The horrible thing about it - the stinking, dead elephant in the room - is that he used to be awe-inspiring. There are the pictures that prove it, softened by the forgiving sepia light of history: the shrewd-eyed child shuttling escaped men and women into Canada, the fearless young soldier, the hardworking all-American boy, the brilliant engineer with a stopwatch in hand. There'd been years, too, when for the first time in centuries he spelled his name Henri, and as much as he would claim that he did it only to keep himself separate from his master of the assembly-line, none of the other Cities missed how he glowed, straightened that unruly blond hair, when they called him the Paris of the West
( ... )
2: Unannounced
anonymous
January 3 2010, 13:04:21 UTC
"D . . . Come on, man. What the hell."
Henry is sitting on Casimir's back porch, on a folding chair, drinking a beer. The only initial sign that he is drunk is that he has, in response to the summer heat, stripped down to his underwear. His ripped jeans are crumpled in a sad heap a few feet away, motionless among the empty husks of many, many other beers (the second hint, as if his unwilling host needed one). Otherwise he is the same stony-eyed, unmovable presence he been for years now, watching the endless waves of the lake and the wheeling gulls.
"Henry, seriously," Casimir pipes up again, more stridently, though the words don't translate into motion more violent than whipping off his sunglasses, shoving them over the brim of his baseball cap. Bluster is second-nature to him, action slow behind, even if he has the shoulders to back it up. "I've got my bosses coming over. You can't be here."
"Back the fuck off, Chitown," he drawls, dangerously.
"No, you back the fuck off! And put some pants on, for Chrissake." Casimir
( ... )
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Henry is sitting on Casimir's back porch, on a folding chair, drinking a beer. The only initial sign that he is drunk is that he has, in response to the summer heat, stripped down to his underwear. His ripped jeans are crumpled in a sad heap a few feet away, motionless among the empty husks of many, many other beers (the second hint, as if his unwilling host needed one). Otherwise he is the same stony-eyed, unmovable presence he been for years now, watching the endless waves of the lake and the wheeling gulls.
"Henry, seriously," Casimir pipes up again, more stridently, though the words don't translate into motion more violent than whipping off his sunglasses, shoving them over the brim of his baseball cap. Bluster is second-nature to him, action slow behind, even if he has the shoulders to back it up. "I've got my bosses coming over. You can't be here."
"Back the fuck off, Chitown," he drawls, dangerously.
"No, you back the fuck off! And put some pants on, for Chrissake." Casimir ( ... )
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Update? I hope this wasn't abandoned...
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