Woah, yeah, that voice did not fit the picture at all and actually got Roman to pause. The most unusual accent he was used to hearing was French because he basically hailed from Diet Canada. Accent aside, he couldn't let that distract him.
The boy waved and sent out another whistle. "You're not going to find what you're looking for in there. Place is bogus!"
Bert glanced from the bespectacled fellow to the door, and back again. He was pretty sure he'd find exactly what he was looking for at the moment in there. But he'd indulge the stranger, because that was an interesting greeting. And Cuthbert Allgood was a sucker for interesting.
"...they got those abysmal sausages made from pig ass, yeah? And a cola fountain?"
"Tsssht, if only. All they have is a slush machine. Green flavor."
His siren song was working! Cowboy, which was Bert's name for the time being, was walking right toward him. And what a cowboy he was! He'd just noticed the outline of the guy's shoes but now that he was passing under the buzzing parking lot lights he saw just how right he was. He was no lumberjack but...
Roman suppressed a grin and started shoving his book back into his bag. It was not cool to be doing Sudoku when you are about to reveal that you can make somebody's dreams come true.
"Well that's bullshit. What sort of gas market doesn't have pig ass sausage?"
And then everything - or so he thought - became quite clear.
Oh!
Bert had never been a stranger to the Low Town of Gilead, none of them had been. But his vice had been drink and smoke rather than brothels, and he'd run into just as many street corner and back alley fellows there as he had in rough and isolated bits of America.
He assumed he'd been hailed by a dealer of illicit substances.
"That so?" Bert took a casual stance and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Always been partial to a pleasant smoke."
Bert made a sound that was close to a snort. He wasn't worried about being done in by smoke, of any sort. He'd already died, technically. It just hadn't taken. That sort of thing happened, when prophecies and magics and scions of god-men were involved.
"Aye, that it is a crossroads. Not much of one, though." The world wasn't thin here, there was no hum and buzz of that place where the barriers grew thin. Bert knew those places all too well. "But mayhap it's enough so's God can't see us, aye?" He winked. He didn't know if legends about crossroads were the same here as in his home, but he would wager they'd be similar. Things often were.
"Anyhow, if yeh happen to have any mary-wanna for purchase, I'd be interested."
It was taking all of Roman's willpower to not laugh at everything that came out of Bert's mouth. That was charming as shit and almost distracted him from his original goal: dupe the hell out of this wayward lamb.
"Mayhap," he mimicked in Bert's accent--his whole voice actually. He tugged out a clipboard and started digging through the pages. "What's it worth t-to you?"
"An eight is worth twenty five, if it's regs. That's standard rate." He laughed a bit as the clipboard came out. Quite the organized purveyor of goods, this fellow. And he laughed at the mimicry of his tone and cadence - a much preferred reaction to being told he talked funny or sounded strange. He could only mimic American speak so well, and that was only on account of speaking Low Speech every chance he'd gotten. But the notes and lilts of High Speech still clung to his words.
"This how you normally do business? Hailing random folks and offering'em vices?"
He was serious about his business, Bert could tell that. He was harder to read than most - which that wasn't surprising, if he dealt in illegal matters. Folks with a lot to hide were good at hiding it. But still, the gunslinger could tell that he was a businessman all the same.
Finding a form that he liked, Roman pulled it out of the middle of the stack and clipped it to the front.
"You and me both know you're hardly random. You wouldn't have washed up here if you weren't after something special. And I know you've got something better than c-cash."
Bert didn't even bother to try and drag up an Americanism. His face remained pleasant and amiable, but his mind was clicking a million wheels a minute. He hadn't yet been asked about his accent, or his way of speaking. There'd been no comments on his manner of dress.
Suddenly, he was a bit wary of the conversation. He'd been marked as a Walk In a few times before - he wasn't the only one. So far it had been all been fine, but ka-mais had funny luck. He'd have to be careful. Even pretty blond fellows could be agents of the Red.
Of course there were always other possibilities. This culture was different than his. Was he being propositioned? Was this a sex for drugs thing? He was sinfully handsome.
"I'm not looking to turn tricks, if that's where this is going."
Cry pardon? Turn tricks? Roman paused in pulling a pencil out from behind his ear to stare at Bert. His lingo was charming, sure, but a little hard to puzzle out. But when he did, the demon in disgusie burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that he reclined backwards and just...lay on the asphalt clutching his clipboard.
"Bhpfffaha ha ha ha! Not what I had in mind! But you know what, I just might t-t-take it!"
Bert laughed as well, shaking his head. He couldn't help it, when the fellow went over backwards in a hysterical fit.
So, not a sex for drugs thing, then!
"Oh, come on! Sell me my green for cash, and yeh can take me to dinner and a picture show. I pay for my fun or I have it for free, I'm not paid for it." In anything.
He wasn't certain if there was anything behind the blond's comment, but he was a flirty fellow. Always been partial to blonds. And this world had little of the stigma his own culture held, regarding fellows taking other fellows out for a time on the town. It was nice, when he had the hankering to play the mare, so to speak. Much easier to indulge.
If nothing else, he felt perfectly safe being mildly flirtatious, even if only in jest.
Roman wiped at his eyes. This was not where he saw his afternoon going. Not in the slightest.
"Oh, man. Oh, man I needed that. I hate to break it t-to you but I don't think there's a town an hour either way..." He slowly sat up and looked around the lot. Huh, that's right. He didn't remember what kind of vehicle the guy stepped out of. Roman tilted his head to look up at him suspiciously.
"Not that way, that's for certain! I came from there." Bert jerked his thumb down one stretch of road. "Got a ride to a turn off about half a...mile from here, there's just a great lot of nothing."
Miles. They were called miles here, not wheels.
"This is just a place between places."
And he supposed for that alone, there was power of sort here. All places between held some power.
"It is that." Roman relaxed his guard again. The last thing he wanted was to duel for this crossroads with another demon. He wasn't a great fighter and it had taken him ages to find one that wasn't occupied.
"I guess a little money can't hurt if that's the going rate, but I was really hoping yo'd have something more interesting. You know. K-keepin' the barter system alive between travelers and all."
"Well, mayhap I have sommat in my pack I could part with...."
Bert settled himself in and slung off his pack, mentally sorting through his worldly possessions. He'd woken up in this place with all of his things on him, save his guns. He probably dropped those.
...including his little bag of Guardian totems. He had at least four little carved turtles in there. He rummaged through till he found his totem pouch. He had his witch beads, too, but he needed those in case he ended up fighting with a witch. Witches never liked him.
He finally pulled a small stone turtle out, white with a pattern of land and sea on its shell instead of the normal turtle pattern. He'd gotten it at some festival in Gilead, it wasn't a family totem. It was pretty and well made and mayhap unique in this world. He could trade it, and save his cash for food and rides.
"What about this?" He held it up on his palm for inspection.
Roman leaned over with curiosity and watched him dig. When the turtle appeared, the demon eyed it closely. He wasn't very well practiced in magic but if there was any in the thing he'd be able to feel it rolling off in soft waves like guitar riffs.
"...well, it doesn't do anything. It's a carving, a totem. It's the representation of an ancient god. Maturin the turtle that carries the world on its shell."
The carving itself wasn't magic, but had been touched by it. Faint traces of All-World magic clung to it still.
"And it comes from a place now gone, hand carved by a master now dead. That's gotta be worth sommat, aye?"
He tapped his jaw, reaching out to invite himself to pick it up and turn it over in his hands.
"If it doesn't do anything...I can't t-trade with you. Because my grass absolutely does something. No offence, but you coulda gotten this thing in a flea market. Now if it were magic..."
"I don't truck with magic," Bert responded with a shake of his head. Alright, so this fellow was In the Know. That changed things. He had been made. But it didn't look as though this was an agent of the Red. He sounded more like some world wandering merchant.
What an interesting evening this was turning out to be.
"Don't really trust it. Oh, wait, you want magic mescaline? I've got magic mescaline."
And no use for it, these days. He didn't know the spirits of this world, or what other places brushed close enough to touch its borders. He wasn't about to risk any out of body spirit journeys in this mad place.
"Yeh can talk to demons and the dead and whatnot. Makes yeh puke sommat awful after, but it's worth it."
He was glad this guy wasn't giving him the skeptic eye. That made transactions a whole lot smoother. He didn't have to pull any flashy tricks to make a believer out of him.
"I understand...but I don't really want to talk to demons, thanks. What about you though? Got any...teeth you don't want? A talent you could give up? Your middle name? I can get you more than a t-teabag."
"...you mean something that is uniquely and intrinsically mine?" Bert raised an eyebrow and lit up a cigarette.
Well now. Not Red, but not White either.
Prim aligned, mayhap? Not good or evil, but simply adhering to mild chaos...
It didn't matter either way. The gunslinger shook his head, lips pursed and chuckling faintly. Oh gods, what a night.
"Sai, I have been called a fool more times than I've been called my own name, but e'en I know not to trade away those things that'd give another power o'er me."
Hmmm. Maybe he wasn't as much of a sucker as he originally thought. Roman rubbed his chin scruff and looked at the turtle a little longer before shrugging and jotting down a deal. Plain and simple, no tricks.
"C-cash it is, then. I'm bored and there are mosquitoes. Let's blow this place."
Bert slipped his totem back into its pouch and packed up his gunna proper once more. He had no real plans. He just wandered, seeing where life and the roads took him. He did odd jobs, he borrowed from folks that could afford to be borrowed from, and he tried to learn all the ways of this world.
He spun the clipboard around and showed Bert where to sign his name.
"Roman." He kept himself from snorting at his name. Bert. What a great English name. It's like he just stepped out of Marry Poppins or something. That painted the mental image of Bert doing the chimney sweep dance while still wearing his cowboy getup and Roman stared into space watching it.
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wolfintheattic) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
theattic2014-11-09 07:23 pm
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The boy waved and sent out another whistle. "You're not going to find what you're looking for in there. Place is bogus!"
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"...they got those abysmal sausages made from pig ass, yeah? And a cola fountain?"
He asked the question as he trotted over.
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His siren song was working! Cowboy, which was Bert's name for the time being, was walking right toward him. And what a cowboy he was! He'd just noticed the outline of the guy's shoes but now that he was passing under the buzzing parking lot lights he saw just how right he was. He was no lumberjack but...
Roman suppressed a grin and started shoving his book back into his bag. It was not cool to be doing Sudoku when you are about to reveal that you can make somebody's dreams come true.
"What are you looking for? I c-can hook you up."
That's not suspicious at all, Roman.
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And then everything - or so he thought - became quite clear.
Oh!
Bert had never been a stranger to the Low Town of Gilead, none of them had been. But his vice had been drink and smoke rather than brothels, and he'd run into just as many street corner and back alley fellows there as he had in rough and isolated bits of America.
He assumed he'd been hailed by a dealer of illicit substances.
"That so?" Bert took a casual stance and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Always been partial to a pleasant smoke."
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Roman puffed out a laugh and propped himself up on his palms.
"Y'know, that stuff'll k-kill ya." He should know. "But if it's what you want... This is a crossroads."
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"Aye, that it is a crossroads. Not much of one, though." The world wasn't thin here, there was no hum and buzz of that place where the barriers grew thin. Bert knew those places all too well. "But mayhap it's enough so's God can't see us, aye?" He winked. He didn't know if legends about crossroads were the same here as in his home, but he would wager they'd be similar. Things often were.
"Anyhow, if yeh happen to have any mary-wanna for purchase, I'd be interested."
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He said aye.
It was taking all of Roman's willpower to not laugh at everything that came out of Bert's mouth. That was charming as shit and almost distracted him from his original goal: dupe the hell out of this wayward lamb.
"Mayhap," he mimicked in Bert's accent--his whole voice actually. He tugged out a clipboard and started digging through the pages. "What's it worth t-to you?"
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"This how you normally do business? Hailing random folks and offering'em vices?"
He was serious about his business, Bert could tell that. He was harder to read than most - which that wasn't surprising, if he dealt in illegal matters. Folks with a lot to hide were good at hiding it. But still, the gunslinger could tell that he was a businessman all the same.
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"You and me both know you're hardly random. You wouldn't have washed up here if you weren't after something special. And I know you've got something better than c-cash."
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Bert didn't even bother to try and drag up an Americanism. His face remained pleasant and amiable, but his mind was clicking a million wheels a minute. He hadn't yet been asked about his accent, or his way of speaking. There'd been no comments on his manner of dress.
Suddenly, he was a bit wary of the conversation. He'd been marked as a Walk In a few times before - he wasn't the only one. So far it had been all been fine, but ka-mais had funny luck. He'd have to be careful. Even pretty blond fellows could be agents of the Red.
Of course there were always other possibilities. This culture was different than his. Was he being propositioned? Was this a sex for drugs thing? He was sinfully handsome.
"I'm not looking to turn tricks, if that's where this is going."
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"Bhpfffaha ha ha ha! Not what I had in mind! But you know what, I just might t-t-take it!"
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So, not a sex for drugs thing, then!
"Oh, come on! Sell me my green for cash, and yeh can take me to dinner and a picture show. I pay for my fun or I have it for free, I'm not paid for it." In anything.
He wasn't certain if there was anything behind the blond's comment, but he was a flirty fellow. Always been partial to blonds. And this world had little of the stigma his own culture held, regarding fellows taking other fellows out for a time on the town. It was nice, when he had the hankering to play the mare, so to speak. Much easier to indulge.
If nothing else, he felt perfectly safe being mildly flirtatious, even if only in jest.
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"Oh, man. Oh, man I needed that. I hate to break it t-to you but I don't think there's a town an hour either way..." He slowly sat up and looked around the lot. Huh, that's right. He didn't remember what kind of vehicle the guy stepped out of. Roman tilted his head to look up at him suspiciously.
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Miles. They were called miles here, not wheels.
"This is just a place between places."
And he supposed for that alone, there was power of sort here. All places between held some power.
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"I guess a little money can't hurt if that's the going rate, but I was really hoping yo'd have something more interesting. You know. K-keepin' the barter system alive between travelers and all."
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Bert settled himself in and slung off his pack, mentally sorting through his worldly possessions. He'd woken up in this place with all of his things on him, save his guns. He probably dropped those.
...including his little bag of Guardian totems. He had at least four little carved turtles in there. He rummaged through till he found his totem pouch. He had his witch beads, too, but he needed those in case he ended up fighting with a witch. Witches never liked him.
He finally pulled a small stone turtle out, white with a pattern of land and sea on its shell instead of the normal turtle pattern. He'd gotten it at some festival in Gilead, it wasn't a family totem. It was pretty and well made and mayhap unique in this world. He could trade it, and save his cash for food and rides.
"What about this?" He held it up on his palm for inspection.
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"Pretty. What's it do?"
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The carving itself wasn't magic, but had been touched by it. Faint traces of All-World magic clung to it still.
"And it comes from a place now gone, hand carved by a master now dead. That's gotta be worth sommat, aye?"
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"If it doesn't do anything...I can't t-trade with you. Because my grass absolutely does something. No offence, but you coulda gotten this thing in a flea market. Now if it were magic..."
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What an interesting evening this was turning out to be.
"Don't really trust it. Oh, wait, you want magic mescaline? I've got magic mescaline."
And no use for it, these days. He didn't know the spirits of this world, or what other places brushed close enough to touch its borders. He wasn't about to risk any out of body spirit journeys in this mad place.
"Yeh can talk to demons and the dead and whatnot. Makes yeh puke sommat awful after, but it's worth it."
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"I understand...but I don't really want to talk to demons, thanks. What about you though? Got any...teeth you don't want? A talent you could give up? Your middle name? I can get you more than a t-teabag."
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Well now. Not Red, but not White either.
Prim aligned, mayhap? Not good or evil, but simply adhering to mild chaos...
It didn't matter either way. The gunslinger shook his head, lips pursed and chuckling faintly. Oh gods, what a night.
"Sai, I have been called a fool more times than I've been called my own name, but e'en I know not to trade away those things that'd give another power o'er me."
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"C-cash it is, then. I'm bored and there are mosquitoes. Let's blow this place."
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Bert slipped his totem back into its pouch and packed up his gunna proper once more. He had no real plans. He just wandered, seeing where life and the roads took him. He did odd jobs, he borrowed from folks that could afford to be borrowed from, and he tried to learn all the ways of this world.
"I'm Bert, by the way. Bert Allgood."
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"Roman." He kept himself from snorting at his name. Bert. What a great English name. It's like he just stepped out of Marry Poppins or something. That painted the mental image of Bert doing the chimney sweep dance while still wearing his cowboy getup and Roman stared into space watching it.
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