithee
18 years ago
General
This is part 2 in a (hopefully) continuing series of a film noir style story. Anyone who has a vague grasp on English literature or at least can maintain a semblance of decorum may continue this,
Part 1: http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/272668/
I took a snort of whiskey that I kept hidden in my coat pocket for just such an occasion. The vixen I was stroking was not amused. “You’re not comfortable with me, so you’re loosening up with that shit. Am I right?”
“No,” I said, “I just drink alcohol to make me feel like I give a shit about you.”
By now the vixen had pulled away from me and run off sobbing. I noted that she must’ve been new to the scene, and I should check back when her dreams had been fully shattered by this shithouse of a town. For now, though, I was without a partner, so I headed to the local bar which had always been like a second home to me. Not that I’d enjoyed the company of the folks there, but I always felt I could drink there ‘til I fell unconscious and could get a sympathy ride home.
“Hello, everyone!” I called to the air as no-one listened. I didn’t expect any reply, though it was considered polite to pretend to care that you did. This place was as dingy and sick as a bar could be. It was a place where the whiskey was the color of your money, and the bartender didn’t care if you’d sneak out to the restrooms to do some blow. My kinda place.
Soon after I settled into my usual bar stool, this monument of a man came up to me and asked if we could speak in private. He stood well over seven feet tall and breathed heavily, exhaling menthol vapors due to his constant sucking on eucalyptus mouth drops. The first thought to enter my mind was that I should slap the shit out of him for ruining my peace, but the fact that he could easily beat the shit out of me and his concerned look made me look into his soft, dewey eyes and ask what business he wanted with me.
Part 1: http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/272668/
I took a snort of whiskey that I kept hidden in my coat pocket for just such an occasion. The vixen I was stroking was not amused. “You’re not comfortable with me, so you’re loosening up with that shit. Am I right?”
“No,” I said, “I just drink alcohol to make me feel like I give a shit about you.”
By now the vixen had pulled away from me and run off sobbing. I noted that she must’ve been new to the scene, and I should check back when her dreams had been fully shattered by this shithouse of a town. For now, though, I was without a partner, so I headed to the local bar which had always been like a second home to me. Not that I’d enjoyed the company of the folks there, but I always felt I could drink there ‘til I fell unconscious and could get a sympathy ride home.
“Hello, everyone!” I called to the air as no-one listened. I didn’t expect any reply, though it was considered polite to pretend to care that you did. This place was as dingy and sick as a bar could be. It was a place where the whiskey was the color of your money, and the bartender didn’t care if you’d sneak out to the restrooms to do some blow. My kinda place.
Soon after I settled into my usual bar stool, this monument of a man came up to me and asked if we could speak in private. He stood well over seven feet tall and breathed heavily, exhaling menthol vapors due to his constant sucking on eucalyptus mouth drops. The first thought to enter my mind was that I should slap the shit out of him for ruining my peace, but the fact that he could easily beat the shit out of me and his concerned look made me look into his soft, dewey eyes and ask what business he wanted with me.
