2013 NOLA
To say Iann was pissed off was an understatement.
Of course, there wasn’t much to do with it. The knife that stabbed him had skittered off into a muddy dark ditch. The poor fucker who used the knife now a jibbering mess careening down an alley in the opposite direction.
Not buddy’s fault, Iann tried to tell himself but that didn’t mean he wasn’t livid that it even fucking happened. He hated pain. He hated being attacked. He hated the thick secretive magical night-time of the New Orleans outskirts at Mardi Gras. Iann stood there at the edge of the ditch, wheezing and holding in his guts (at least it felt like his guts, all warm and squishy and open) and contemplated hunkering into the swampy water to search for the enchanted dagger.
The sound of ambulance sirens pulled him out of his half-faint reverie. Someone called 911, for him? And they actually dispatched someone out here? How nice.
“Not today, nope. Not today,” Iann muttered to himself, staggering away from the ditch and down the broken road, determined to vacate before the ambulance arrived. He couldn’t move very fast of course, but he figured as long as he didn’t look at the flashing red lights coming his way, then they wouldn’t see him either.
@thebetrayermelancon