#v;hotline

[sokol-the-grinder]

Fallout

There was a certain tension in the air during the last week of March, one that became increasingly choking the closer the days drifted to April. The year after the drop of the nuke riots had sprouted all over the states where the destruction targeted Russian owned businesses. It didn’t matter if the people were innocent or not. Americans were angry and wanted the blood of the ones responsible. His family’s ability to stay under the radar was barely successful.

A year later and the number of riots diminished as well as the death tolls. The majority of them weren’t reported; the cops didn’t care. They had joined ‘the cause’ as well. It was easy to turn a blind eye when they were the ones committing crimes all in the name of ‘remembering San Francisco’. His ability to stay under the radar was barely successful.

Another year and he found himself keeping his head low, speaking very little if at all as he waited for the tension in the air to diminish. The recent ‘disappearance’ of mobsters and their crew seemed to keep the majority of people calm. Having a job where he didn’t have to speak much helped, even months after the ‘anniversary’. This year, his ability to stay under the radar wasn’t successful.

With the hood of his jacket up and his earphones on, he didn’t see the swing of the bat as it aimed low at his spine, sending the Walkman flying out of his hands as he stumbled. It could have been his head to put him out of commission immediately, but the individuals that surrounded him didn’t want to kill him, not yet. They wanted to make him bleed.

Fighting back only seemed to anger them more, especially when he managed to break the arm of one of them. Having no weapon in hand put him at an extreme disadvantage and no matter how much he wanted to grapple the bat away, he couldn’t stand up long enough to do so. Even when he was down, curled up in a tight ball and unresponsive, they didn’t end their assault.

Ironically, the last thing that went through his mind before everything went dark was about how disappointed his friend was going to be when he didn’t show up to hang out like they had planned.

[sokol-the-grinder]

8-Bit Theater

Ever since learning about Jacket’s interest in going to the arcade some day, he had been restless and eager to heal up so they could hang out. It had been some time since he allowed himself to just have fun. He managed with hockey though, lately, that had been mildly stressful. Something told him that he should have gotten the other’s phone number so he’d be able to call before he came by, then again...he wouldn’t be able to say anything.

Due to the inability to check if the man was even home, his knocks were met with nothing but silence. He tried again no less than ten minutes later and, still, silence was all he received. He glanced briefly to the stairs, wondering if he should go back home or simply wait; a set of choices where he quickly came to a conclusion. He sat next to the door and turned his focus to a loose thread dangling from the cuff of his pants. It entertained him for all of three seconds before it was plucked away and flicked to the ground.

After several moments of sitting there, entertaining his thoughts, he checked his watch and was surprised to find that nearly an hour had passed and it wouldn’t be another hour until the next bus would run. Thoughtfully chewing on the inside of his lip, he considered the handle above his head before getting up and digging into his wallet to pull out a card.

A few moments later he was entering the apartment and closing the door behind him. That little trick had yet to fail him. Returning the credit card to his wallet, he glanced toward the kitchen, then the living room. Well. While he was here he might as well make himself useful. This place was in dire need of cleaning, anyway. Shrugging off his hoodie, he draped it over a chair and headed off to the living room to get to work starting with the leaning tower of pizza boxes he found on the table.

[sokol-the-grinder]

I dare you to steal me a burrito. In style.

He frowned softly, his head tilting a touch. “How do you steal burrito in style?” 

[sokol-the-grinder]

A Reluctant Rescue

Though the night was warm, the hockey player still had the habit of wearing a light jacket more out of habit than actual necessity. It was a good spot to tuck his cigarettes away rather than putting them in his pocket where they tended to end up crushed to hell and back.

The walk to the hole-in-the-wall diner he had gone to before was a comfortable one; being that the night was quiet he didn’t expect anything less. There was very little traffic to be found on the streets but he supposed the time had a bit of a factor to it. Not many people wandered around at two in the morning.

Like before he had taken time to sit down and enjoy a bottle of beer. At least this time there was a television to entertain himself with, even though it did lose the picture now and then. It provided a bit of a backdrop to his other wise silent surroundings.

When the hour began ticking toward three o’clock he began to prepare for his leave even if the place was open for twenty four hours. He had some things to do in the morning and needed the rest. Downing the last of the second bottle and scooping up the final crumbs of pie, he nodded a thanks to the waitress and left a tip behind before making his way out of the door.

He was just beginning his walk when the noise of a trashcan being knocked over resounded through the alley along with a pained gasp. Something told him to continue on his way, muggings happened all the time and the last thing he wanted was for someone to turn on him because they believed him to be Russian from his accent alone, but he turned to wander down the dimly lit alley and toward the man that was hassling someone.  Another lay on the dingy ground among the trash, apparently hurt or unconscious.

Instead of yelling at the guy, he gave a shrill whistle to get his attention.