Wednesday, June 16, 2010

[Urban Fantasy Novel] Fist Full of Clay Scene One

[Like the title? I don't! But I was stuck so I just threw something there! Okay! This is my first draft to the story of Emett. Remember, first drafts are supposed to have spelling errors and 'fat' to trim from the story. So, toss me a suggestion if you wish]

Max never said there would be shotguns.

If I had known that taking a shell to the chest was going to be part of this little bank heist, I would have asked for maybe a benefits package or at least a boost in pay. Pistols? I can handle pistols. They aren’t a pleasure to be shot with but they’re a pin prick compared to shotguns. Shotguns ‘buck’. Shotguns don’t spit peas but are a torrent of pain. Shotguns leave big holes and cause people like me to be cranky.

Max really never said there’d be shotguns.

I’m not sure how long I’m in the air. Truth be told, I don’t really remember how I got here in the first place. However, I do vividly recall my body crashing into the wooden frame of the checking counter, the screams from the bank customers drowning out the shotgun’s shell hitting the floor. Me? I don’t scream. Shows weakness and hell, I need to make up ground after being brought down by a slug to the chest.

I hear the world around me explode into action. The sound of some security guard who developed a sudden stutter is screaming for my colleagues to freeze, and I just know that the guy has just signed his death warrant. You don’t yell at goblins- They’re a cranky lot and when push comes to shove, they tend to take it a step further and remove your head.

I can’t really blame the guy, though. Like most humans, he can’t see past the ‘Veil’. Like, right now? Johny Justice is thinking he’s staring at a motley crew of gang banger thugs who are out to ‘cap and tap’ this and that. In truth, they are a motley crew of gang banger goblins.

Trust me, there is a difference.

For one, goblins speak in a pitch that only dogs pick up. And right now, while the Justice League is thinking he’s got his bank robbers pinned down and silent, they were most likely crafting a plan. Me? I’ve resigned myself to just laying here, a crater still sizzling in my chest. Like I said, shotguns weren’t mentioned in the planning of this thing.

I roll my head to the side, a subtle gesture that most observers might hold up to gravity, and I take a glance at the scene. Seeing through a Veil is hard to describe, however, the simplest way of doing it is state you sort of see two things. For one, I see the assortment of my ‘home boys’ as the world sees them. Scrawny white boys wearing baggy jeans, wife beaters, and ski masks, silently holding up their arms in surrender . On the other side of the coin, I see the cracked reptilian features of the goblins. I’m not hearing a sound from them, but the way their lips are moving, I can sure the hell bet that they’re plotting.

And then the security guard comes into view and I feel my insides churn. He was an old guy- probably a few years from retirement. Call me observant too or just call me lucky, but I note the wedding ring on his finger, and I know I can’t just lay here. I know I can’t just let this guy walk into a trap. Why? Well, simple answer, it’s in my ‘programming’.

So I sit up Terminator style. I figure if I’m going to get shot again, why not do it as bad ass as possible. I get the effect I want because some blonde teller named “Ruth” screams her head off. The guard spins around just in time to get a face full of thrown checks- Not enough to hurt him but hell, who expects to be attack with checks? Loan Sharks? His shot goes wide and I’m on my feet within seconds. Two seconds flat, the shotgun is sailing out of his grasp. Three seconds, the old man is being pinned against a granite pillar, my hand wrapped firmly around his throat.

He pisses himself and I remind myself to throw away these shoes later. I see his eyes dart down to the smoking crater in my chest and then back to my eyes. He can tell I’m the angry sort and that his shell sure the hell didn’t hit my ticklish spot.

“What are you?” he asks, and I can see that switch in his mind flickering vigorously to make sense of this madness. He won’t be remembering much of this part of the heist, that’s for sure. That tends to happen when norms meet up with folks like me.

“Ain’t it obvious, Captain America?” I ask as I pull back my fist. “I’m Jewish.” And with that, I give the guy a night cap a crossed the chops. He was out of the count for now and safe from the goblins. I drop him to the ground, step around him, and toss a glance back towards the confused customers and tellers. “Sholom.”

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