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The throaty growl of the Indian Scout motorcycle ricocheted around the slipway. The bikers and locals sitting in the nearby bar cast a casual glance toward the parking lot, but didn't give it much notice since it was a common occurrence. Bikes come and go occasionally, even during the middle of a weekday.
Only one man in a dingy hoody with dirt caked boots didn't react. The hobo was sitting at a shamble of a table, fragile plastic patio furniture, a few feet out of the bar's screened in patio. The hoodie swayed slightly side to side as he sighed and gave a patient, meaningful glance over the small land peninsula that served as the center of docks for this St. John's "fishing camp". Just after noon it seemed blissful and calm...as most snowbird yuppies think a "Florida fishing camp" might look.
The hobo scratched his stubble and turned his head to the right. He calls out to be heard with both volume and a respectful tone..."Marie?! Can I get two more buds, please?!" The bartender provides and the last few minutes of casual bliss pass without notice.
There's too much volume for anyone to hear the crunch of boots on gravel as the rider of the Indian Scout bike makes her way through the bar...but it only takes a few moments for most of the natives to see the athletic blonde biker bitch in tight road leathers after the screen door clatters closed.
It's the middle of the day on a Thursday, so there's only the locals and regulars here. It's a sparse handful of folks. However, every single one notices the intense and arousing blonde biker chick with 'John-Lennon'-esque circular sunglasses. Only one idiot said anything to that woman as she walked by them...and she didn't even respond. She walks with purpose...right the fuck past them...and out to the seemingly pathetic hobo out on the far dock table.
No one noticed her casual snap as the screen door clapped closed. It was just coincidence that the cat-caller's old bar stool was rotted on one leg and collapsed so he fell to the floor.
The biker's heavy boots make thick dents into the soft earth as she walks up to the decrepit patio furniture. "You're a dick," she says to the grungy man in the hoodie as she takes one of the beers and raises the bottle to her lips.
The hoodie nods slightly in acknowledgement. "Where's bob?" he says in a lazy baritone.
"Really? You know I'm not stupid enough to bring them out here," she retorts, then finishes off the bottle. "So....*BELCH*...do we need privacy?" she says, starting to enjoy the view of nature as the river flows by.
"Not until someone pays attention," says the hoodie, his tone patient and calm. "Why would anyone care about us out here?"
"Wow," says the biker chick as she plops down at the table and finishes off the bottle, "you really HAVE lost touch with reality."
The hoodie staring out into the river turns, just enough to reveal half his face. It's the face of a middle aged man who has worked in nothing but harsh environments, or is on the cusp of losing his battle with cancer. His right eye is sunken, skin stretched over pronounced cheeks, and thin lips barely covering teeth that seem a grimace or a grin. They make brief eye-contact, and both share a subtle morbid chuckle in comradery that none would ever notice. A few seconds of silence pass before they break eye contact.
The tension breaks as she smacks his shoulder roughly and they look out over the river..."Okay, what the fuck am I doing here corpse-Jesus?"
He's already watching the waves churn in the river..."the restless are moving north-west toward a gaping nihil. I know two cabals are heading that way through fate or direction, but the Arrow need to be ready."
An enormous over-dramatic sigh escapes Absinthe's lips as she removes her shades, revealing caverns where eyeballs should rest. "Plain-speak dead-ass! Your 'that side' mumbo jumbo don't mean shit here! What the fuck do we need to do on this side?!" She leans forward to get closer to his face, resting her beer-arm's elbow on her knee to make staring at him easier...
"HEY STEVIE TWIX!" yells the mid-day drunk guy from the bar as he exits the screened in patio onto the land dock.
The grave-digger's hand moves off the table and onto her raised knee since she's been resting her foot on the plastic chair. "Let it go." he says clearly. Even though the tone is chill, it's not a directive, just guidance.
Absinthe doesn't care what he thinks.
"Sure." is all she mumbles as she puts her shades back on and pulls her leg off the chair, letting his hand drop into air. She stands full up and turns toward the annoyance.
He's all smiles and open arms once she faces him, the intense biker chick isn't as intimidating in the bright middle of the day. "Hey baby, I was wondering where you w*HCK*"
With one fluid movement, she wrapped his arm around his head and spun him around, then kicked out the back of his legs and twisted his mid section as his face hits the soft-wet-grass. He begins to vomit as she talks to him...
Her voice is icy cold, not metaphoric, but actually cold on his earlobe.... "I'm not your baby, fucktard, and you're lucky that this hobo has patience for people like you. If it wasn't for bad-asses like me, you would have died crying for mommy long ago. So go back to the bar, shut the fuck up, and open an endless tab for me and my friend till I say otherwise. Get it?!"
She lifted his head as he choked out the remaining sick. "I get it, I get it!" he sputters as he clears his windpipe. Absinthe gets up off his bent legs and actually helps him stand up so he can run back into the bar as the screen door slams hard behind him.
She let out a sigh as she put her glasses back on and sat down at the small dock table. "Fuck you, dude. That guy deserved it."
"They're all idiots and don't know any better. You're invulnerable...you didn't have belittle him."
"They're animals and don't deserve any better." Absinthe says as she grabbed Abaddon's half-full bottle raised it to her lips. She smacks her lips with the final swallow of suds and coyly remarks with a snarky smile, "you don't have anything I should worry about do you?
His tone becomes even more droning as he says, "You started something. His ego....,"
"...Makes him a pussy to his friends. I get it," says Absinthe, "I'm also fucking bored and you were the idiot who put us in a spot with sleepers! Now, what are we dealing with?"
The door to the dock peninsula creeks open as the two drunks come out toward the two.
The biker chick drops her head in defeated consternation, her bad-ass tone becoming more of a woman asking for desperate answers... "Hey grandfather time, am I gonna kill them? Does it matter? You going to help?" A second goes by that feels stretched out forever....
"Fuck you then." she says...not angry, just resolute.
Okay reader, let me explain that any mage is dangerous if they feel threatened. Even worse is a necromancer who can control both death and matter. Worse still is if that mage is Adamantine Arrow, which are essentially the monster hunters and marines of the supernatural.....Absinthe is that worst case scenario. I won't bother describing the two "Florida-men" who came out of the bar...you see them in your mind's eye. One is in overalls, the other in camo shorts.
"Come on, honey!" says overalls, "that hobo ain't gonna buy you enough drinks!"
"Whatever you're into, we got you!" camo shorts chuckles "seriously, whatever! I'll hook you up!"
Absinthe stands and steps around to have solid footing. The vision of a tight leather biker Stevie Nicks is more than these two drunks can process and the pace slows. [She HATES that she looks this way naturally] She raises one gloved hand and beckons them closer with the traditional pointer finger "come hither" gesture. So simple, so enticing. So stupid.
Even though she's a tall 5'8" with her boots on, they're tall men, nearly or over six feet. A few seconds of tension pass as they walk up, all drunk smiles.
Her gloved hand taps camo jeans on the thigh...his belt breaks and the shorts let go....falling to the ground....he scrambles around backward as she tilts her perspective to the next threat. Her fist raises and the atoms of air between it and overall's face get out of her way to deliver....till they reverse and resist, air pressure condensing around her arm, making her punch sluggish and flaccid as it connects with his face. He takes a solid blow to the nose...far stronger than he expected from her, but not as debilitating as she wanted, and backs away, tripping over the hem of his pant legs and falling to the ground. Her face snaps to the seated hoodie, pissed at his interference.
Absinthe whips her full body around, her gorgeous blond hair flashing in the midday sun. Her nimbus flares, smoldering fire pits churn where her eyes should be, the carbon choked smoke staining the rims of her glasses and putting charcoal smears on her forehead and hair. Abbadon can see the ripples of heat cooking the air around her and charring the edges of the plastic table between them.
All camo and overalls see is a very tough and now angry biker chick having a melt down, but for some reason they can't explain, they both feel uneasy and scared. They scramble back into the bar, pushing each other to force their way through the screen door first.
Any person who can see magic the way these folks can would assume she's a demon or monster, and would have no clue that she's one of the few things protecting normal people from the very same. "Are you FUCKING kidding ME?!" she screams, her voice ripping the air around it, resulting in every bird ejecting themselves directly away from her into the horizon. They're far more sensitive than sleepers.
The hoodie turns to her completely, his gentle storm blue eyes lock onto hers. His face is so unmoving, so without unconscious reaction, that it would scare sleepers because they can't reconcile a corpses face on a moving body.
The flames and affects of her nimbus vanish in a puff as she chuckles against her will. "I would say 'you fuckin kill me sometimes' but I don't trust you not to..."
She shakes her head and sits down, calling over her shoulder "Where's the next round?! Don't make me ask again!" Abaddon's heavy sigh gives her something just to the left of glee, though she doesn't show it. For all the pain and suffering she endures for humanity, these morbid moments of levity with other Necromancers lets her find kernels of joy. After all, it's a dead man's party...
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Beware the things you think then say, as they may return someday...