SPLINTERED
The best thing about motorcycle swap meets, aside from the eclectic group of people, classical bikes, and leather, were the parts. Who really went to a meet without the notion of buying something for their hog anyway? A tall man sighed as he leaned back on the seat of his Harley, gloved hands coming to rest on his thighs. He wasn't here for bike parts, and for a moment he sat there, comfortable and still, eyes hidden behind the tinted visor of his helmet. Music blasted from the lone speaker hidden within the padding of the passenger seat behind him, hard rock filled with guitar rifts and harsh lyrics. The man missed the footsteps of an approaching pair, people who also just arrived in the early cool morning for the meet. They stopped and looked over the bike while a slender woman, far too tan with hair so bleached it was dead, grinned at the rider. She had to be in her sixties, but her breasts could have been in their twenties. At least her husband was happy with his stereotypical wife.
“Nice ride,” said the blond in a raspy voice. Too many cigarettes. Her husband then came in to view as he motioned at the bike itself, the other toying with a long, gray beard.
“VRSCA?” He gave a nod of approval as the man still on his bike sat there, helmet only turning to the right as he looked off across the grassy field. The couple found him less friendly than they would have preferred, complimented him once more, then made their way to the gate to be stamped for entrance. From behind the visor the man watched them go, checked his shoulders and mirrors for anyone else, and finally removed the black wrap-around helmet. Fine honey and brown colored hair fell from the casement, one hand coming to ruff it up in to its usual place. In the front strands slacked before the man’s forehead, the rest hanging around in light wisps that stood up on their own before tapering off in the back.
The man was handsome alright, aged somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, with a strong jaw. Naturally tanned skin stretched over his body, tight and unmarred upon the face where a light stubble grew on his chin. Blinking, he looked down with a squint of his golden eyes as if the sudden sun hurt him, and quickly a pair of sunglasses were put on. Lenses so black you could only see your reflection, he got off of the bike while leaving the helmet on the right handle bar. His slimming leather jacket then followed, being draped over the seat before he left it all there and headed toward the gate.
“What kind of tricks does she do?” came a call from behind. Hands pushing in to his pockets, the man turned around with a smirk upon his thin lips.
“Veronica,” he said to the bike, voice deep and throaty. “Stay.” Spinning about, the man continued on to the gate where his hand was stamped after paying a fee for entry. The figure who had called out to him, he vaguely recollected, had chuckled at his joke. It wasn’t really a joke, but these humans didn’t need to know that. Foolish pray to his kind. If only they knew what sort of danger they were in, maybe then they wouldn’t go around smiling so much, talking to strangers just because they had a motorcycle in common. But then again, maybe they were just so under evolved that their minds couldn’t comprehend what was happening right under their noses.
“Hey,” called the brunette as he approached the first stand on his right. Information. “Where’s Mongo?”
An aged woman with gray hair looked through a list while her visitor leaned upon the wooden stand with one arm, hand upon his wrist as he looked around. Lots of people here, he noted, eyes seeking out those he may have known. None. Figures none of his kind would come here on their own accord yet. It wasn’t their land to dominate.
“He’s at row V, stand 65.”
Walking up the row after practically hiking it to the back of the vast field, Stanton crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You Mongo?” he asked while stepping over parts laid out upon a blue tarp. A man sitting under an awning lifted his head to his visitor and nodded, one able eye focusing in on him, the other glazed and dead.
“Yeah, who’s askin’?” he tilted up his chin in question as his face turned to get a better view of the figure before him.
“My name is Stanton,” said the younger man. “I believe you have something for me.” Holding out a hand he waited for the object, but nothing came.
“How do I know you’re really Daniel’s boy?”
Stanton chuckled as he took a handful of loose steps toward the sitting man, bending at the hips until he was eye level with him. “Because I know what you are,” he whispered. “And I know that my father’s name wasn’t Daniel.”
A smile cracked Mongo’s dry lips, turning up as his blind eye blinked with the other.
“Let me see your eyes, boy,” he instructed. Stanton complied, lifting the black shades until the lower rim rest just above his brows. Yellow flecks in his iris glinted on their own before seeming to give off a white glow. Mongo gasped and pressed himself back in to his folding chair, hands fisting the plastic arm rests as Stanton lowered the glasses.
“It’s right here,” Mongo reached around his neck and pulled forth a chain from within his shirt. Impatient with the man, Stanton ripped it from his hand and held it up to the light, a pendant shining in the sun coming through a hole in the awning.
“This will find her?” he asked, staring at the small glass tube. The necklace looked more like someone one would buy on the street of a beach, people writing the customers name on a grain of rice before tossing it in to the tiny tube with a bit of colored sand and water.
“It should-”
“It better.” Stanton fisted the pendant then, head turning back to Mongo with a small smile. “Thanks. I’ll see you on the dark side.” Several steps away from the stand the man called out to Stanton, fear in his voice.
“I-I ain’t going back there!” he said. “I ain’t! You can’t make me!” He was shaking as he climbed to his feet, watching the handsome youth walk away with a wave. “You can’t!”
“We’ll see,” thought Stanton as he put his hand down, disappearing in to the crowd. Then, not five minutes later, Mongo disappeared from his own stand as well. Gone without a trace, not a footprint nor witness. A keen eye may have picked up on the tendril of gray smoke spiraling around itself before dispersing, but Stanton still didn’t believe any human was smart enough to read the signs.
“Nice ride,” said the blond in a raspy voice. Too many cigarettes. Her husband then came in to view as he motioned at the bike itself, the other toying with a long, gray beard.
“VRSCA?” He gave a nod of approval as the man still on his bike sat there, helmet only turning to the right as he looked off across the grassy field. The couple found him less friendly than they would have preferred, complimented him once more, then made their way to the gate to be stamped for entrance. From behind the visor the man watched them go, checked his shoulders and mirrors for anyone else, and finally removed the black wrap-around helmet. Fine honey and brown colored hair fell from the casement, one hand coming to ruff it up in to its usual place. In the front strands slacked before the man’s forehead, the rest hanging around in light wisps that stood up on their own before tapering off in the back.
The man was handsome alright, aged somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, with a strong jaw. Naturally tanned skin stretched over his body, tight and unmarred upon the face where a light stubble grew on his chin. Blinking, he looked down with a squint of his golden eyes as if the sudden sun hurt him, and quickly a pair of sunglasses were put on. Lenses so black you could only see your reflection, he got off of the bike while leaving the helmet on the right handle bar. His slimming leather jacket then followed, being draped over the seat before he left it all there and headed toward the gate.
“What kind of tricks does she do?” came a call from behind. Hands pushing in to his pockets, the man turned around with a smirk upon his thin lips.
“Veronica,” he said to the bike, voice deep and throaty. “Stay.” Spinning about, the man continued on to the gate where his hand was stamped after paying a fee for entry. The figure who had called out to him, he vaguely recollected, had chuckled at his joke. It wasn’t really a joke, but these humans didn’t need to know that. Foolish pray to his kind. If only they knew what sort of danger they were in, maybe then they wouldn’t go around smiling so much, talking to strangers just because they had a motorcycle in common. But then again, maybe they were just so under evolved that their minds couldn’t comprehend what was happening right under their noses.
“Hey,” called the brunette as he approached the first stand on his right. Information. “Where’s Mongo?”
An aged woman with gray hair looked through a list while her visitor leaned upon the wooden stand with one arm, hand upon his wrist as he looked around. Lots of people here, he noted, eyes seeking out those he may have known. None. Figures none of his kind would come here on their own accord yet. It wasn’t their land to dominate.
“He’s at row V, stand 65.”
Walking up the row after practically hiking it to the back of the vast field, Stanton crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You Mongo?” he asked while stepping over parts laid out upon a blue tarp. A man sitting under an awning lifted his head to his visitor and nodded, one able eye focusing in on him, the other glazed and dead.
“Yeah, who’s askin’?” he tilted up his chin in question as his face turned to get a better view of the figure before him.
“My name is Stanton,” said the younger man. “I believe you have something for me.” Holding out a hand he waited for the object, but nothing came.
“How do I know you’re really Daniel’s boy?”
Stanton chuckled as he took a handful of loose steps toward the sitting man, bending at the hips until he was eye level with him. “Because I know what you are,” he whispered. “And I know that my father’s name wasn’t Daniel.”
A smile cracked Mongo’s dry lips, turning up as his blind eye blinked with the other.
“Let me see your eyes, boy,” he instructed. Stanton complied, lifting the black shades until the lower rim rest just above his brows. Yellow flecks in his iris glinted on their own before seeming to give off a white glow. Mongo gasped and pressed himself back in to his folding chair, hands fisting the plastic arm rests as Stanton lowered the glasses.
“It’s right here,” Mongo reached around his neck and pulled forth a chain from within his shirt. Impatient with the man, Stanton ripped it from his hand and held it up to the light, a pendant shining in the sun coming through a hole in the awning.
“This will find her?” he asked, staring at the small glass tube. The necklace looked more like someone one would buy on the street of a beach, people writing the customers name on a grain of rice before tossing it in to the tiny tube with a bit of colored sand and water.
“It should-”
“It better.” Stanton fisted the pendant then, head turning back to Mongo with a small smile. “Thanks. I’ll see you on the dark side.” Several steps away from the stand the man called out to Stanton, fear in his voice.
“I-I ain’t going back there!” he said. “I ain’t! You can’t make me!” He was shaking as he climbed to his feet, watching the handsome youth walk away with a wave. “You can’t!”
“We’ll see,” thought Stanton as he put his hand down, disappearing in to the crowd. Then, not five minutes later, Mongo disappeared from his own stand as well. Gone without a trace, not a footprint nor witness. A keen eye may have picked up on the tendril of gray smoke spiraling around itself before dispersing, but Stanton still didn’t believe any human was smart enough to read the signs.