(no subject)
There is this cafe, alright? Just outside of Reno where Bekka had taken up shop. She was far from running her own gig so early, but the local bookie appreciated her work, and gave her a bit to do. Living on the remains of her Salem earnings wasn't easy, but the budget allowed for a cup of coffee now and then. With a yawn she took out her old faithful notebook and started re-checking her last figures. She had passed out in her motel room before the last of the stats came in, and if God smiled on her enough, the newspaper or even the news might report them. The TV over the fryer turned down and then up, a sure sign that the commercials were over and the overly dressed ancormen spoke again. Through her early morning haze it appeared that they were reporting on some brush fire or another, hell, perhaps even a college fire from the looks of the remains of the stone building on TV. It wasn't until the words 'Salem Massicar' sprawled across the bottom did she give it head. It was an ariel shot, reminicent of Jonestown as they showed the ruble. Bodies were strewn about across all of the grounds, some collected, most not. Intermixed with her old peer's pajams were what looked to be poliece and special officers. A zoom-in showed a face of-
A 'whoop' cut off her concentration. A local was applauding the images on TV while elbowing his peer. "That'll teach'em, those fuckin' cowards." He spoke, the words falling out between his unbrushed teeth. He continued, clearly uncaring of whomever heard him. "I was just sayin' that, wasn't I Pete? That those fuckin' immigrants were getting what was comin' to them."
'Immigrants'? Bekka thought, followed quickly by the vocal addition of the same word. Half turned in her seat she asked the man. "Immigrants? They're not fucking Immigrants." They're kids. She didn't ad. Kids like her, her... classmates.
Thankfully the images cut away to the reporter once again, he stood in front of the obvious green screen, giving numbers and statistics about the deaths and injuries and god... her friends. "I'm going to be sick." she mumbled, pulling away from her booth on queasy legs. The waitress saw this and between luck and good timing, the evidence of last night's supper missed both the floor and her shoes.
A 'whoop' cut off her concentration. A local was applauding the images on TV while elbowing his peer. "That'll teach'em, those fuckin' cowards." He spoke, the words falling out between his unbrushed teeth. He continued, clearly uncaring of whomever heard him. "I was just sayin' that, wasn't I Pete? That those fuckin' immigrants were getting what was comin' to them."
'Immigrants'? Bekka thought, followed quickly by the vocal addition of the same word. Half turned in her seat she asked the man. "Immigrants? They're not fucking Immigrants." They're kids. She didn't ad. Kids like her, her... classmates.
Thankfully the images cut away to the reporter once again, he stood in front of the obvious green screen, giving numbers and statistics about the deaths and injuries and god... her friends. "I'm going to be sick." she mumbled, pulling away from her booth on queasy legs. The waitress saw this and between luck and good timing, the evidence of last night's supper missed both the floor and her shoes.