Unknown Armies: The King of Inbetween Places

Morgan says "AND," cutting in quick lest anybody drop the thread "we have to get back what he took off the stage. Because it's like probably pretty fucking important. So who's the little guy anyway?" Tapping the tines of her fork on the coffee mug "Another one of your neighbors?"
 
"Wait a minute..." This is not one of those 'hey everyone look at me lines' Austin usually delivers - this is more to himself than to anyone else, "Why were those cars all fucked up? What happened?" It fits into one of the crevices of conversation, just a little nook or cranny.
 
        "I don't know what you're talking about," says Newman, flatly, ignoring Billy entirely. "I didn't see anybody. Nobody did. We were all outside, I was helping people out of cars when I found him."
        Newman defaults back into a mechanical state, reciting facts. The overpowering insanity of this situation is forcing him to detach from it. He can't deal with this any more.
        "I don't know why the cars were tore up. How or why. I don't know."
 
Butch leans over towards Billy and mumbles something in to his ear beneith that stupid stinky hat.
 
Billy doesn't even look at Butch. He slumps further down in his seat, scratching up under that stupid smelly hat of his; right at the base of his skull. "Yeah," he says, after a moment, looking away from Newman. "Jimmy's wake is tonight. You all going?"
 
"Yeah," is all Austin says, looking a little lost in thought... mind drifting elsewhere. He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray, then lifts his coffee to give it a sip. "Newman, we're thinking of a guy with red hair. Probably pals with your dad. The lodge, or whatever."
So, technically, 'yeah' is not all Austin says. It's all he says for a little while, then, he says something else.
 
Morgan shoves her elbow into Austin's side. "Shut up man, he's not cool. Let's nobody talk for a few. Give the kid a tissue or something." Distracted again, where is the pie? Where is the waitress? Who're those other people walking in?
 
Newman sits there, in silence. He stares into his coffee, psychologically drained. What would Reed Richards do in a situation like this?
"Ok, we'll all stop talking for a few." Austin stops talking for a few. But only for a few seconds, before he begins speaking again, as if by compulsion, "Look, this not talking shit is in no way getting us closer to Billy's goal of cutting through bullshit, and before we split, oh-sister-of-mine," he sneers, "we ought to have some kind of coherent plan of cutting through the bullshit and figuring out what the fuck exactly is fucking going on, fuck."
 
A grizzled old trucker - he's ageless, a vision of a badass in suspenders and john deere - walks in and slumps on a stool at the counter. Glancing over his shoulder at the strange pentacle of brooding teenagers, he leers at their pancakes.
 
"Ainchu kids hoyd? Eez' dead." He coughs, wetly, and shakes his head. "Might as well be eatin' Ice Cream."
 
"Newman knows more than he's letting on," Billy interjects, leaning over to retrieve the check. He flips it over, scrutinizing it for his share of the bill. "And he could find out a lot more. How the fuck are we supposed to go figure out what those assholes are doing? This ain't some Nancy Drew bullshi--" Cut off. He looks up, squints at the trucker. No response. Just looking.
 
Morgan gets up in the booth, standing on the seat. She's up there looking down at the old trucker/derelict and Morgan's looking pretty well-fucking boiled. Looking down briefly, yes there's still pancakes there and no waitress in sight. Pointing, she bellows .. well, more like yells "WHAT DID YOU SAY?"
 
"He said, he's dead. Eat ice cream." Butch says helpfully.
 
Newman doesn't move, or look up, or do anything. He stares at his plate of pancakes once he gets tired of staring into his coffee. He wants to go home and sleep very badly. Sleep for the rest of his life.
 
The Waitress sticks her head through the door and flashes a bright grin. The perceptive may notice that, while this smile was being prepared in the kitchen, another one of her buttons parted. "Earl!" She bubbles. "How's the road treatin' you? You want your usual?"
 
Earl shrugs vaguely, adjusting his CAT POWER mesh hat, and shakes his head no with a broad smile. "Hell, no. I been waitin' yea's for this." Morgan stands and screams. The trucker glances to her, then looks back to Daisy with a beatific smile, as though the words themselves gave him pleasure to speak. "Steak, and Eggs. Rare's you can cook it." He shivers with anticipation. Then, he looks back to the corner, squinting under the brim of his hat. "Guess I took y'all for somebody different. Apologies. Never you mind, now, little missy."
 
What. Fuck. What the. Fuck fuck. Austin, putting down his coffee mug, drops it. Right on the tabletop. It hits the table, bounces once, spills everywhere, slides off the table, falls to the ground, clanks loudly. "We should go," Austin remarks sharply, "and we should go now." If you don't look at the guy, he won't see you. He will not see you. You are invisible. You are safe. But you are not safe. Because something you took to be true was a lie. And the thing you relied on to save you will not. Cannot. It is impossible. He grabs his womb-mate by the crook of the arm and insists, "Something is wrong not right we should figure it out later."
 
Morgan says "FUCK YOU, Asshole." Those were the most important words she'll have spoken today. Grabbed by her other, she grits her teeth and bites her tongue on something else. There's a scowl on her face, dark creases and the shadows of her hair covering the worst of the glances. "Fine."
 
A limber, younger Earl, this one a weatherworn Plains Indian with a denim biker vest, saunters in and pulls himself onto the adjacent stool. He looks, over Earl's bulk, at Morgan and laughs, shaking his head and clapping Earl on the shoulder. "Smooth Talkin' the ladies, eh?" He cups his hands and calls to the kitchen "Daisy! Usual for me, no syrup, fresh berries!" And flexes his fingers, eyeing Earl with a grin.
 
Earl snorts, shaking his head no, and turns his back to Morgan. He mutters something to the newcomer about crazy kids.
 
Billy continues to silently regard Earl; his expression twisting up into a grimace. Still, he doesn't say a goddamn thing. "Maybe we should leave," he echoes, looking away. He deposits a crinkled twenty in the middle of the table, dropping the bill face-up beside it. "I don't think I can handle any more inbred shitheads today." That last is definitely not in his quiet voice.
 
Butch stands up as well, making room for others to get out of the booth. Unhooking his keys makes for a obvious sign of departure as well, before the little mouth pieces with get him in to a fight he isn't in the mood for. "Yeah, that's great guys, lets go."
 
"Vincent, as I live and breathe! Looks like just about everybody's in town." If Daisy loses another button they'll need to start carding at the door. "You know Clint and Bobby was just in this morning? I'll get you your pancakes right away, hon. Earl, it's gonna be just a second on them eggs."
 
Vincent looks past Earl again, this time at Billy. He raises an eyebrow, curious and uncertain. Earl shakes his head no and waves it off, and Vincent seems to think that's a good enough reason to turn away.
 
Newman doesn't say anything. Instead, he silently prevents the coffee from spilling on him by shudderingly wiping at the wave with a napkin to knock it safely onto the floor, then pulls his hand back. He reaches into his wallet, drops ten bucks on the table (maybe as a tip, maybe to cover his share, who knows), and puts his wallet back. Money isn't really important to him any more. Without a word, he pulls himself up and stands up, taking a position near the rear of the group when they finally start leaving. He keeps his eyes on the floor, mostly because he can't deal with eye contact now rather than any sort of fear. There's only so much fear a human mind can intake at once.
 
Morgan mutters under her voice, stalking out like The Angriest Teenager Ever, keys clenched in her fist, shoulders hitched up and knit just as deeply. "Choke on it."
 
A backwards look takes in the two seated at the bar; Billy scrutinizes them for a long moment, even as his brother nudges him towards the exit. "Don't look so glum Newman," he mumbles, turning to push open the door. "At this rate, there'll be punch and pie at Jimmy's wake."
 
Oh, right, money. In his panic, Austin doubles back to drop some wadded up bills on the table, then double-doubles back to follow his friends out, out, out. But not out of here too fast -- he hesitates, a double-step, as he studies the insignia for a brief moment, centering himself maybe just a little bit. "C'mon, man," Austin murmurs to Newman as he passes, "we're all in on this together... double-time, champ." Out the door, out, out, out the door.

By GM Fiat (Between cuts):
 
- Austin intimidatingly Commands / Suggests that Newman cut first period and come to the diner.
- Billy gets Butch to Drive him to the Diner, since Newman's riding with the Goth Twins, and because some sense of sibling loyalty says that Butch ought to be there.
 
Cut To: INT - DINER - DAY (Moments Later)
 
Newman has, inexplicably, cut first period. Further, he has been taken against what little is left of his superego's will to a diner, where he sits obediently in a booth and stares at the menu flatly. Normally, Newman is very interested in food. Today, however, Newman is interested in making the non-stop full-on Technicolor hell ride he's been on for the past few days stop. At least he's not screaming at the Moon. Yet.
 
 
The posture is common enough for Billy. His stress shows, perhaps, in shoulders that slouch a little more than normal, in a gaze a little more distant, in the smell of marijuana being a little more evident. He slinks in just ahead of Butch. Herded, really.
 
Morgan drives fast for a teenager. For a girl. For anybody, really. It's like she's got this sixth sense and by the time she stops the car, everybody still feels like they're moving. That's how the whole morning has felt - a rushing onward toward one destination, into some zenith (or is it a black hole?). Morgan twirls the keys around and out of the ignition in increments; like she's testing for friction.
They don't have any waitresses in their dedicated section - the back booth with the biggest table - and yet somehow the coffee mugs are turned over and there's a carafe steaming at the far edge of the booth.
 
As for Austin, he is as cool and unobtrusive as the iceberg that struck the fatal scratch to the Titanic. Whatever happens behind those glassy eyes is nobody's damn business, man. Offhand: "Ought to try the pancakes. Dee-lish." It comes more as an order than a suggestion, underlined by it's quickly followed companion: "and the covered and smothered ain't bad either." That's the man (boy), carrying along his natural routine with only hints of trauma leaking out. He is one long thin line of tension, a kid with a badhaircut and a coat he paid too much for, utterly and entirely in command.
 
Butch trods along behind Billy, looking relaxed and cool in his 'Spartans' team jacket. The keys of the 69 Riv swinging on the clip in his belt loop, the 'clump' 'chink' of his shoes and keys adds to the escourted image of Billy.
 
Billy slouches into the booth across from the dynamic duo, narcotic to their necrotic. The coffee mug is upturned; he learns across the table to retrieve the carafe, pouring himself a cup. Not a word, so far. Not a goddamn word. Just the occasional sideways looks at the others, looks sometimes met, sometimes not. Look: coffee. Clunk of carafe
 
        Newman stares at the overturned coffee mug in front of him, moving his hands around it. He carefully turns the coffee mug over, then turns the handle to face to the right. He begins to stare into the dark depths inside the mug, mind spinning like a merry-go-round left running in fifth gear, the music playing badly out of sync with its jerky, desperate movements.
        He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be anywhere. In a way, he envies Billy, because in death he has found some modicum of peace. That's what Newman hopes, anyway. He can't take anything for granted any more. Everything is wrong.
        Another pang of longing hits him. He feels a lot like the Human Torch felt battling the Sandman in Strange Tales #115. Ice melting ... sand pressing in ... no help. No help at all.
        Right now, Newman would do about anything to have that polybagged Silver Age comic book back. Even thinking about it helps him regain some resolve. But that book is long, long gone.
 
Billy slouches into the booth across from the dynamic duo, narcotic to their necrotic. The coffee mug is upturned; he learns across the table to retrieve the carafe, pouring himself a cup. Not a word, so far. Not a goddamn word. Just the occasional sideways looks at the others, looks sometimes met, sometimes not. Look: coffee. Clunk of carafe against authentic imitation wood.
 
As the dishevelled truants settle around the table, the waitress finally arrives, moving with that gait that's at the same time smooth and trudging, quick without trying to be so. She flips to a clean sheet, raises an eyebrow at the Goth Twins and, as she sets an ashtray on the table, asks "...the usual for you two?"
 
Butch perches on the outtermost part of the booth, sticking his legs in to the aisle. He looks at the collected rabble for a second, then back around their quiet corner of the cafe. Breaking the silence first he asks for a glass of OJ, and then to the gloom troupe, "Hey. How's it goin?" Chipper and oblivous.
 
Austin does not bother to speak. Begins to roll a cigarette. Nods to the waitress, just nods once and says nothing. His eyes are on the waitress momentarily... then his sister. Back to Newman, lingeringly, searchingly. Sort of a 'what the fuck' thing going on, probably along with a bit of 'what's his problem?'. Then back to his sister. Then, he pours himself some coffee, doing his best to keep his hand steady.
 
There's music, too. Muzak Bruce Springsteen. Baby this town rips the bones from your back. Did Morgan say that? Her mouth still pressed into that same line. So probably not. It's just one of those thing, one of those songs so deeply embedded in the Top40 airwaves that you only /think/ you heard it. Beyond the Palace hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard; just outside the window on the highway a fourteen-wheeler rumbles west. She stares out the window, at the frozen grass in the median and mumbles "Yeah, thanks" to Flo and puts her fingers into the tobacco shake. Tap tap with her nails.
 
The waitress nods, writes something, then turns to raise an eyebrow at, all at once, Billy Butch and Newman. She's good at this - one eyebrow, one look, catches all three of them, no matter how they're sitting.
 
        Newman sits in his place, looking into his empty coffee mug. He doesn't say anything for a moment, then realizes he's been asked for an order. Mechanically, Newman falls back on reflex.
        "The special, please," he says, soft-spoken, polite -- voice that of someone who feels he has aged twenty years in two days. He won't burden them with it, though. Not unless he has to. Not unless they're willing to descend into Hell with him.
        Newman wonders if he would have been able to talk to Jimmy about this. Jimmy was always a good listener. You could trust him. He understood you, accepted you. That was why everyone liked him so much. But now...
 
"I'm good," Billy doesn't so much address the waitress as speak vaguely in her direction. "Uhm," second thoughts. The first an automatic response: instinctive, not really driven by the frontal lobes. A moment's pause, then, in order: "Scrambled eggs, hash browns, side of sausage." Pause. "Yeah. Thanks - sorry." He gives the waitress a kind of wan smile, before returning his attention to his coffee.
 
Another pregnant pause, and Butch looks around the table again. No joy here, not surprisingly. But he could be off mourning doing something he enjoys in a place he would like to be, like on the pitch or in the back seat with a cheerleader. So he asks it, "So, Billy - why we here?"
 
"They'll try the pancakes," Austin insists, sharp, sudden, glancing up at his friends with something like suspicion - but really, it fades into annoyance. That'll show them not to take his goddamn advice. He then puts the cigarette in his mouth and lights it - still studying his friends as he does so - like goddamn Charles Bronson.
 
Morgan looks like she was just about to interrupt everyone with a sharp look at her brother. That was my line, punk. Mine, you hear? And then she's back in her not-so-happy place, fixing her eyes on her mug, saucer. Turns them over, rubs her tobacco'd finger across the raised buffalo on the china, sighs "Because it's safe."
 
"The special," says Newman, quietly, "and the pancakes, please."
 
The Waitress nods with a vague smile. Like she's in on the joke with the twins. "Five Pancakes, one special..." She glances at Billy. "Still want those eggs, hon?"
 
"Yeah, okay. Pancakes," acknowledges Billy, giving his brother a sideways, accusatory glare. When the waitress finally clears out, he hisses: "Because we aren't as good at lying to ourselves as you are." Uncommonly aggressive words, for him.
"And because we have a lot to tell you."
 
Morgan's not the most fluid of speakers, letting Newman and the waitress interrupt her like it happens all the time. Waiting for the waitress to leave. "But first," one brow arched, staring at Newman, and now she starts to come back; like where she was five minute ago definitely wasn't the diner "Lucy's got some 'splain'in to do."
 
Believe it or not, watching his friends cave in brightens Austin's day. (Believe it.) Then, maganimously Austin adds, to Billy: "You can still have the eggs if you want. I recommend 'em." He takes a slow inhale of smoke, then exhales up towards the light, steadying his jangled nerves; as his sister speaks, Austin suggests, the spitting image of faux-mellow, "Why don't we wait for the food to get here...? Let's just sit. Nice and quiet. And wait for the food to get here."
 
"I like quiet," Newman says, softly.
 
The waitress, nodding, tucks her pad away and walks back behind the counter, singing softly along to her favorite Bruce Springsteen song, playing softly on the jukebox.
 
Butch sighs heavily and sits back. Consigned to his fate of being here for a while. Antics like this don't make sense to Butch. He's not a drone by a long shot, but a obsessed winner - the bright reflection of Billy, and all this shit is what losers do, they brood and gripe and look for pity. Not Butch. Shit happens, you move on and win. Simple really.
 
Morgan slams her fist on the table, shuttling coffee in their mismatched saucers, grabs the dull butter knife and points it at Newman. She can only do this because her brother is otherwise occupied oggling the reason he wants to just "sit" and be "quiet".
"Fuck what you like. You? Need to tell us what they're doing."
 
Fidgeting in place, Billy finally looks up; scrutinizing Austin's features. Then, a look to to the side: Newman. "I need a cigarette," he murmurs. It's notable that Billy doesn't really smoke cigarettes. "I'll be back." He elbows Butch; half-clambers over his brother. Pause - look back. "And when I am, no bullshit, huh? This is too fucked up for us to bullshit." And exeunt: out the back door, where there's a convenient dumpster.
 
"That is a fucking -compelling- point Billy brings up," Austin states, lifting his coffee with one hand - the other holds the cigarette. Austin lets his eyes roll towards Morgan - and though the motion is laid back, his eyes flash with something akin to anger. "This /is/ too fucked up for us to bullshit. So maybe we should wait for our delicious pancakes to show up. Because shit is awfully fucked up. So maybe we should. Um. Wait. For our pancakes. You know? You think?" Then, ashing his cigarette, he adds, plain as day, "Well, /I/ think."
 
The sounds of frying foods and of The Boss, at about equal volume, waft from the swinging door to the kitchen. This Gun, apparently, Is For Hire.
 
        Newman looks up from his coffee mug. His demeanor abruptly changes from morose to that of a desperately crazy individual, eyes boring into Morgan's like lasers. The jittery, primeval fear he's been living with works its way out through his big, round head right into his eyes. You'd swear the arteries in those balls of lard on either side of his face were throbbing.
        "I ... can't tell you. Because you wouldn't believe me. I don't believe me. I don't believe anything any more."
        He maintains that desperate, pleading stare for a few more seconds, then reaches a twitchy hand over to the coffee carafe, pouring it shakily. "I'm losing it, man. I'm losing it, and I don't want to take anybody with me. I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be with anyone."
 
"Woah, like chill dude." is Butch's words of advice as he re-seats himself after his brothers sudden need for, ahem, 'fresh air'.
 
"Either you're with us or you're against us." She's also down with the simplicity-of-words method of communicating. It is the diner, after all. Morgan does put the knife down. Like. She wasn't really that serious at all about cutting anyone. Really.
 
Seeing Newman totally lose his cool - well, it'd be a lie to say that it doesn't shake Austin up a little bit. It shakes him up quite a lot, actually - it's momentarily visible, a shadow passing across his face. There but for the grace of God (or something like that)... he takes a drag on his cigarette... takes a sip of coffee... exhales the smoke. "Easy, man," Austin murmurs, then, a little louder, "Look, I'll believe it. After what... yeah, look, I'm in a believing mood. And I got kind of a feeling we're already sort of all..." He glances to Morgan, then Newman, then Butch... then, with a sardonic smile, "We're sort of -all- in it. Hip deep in it."
Good twin, bad twin. Cool twin, pissed twin. And Austin (of the aforementioned pose) is determined to play cool twin.
 
Well, Billy isn't gone for long. School has taught Billy to speed-smoke like nobody's business, in order to maintain a healthy level of perpetual intoxication. He's back before the pancakes, returning -- with some nudging of Butch -- to his previous seat.
Butch's brows knit up, "Huh?" is his honest response. The fact that he has no idea what the fuck you guys are talking about is starting the wear on him.
 
        Newman doesn't say anything else for a while. He takes a greedy sip of his coffee -- he hasn't eaten since the cast party -- and puts it aside once the food arrives.
        "Thank you," he says, voice modulating back down to its normal pace and level of tepid intensity. He applies a liberal amount of syrup to his pancakes, cuts them four strips down and four across, and starts eating mechanically.
 
 
"So with the bullshit cutting," murmurs Billy, scrutinizing his food. He sets into his food like a starving wild animal, as per the usual.
 
Morgan sticks her knife into the half frozen packets of butter, flips them out and slips them into the center of her stack of pancakes. And she waits, hands beneath the table and the knife disappeared within. Seems perfectly calm, waits for the syrup to make it's way around the table.
 
Yes, food. Yes. Austin begins to eat his pancakes unadulterated - just tucks right in. Not that he's really hungry anyway. Cigarettes + coffee have his stomach somewhat paralyzed. So he begins to eat, a few bites at a time. Mmm, mm, good. Mildly: "Ok. Yes. Cut some bullshit. Newman. What the fuck. What the /fuck/ is going on? Maybe we can put what we've got together, and get a general idea of what is happening here."
 
        The fat kid eats for a while. He's starting to sweat as he eats, which isn't that abnormal. Newman's a sweaty comic book geek. He always has been, always will be. He's always been a know-it-all asshole and is rarely seen off his game. This is why the longer this goes on, the more unsettling this becomes. Something is very, very wrong. And the signs keep pointing back to him.
        He drinks more of his coffee, hands jittery. That isn't a caffeine buzz, yet. He wants very desperately to leave. But he can't. As badly as he wants to keep anyone else from getting hurt, he's too afraid to go off on his own.
        It takes him a few seconds to go about a lengthy stalling routine of chewing, swallowing, drinking some coffee, swallowing, wiping his hands on a napkin, and so on. Sooner or later he runs out of stall tactics and has to face the music. His twitchy gaze rolls back up to Austin and stays there, primarily because Austin isn't making him feel any more threatened than he already is.
        "My dad...the lodge. You know the lodge guys, they have the tattoos, the two Ms. They take me hunting a lot. I never want to go, but they make me go. Some of them are nice to me. I never thought they were bad people."
        He looks back to his coffee cup, picking it up, taking a drink. "My dad isn't a bad person. We don't always get along, but he's a good man. He cares about me. But..."
        Newman wipes at his brow with the back of his forearm, palms soaking wet. He wipes them on the napkin again.
        "You won't believe me. You'll think I'm nuts ... I shouldn't say anything, I'm probably just going /crazy/." At the last, his voice raises several octaves, like a balloon neck being squeezed off. He's only just barely keeping himself from having a panic attack. Newman is very, very scared.

Billy -- who's already dug into a huge portion of his food -- deposits his fork on the plate, apparently done for the moment. His attention rests on Newman with zen calm; Newman could probably claim Jimmy was assassinated by aliens, and he wouldn't bat an eye. But the connections are already adding up; he remembers the scene the night of Jimmy's death. The only outward sign of anger he gives is an abnormally tight grip on the coffee mug. Still, he says nothing.
 
Morgan slips a little, half-lidded toward her twin. With her chin mashed into his shoulder she asks "Could you please pass me that," and we hear something clatter underneath the table to the floor. We can hear Morgan toe-dragging it back somewhere within her reach but she's not going to pick it up. The waitress is already on it, knows the sound so well, drops the carafe with another knife for Morgan. And she listens. To Newman start to spill his guts. It kind of wipes that half-a-grin right off her face, removes her entirely from pancake bliss. Or whatever it was. Gone.
She finishes "..I'm hungry," indicating the syrup again. "You're not crazy."
 
Sometimes, you got to lead, follow, or get the fuck out of the way. Up until now, Austin had been taking the tack of sort of getting the fuck out of the way - let Morgan threaten Newman obliquely, she's good at that. But it's time to take a new tack, because 'cool twin' is not at all helping. And fuck follow. So, lead. And what do leaders do? They make difficult decisions. "Be cool." Austin puts his fork down in the middle of his pancakes.
 
Taking a slow breath, Austin takes a moment to study everyone else's plate. Then, somehow satisified... "I saw some guys kill some bikers." Puffpuff the cigarette. Then, mildly, "And I think the bikers were werewolves." There, fuck it, it's said. It doesn't stop his hand from trembling - the trembling only increases. "I mean, not exactly werewolves. I don't know what the fuck. Look. Be cool. I'm crazy too, but you knew that, right." Right. Long, powerful inhale from his cigarette. Hear the crackle of cigarette papers.
 
Butch just listens. NO scoffing or belitting. No nuthin actually. Just stonewall silence.
 
        Newman is making his own gravy. He looks down when Austin brings up the bikers, staring into his coffee cup. Newman is not going to look into anyone's eyes right now. He's going to stare into his coffee, and try to get something resembling his demeanor back. The fear isn't going anywhere.
        He knows. Austin knows ... he /saw/. Newman has no idea if the other lodge members know or not. If Austin is some sort of plant, looking to test his loyalty. If he's not going to be taken out behind the building and shot once he finishes eating his pancakes. If Uncle Jesse isn't across the road, behind a blind,lining the reticle of that terrifying German military-issue sniper rifle up behind his right ear, waiting for the signal.
        He rubs at the back of his head, sweat mixing with sweat. He uses up another napkin afterward to wipe at his hands.
        "I killed one of them," he says, in a near-whisper, staring at the table. "I pulled the trigger, felt the kick, smelled the burning skin, heard the body hit. Closed my eyes and pulled the trigger."
        He reaches out for his coffee, locks his hands around it, and can't make his hands not shake enough to pick it up. Newman just grips onto it like a drowning man to a life-ring. "Monsters aren't real, man. Monsters aren't real ... but I killed something. Something that had eyes, a brain. And it was going to kill me. Us. I had to. I was right to...wasn't I? I mean, I had no choice..."
        And he trails off.
 
Billy stares at Newman, blank-eyed and nominally incredulous. At length, he looks away; dips a finger into his coffee to stir it. It doesn't need stirring. Retract, index finger in his mouth. Quietly: "Jimmy wasn't no werewolf, man," he says, quietly, voice tempered, but with a low, almost threatening edge. "One of those assholes shot Jimmy, right? They think he was a fuckin' werewolf? Because that's the biggest load of horse-shit -ever-."
 
Plus it was your dad and the fucking leprechan that basically started it all. So what the fuck." She saw, she was there, too. She *drove*. Morgan elbows up on the table and reaches for where the damn syrup is. Dragging it back, she unloads about half the container onto her plate digs in, hacking away at her pancakes. Fork in one hand, carafe in the other, she pours and eats like there's nothing wrong. Nothing wrong at all. Now she's cool.
 
The Waitress returns, at this moment. Empties the ashtray. Refills the OJ. Reclaims the carafe, glances at the emptying plates and asks, "y'all want some pie?"
 
Morgan looks at Austin, wondering if that's on the menu, too. Or if it means something else. Well? Do we want pie? is what she seems to ask with her continued stare.
 
        Newman sits in silence for a while as the others pass judgement. He can offer no defense. His world has been systematically destroyed over the past day and a half, leaving only the constant of his comic books. And the dreams. The horrible dreams.
        "Whatever he says I'll have, I'll have," Newman says, indicating Austin with a understated gesture. After that, he spends some time looking into his coffee. Eventually he brings it to his lips, taking a sip just to keep his throat working. He puts it back down, tries to pick back up his fork. It shudders like Muhammad Ali was trying to straighten his grip.
 
"I would love some pie," Austin announces, dismally. "Just the one piece..." He's hardly touched the pancakes! How can you have pie if you don't have pancakes. Why not have the pie, though? "Pie sounds sort of good right now." Ffft... hhhh... in goes the smoke, out goes the smoke. Werewolves? What werewolves? Murdered friend? Oh, right.
 
"I'm fine," returns Billy, attention still fixed on Newman; waiting for some kind of explanation. For this. For being here, right now. His food seems entirely forgotten.
Morgan nodsnods at the Waitress. Pie for me, too. Still forking her way through the last of her pancakes - chaseing the bits around in the thinning puddles of syrup. Sugar. Must be a thing with her. Pie and coffee. It should be the best damn Cherry Pie.
 
Butch smirks. When he hears pie all he thinks is cheerleaders, but declines any confectionary offers. On a version of the Atkins diet with tryouts around the corner.
 
The Waitress nods, writes the check out and leaves it behind as she takes the order for pie, and the empty carafe, with her.
 
        Once the waitress leaves, Newman continues on his previous topic. Some of the tension has gone away, but that's like saying a boulder the size of a VW Beetle taken out of a mountain is a reduction.
        "I don't know if they were involved," he says. "I don't know why all the cars were torn up like that. I don't know ... I don't know!"
        His voice raises dangerously. Newman realizes this and brings it back down, wiping at his brow again. He takes another greedy drink of coffee to try to settle his nerves. This is like doing crack to calm down.
        "I don't know what they'd do if they knew other people knew about what they were doing. I never dared to say anything. I don't know what they're capable of ... these are my neighbors, my family ... life isn't supposed to be like this."
        He looks into his coffee mug, and again falls silent.
 
"It sounds like we've got a pretty clear picture of the puzzle," Austin states, matter of factly. "But we still don't know which direction is up and which direction is down. We know /who/ killed Jimmy, and we even kind of know where to find the fucker, but we don't know why, and that seems kinda important. 'cause... for all we know, you know, there might be a list." A quick glance askance at his sister - not even a moment's pause, just a flicker of the eyes at her and he's moving on. "I think this is... probably an important thing to figure out, something we've all... got a stake in figuring out... because I'd like to find the fucker and I'd sort of like to kill him. But we have to know if he's the only fucker we have to kill." A pause - then, pointedly, at Newman, "Well, we know. I mean, we know something, probably enough. The way I see it, we can't go to them and tell them we know. We have to find out enough to find our own way out of this mess."
 
"I nominate Newman," Billy offers, dryly. His coffee has gone cold, and he makes no move to bother refilling or warming it. Slouched down in his seat, arms crossed across his chest, he squints at Newman. "You've killed werewolves with them," again with the deadpan tone. "Maybe you could ask dad why he and his redneck buddies decided to gun Jimmy down like a deer, huh?"
 

The Next Day:
Set the scene at the small memorial of photos, flowers and graffitti that marks James Liotta's still locked locker.
 
Newman has been here a while. By the look of him, he hasn't slept at all. His Pudginess has been helping people put stuff up on Jimmy's locker, eyes dark and somewhat glazed. Clearly he's taking this pretty hard. Among other things.
 
Butch shows up just as the bell goes off. Clean, groomed and looking alright all considered. His hands have a layer of hockey tape wrapped around the knuckles after yesterdays 'coping techniques'. He still looks bothered, not as much as the weeping multitudes, the game must go on afterall but he's obviously not immune to the current crisis.
 
Billy slouches in behind Butch, without so much as the vaguest preamble at being sober. His mushroom cap is pulled low: not so much shielding his eyes as nearly obscuring his face. Narrowed red eyes -- we was crying, right? -- and a notable pungency are visible at close quarters.
 
Newman is keeping the decorations meticulously organized, focusing on the ritual of showing grief rather than the grief itself. He can't think about last night. He can't let himself start to remember.
 
Butch copes in his own way, like everyone else. It may not seem the most sensitive or suitable but who's to say which way you should feel, "So, see that Chiefs game on the weekend?" Yeah, he's serious.
 
The bell rang seven minutes ago. Long enough for everyone to get settled into their seats, books on the floor, passing tissues. Any minute now the PA system will start to crackle again. The homeroom teacher has taken off and put on her glasses so many times now it could be considered an obsessive compulsory act. The PA sends out a little feedback then reigns itself in - a microphone being tested. The door opens in the heavy silence, reinforced glass rattling as loudly as the doorknob squeaks.
 
Morgan walks in redrimmed and carrying yesterday's grime. Even her shoes are still crunching across the tile, studded with broken glass and gravel.
 
For his part, Austin follows just a little bit behind his sister, carrying a cup of coffee. It's hard to tell if he's been awake or asleep - his hair is greasy, but isn't it always? and he looks a bit out of sorts, but that's maybe to be expected. He sips the coffee and sort of wanderingly follows Morgan, looking dazed and somewhat appropriately shell-shocked. Things are fucked. Things are utterly, totally, and completely fucked.
 
Newman is finally pulled away from the shrine by a sympathetic teacher. Mechanically, he makes his way into homeroom and takes his usual seat. He, too, has the look of shellshock about him. All he can see is the bullet in Jimmy's head ... and the hunt. The terrible, terrible hunt.
 
Neither of them carry bookbags or books of any kind, Morgan and Austin are clearly not planning on staying longer than they have to today. There's something jittery catching up with Morgan, enters her walk so that she trips into an empty seat, lacking all grace and discretion. She's vibrating. Just like her brother; brighter and attracting the attention of anyone seeking sameness. A blue Bic ballpoint sticks out behind her ear, uncapped, the cap between her teeth. She looks over her shoulder at Austin, hair straggling in wisps across her eyes and mouth, says something to him in a language like Spanish.
 
Butch is in a senior year homeroom, and continues to cope by talking sports with whomever is willing. Politely ignoring the current mass trauma the student body is reeling from. Chiefs, Royals and even golf at one point.
 
The caffeine jangles somehow keep Austin calm and focused. He's leeching off his sister, probably, through some our-zygotes-touched twin-power. He sips his coffee slurpingly as he coolly regards Morgan, setting his coffee down on the edge of her desk. Whatever it is she said, she doesn't have to say it twice. He walks around behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder. With the other hand, he aims two fingers towards Newman. "Hey," he says, voice not so much 'cool and even' as it is 'devoid of tone'. Mono-tone, you might call it. Then, again, in case Newman has any doubt who it is issued at: "Hey."

Billy is off getting his drugs from his LOCKER since his BROTHER has to DRIVE him places. (ahem).
Newman, then, is first outside.
There, on the freeway that describes one long edge of the school property's quadrangle, a dead body seems insignificant, sprawled in blood, looked down on by the looming overpass a hundred yards away. Bathed in Klieg lights, the scene is carnage - all around the boy, cars are flipped and crumpled; some colossal pile-up knocked them from the street. Everything is shards and chaos. With all the screams, from in and out of the mauled automobiles, it's a few minutes before a female voice pierces one of thosemomentary concordances of silence, speaking softly but heard by everyone at once as she turns the sprawled body over.
"Oh my god it's Jimmy."
 
Morgan isn't much of a screamer. With a brow arched, she casually sidesteps from the aisle into row T, leans in chairs 12 and 13. One hand in her pocket. One fist in her pocket, watching the crowd filter and mill, stunned. The waves of whispers start, alarmed and frightened. She hasn't heard yet. It twitches over the arc of conversation like static electricity.
 
Austin catches it first, blocks carefully and cautions a glance at his sister. He can't keep it in check, passes it in a wrinkle, a crease in his brow.
 
Wading through the throngs of teenageness a good head and a half taller that the majority of the kids Butch gets the info a little quicker, unfortunately his testosterone addled brain takes a few moments to register what the sudden change is. "Jimmy?" he asks absently before grabbing the first kid he can get his mitts on, "Where's Jimmy?" he asks the clueless freshman before beginning to plow his way through the crowd towards the door. A wake of open space is left behind him like a boat pushing upstream.
 
Newman was heading with the crowd, and gets swept along with them when the panic starts. He does his part to help out, thinking it to be just a horrific car accident. He starts helping people pull the injured out of their potentially explosive cars -- but his attention snaps to the other end of the road when he hears the word `Jimmy'. "Jimmy?!" he shouts, lumping along as fast as his flubber can fly to try to get to him.
 
Traffic coming off the clover-leaf from the overpass is being routed back in the oncoming lane. The highway's being shut down. A dented Chevy pulls out of its convoy, abandoning the pickups surrounding it, and turns into the school parking lot. The 'Gun Control is Hitting Your Target' sticker, combined with the 'My President is Charleton Heston' do not identify the car as Newman's Father's. What does that is the third sticker - a Go Home Hillary sticker sent to him by a lodge-brother in New York, which is the envy of all his friends.
 
Newman's Father - Hank - gets out of the truck, adjusts his hat, and walks over towards Newman and the body, shaking his head and clucking.
 
Hank rests a gentle hand on Newman's shoulder, sighing. "He was a friend of yours?"
 
Austin has a cigarette in his mouth before he's out the door. His unusually wrinkled brow acquires a whole new prominence now - a storm brews in his generally disinterested gaze; now intent and alive, a tempest in a teapot, a tumult of emotion. "C'mon," he says to his sister, his voice crisp and sharp, "c'mon, c'mon... come... on," he adds, perhaps, at the first time in some time, at a loss for words. But that's alright, he knows what to do - he shuts the fuck up and leads his sister out of the auditorium, past the teachers with their occasionally accusing stare at his cigarette, past the fuckhead kids he knows, out to see the truth, whatever it might be, with his own eyes.
 
Jimmy's got a bullethole in his forehead. He's lying there, staring blankly up at the freeway lights, with shattered cars all around him and the back of his head missing entirely.
 
Newman gets up to the ring of people around Jimmy in time to see the horrible sight. His father gets there a few critical seconds later, allowing Newman's mind to shut off. He can't believe what he's seeing. A mixture of shock and bile begins churning through his system, adrenaline hitting, palms sweating. He wants to back away, but can't. He wants to close his eyes, but won't. His father's voice seems very far away ... but the hand on his shoulder helps to bring him back. As much as Newman and his dad differ, he's still his dad: and Newman, for all of his self-assured superiority in the realm of comic books, is grateful he is here.
 
"Jimmy ... someone shot Jimmy," he says. "Oh God, oh God. How did this happen?"
 
Butch plows through the crowd, coming up behind Jimmy's weird Goth friends. Clamping a heavy mitt on Austin's shoulder he asks the obvious, "Wha's goin on? Where's Jimmy?" more demanding than inquisitive.
 
Morgan breathes out hard, nostrils flaring, shaping herself to Austin's shadow. Just this once. Eyes bulging out of her head. Stress doll straining not to see, not to see. Quietly she responds when he's wrenched away revealing the scene "Few feet above, few feet below I'd guess." She cants her head to the left, like she's trying to put Jimmy's egghead back together.
 
For his part, Austin only gets a quick glimpse of Jimmy - like a single flash of lightning, tearing through the dark. It's not long in duration, but it's still too long, too damn long; it was long enough to know for sure the second he saw. He turns away from the scene, directly towards Butch - he glances at the jock for moment, then glances away... then looks back at Butch, his features hard; Austin is granite. "Not here." He squints, gestures behind himself, to the side, in the vague vicinity of Jimmy, the tumult of violence, cops, autocrashes, lights. "Take a look for yourself..." He begins to pat himself down, probably looking for a lighter, looking bewildered, dejected, hard, angry, alone in all the world.
 
Hank shakes his head no again, frowning. "Here... why don't you go and... and phone the police. Somebody ought to, and nobody here seems to be keeping their head well as you have." Sure, the police are already here, and will soon notice the evidence. But it's still nice to see dad trying to make Newman feel better. "I'll meet you back at the truck."
 
Newman mechanically takes the phone, fumbling with it as Hank starts to head back to the truck. "Yeah," he says, "call the cops, yeah." He has no idea what he's doing. One of his best friends just got killed, there's busted up cars all over the place, nobody knows what's going on -- but Newman focuses his attention on the phone and begins a completely needless 911 call to the cops he stumbles by.
 
First the color drains, then it is quickly replaced by a firey redness, starting from Butches neck and quickly reaches his forehead with an explosive, "What the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK!" and he rams past anyone in his way, pushing up to the edge of the scene,
"WHO DID THIS?! WHO FUCKIN DID THIS?!" he bellows at the onlookers, fists clenching and unclenching in spasmodic fits of anger.
 
People lose track of Morgan at times; she can be so weird, like, ultra. Passing adults, crushed red plastic, green glass. Morgan shuffles northwest toward Jimmy's head. She stares a woman with black ash on her cheeks, at the car she's being pulled from. Distracted momentarily by her reflection in chrome and splinters of fiberglass. All that blood in the pavement.
 
whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck... it's hard for Austin to keep that shit inside, what with it being echoed externally in the form of the much more verbally bellicose Butch. "what. the FUCK!" he shouts, unable to keep it down, utterly and competely incapable of keeping his cool any longer. Sometimes, in the heat, your cool evaporates. But sometimes, the only cool thing to do is to lose your cool. Regardless, Austin spins towards something that he saw. Face flushed, florid, eyes flashing with anger. Eyes momentarily flit to Hank... then, Austin begins to creep off on his own, flicking his cigarette to the side, studying something near the school with his eyes. He meanders vaguely in that direction, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.
 
Morgan saw it, too and makes some gesture in her wake. Something like sign language only Austin could deciper. Moving fast because she's smaller than the cornfed locals, and dark and nobody was watching her anyway. No parents shouting for other possible victims. "Susy? Johnny? Josiah?" Not this girl. This girl is cool. And her fist is starting to come out of her pocket as she enters someone else's long black veil.
 
Newman finishes his 911 call, then dazedly heads back to his father's truck and gets in. He's fried; Hank could probably convince him to do anything right now. You don't see something like that without being changed by it. Somebody killed Jimmy. Somebody killed him. But how? Why? He has no answers.
 
Failing the identification of any conveinent target Butch turns to a squashed Lumina sedan vacated on the road and proceeds to bash the motherfucker with his hands and feet until his knuckles bleed.
After venting, Butch lumbers after the Gothlings. Why? They're his brothers friends, and there is a real lack of jock-types attending performing arts around these parts.
 
Noooo-body knows... nobody sees... nobody knows, but me. Austin steps carefully across the freshly laid sod, mud all over his Chuck Taylors. The rail-thin lad halfturns for a moment to glimpse at his other half, and catches her bodylanguage in passing. He turns back around quickly, but half-shrugs, tilting his head a little to the side. Non-spoken signals of understanding, amongst others.
 
Morgan moves quick, Austin moves slow but patient, winding but definite, a real destination in mind. He's apparently aware of Butch lumbering up behind him, based on the way his head cranes up, to the side a little; but makes no visible sign of recognition. Doesn't even turn to look. His eyes are fastened.
 
Butch makes some nice indents in the sod with his sized 13 $200 Nike X-trainers, they really do make you run faster. Following the grusome twosome, "Hey guys! Ya want a ride?" Totally oblivious to the subtler points of The Sneak.
 
Morgan moves into the stage's side door that just happens to lead out to the front of the school where the "security" flood lights create the bermuda triangle of Places To Go 007. She was just getting down into a good creeping position, touching a finger from her forehead to the tip of her nose when el Jocko barrels through their only defense. Well. That's what a lineman does. So Morgan hesitates, says "fuck" under her breath.
 
"Tread light, kemo sabe," Austin seethes, turning away from the prey towards Butch - deceptively lean face filled to overflowing with... well, there's a truckload of words you could use to describe the emotion, they're all synonyms of 'anger', and even all together, they aren't quite appropriate to sum up what exactly is going on with Monsieur Austin Cliff. "Something is stinking here in Teutonsville," he hisses through a snaggletooth clench. Then, unphased, he turns back towards the stage door. "If you're as capable of being quiet as you are of being pissed off," he grimly intones, not entirely without fondness, "then you should probably come with me because I think my sister and I have been discussing it and we're are probably going to kill one of Newman's dad's insane redneck friends and we'll probably need help."
 
The three of them burst backstage. The redneck is exiting as they do so, out the opposite hallway. Just entering, however, are Billy, Mr. (Paul) and Mrs. (Jane) Petranovic. The ensuing confusion - just a few moments - gives the redneck the lead he needs to mostly escape. The goth twins sprint after him. Butch attempts to do so as well, but his parents are adamant. Scary adamant. YoungManYouWillComeHomeThis InstantRightNow.
 
So Butch and Billy are dragged home, after exchanging pregnant and meaningful 'tell me everything' looks with the goth twins, who soon tear out of the school to see the redhead get into a waiting pickup truck and leave. Morgan and Austin dutifully get into their car, and follow after.
 
***
Unbeknownst to all but our studio audience:
 
That night, once they are sure the children are feigning sleep upstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Petranovic share a pained glance.
 
"You got it?" asks Paul.
 
Jane nods and sighs. "He was only seventeen. I can't believe...”
 
Paul nods and winces. "That's why we're here. Why we came.”
 
"Fucking Minutemen," Jane spits. "Well, whatever. I hope they like my old coffee-mug for all the good it'll do them."
 
Jane then removes Jimmy's Goblet from her purse. She walks to her curio cabinet, all sad clowns and porcelain ballerinas tying their laces. Tchotchkes that no-one but a great-aunt would look twice at. She opens the cabinet and puts the goblet on an empty stretch of shelf. Closing it, she turns the key and abruptly, where the goblet once stood there is now a Franklin Mint World's Littlest Hobo plate, on its commemorative display stand.
 
Shaking their heads wearily, the Petranovics head for sleep.
 
***
End Episode 1.
Roll Credits.

Jimmy, friend to all of you - Gay, Strange, Popular Jimmy - is appearing in the school play tonight. It is Friday. It's February. Spring Break approaches, and Winter Break is fresh in our memories.
 
We are backstage. In a fit of Senioritis, Jimmy has begun the cast party early. He's been accepted early to the London School of Drama for the Fall. So while he, in stage makeup and tights, grins nervously and tries not to forget his lines, his friends jostle and murmur around him, passing a bottle across a table littered with stage props.
 
Jimmy re-enters from on Stage, shivering faintly with excitement. He's been manic all night. Whoever has the paper-bagged bottle of Boone's Farm is relieved of it, and Jimmy raises it in toast. "Kansas." He grins. "God I want to leave."
 
Billy is offering something to Jimmy -- backwards, palm curled inward and backwards, elbow nudging star-boy in the ribs. Billy is being studiously, pointedly ignored; prompting rolled shoulders and a palm to the left pocket. "Whatever, man," catch-phrase and catch-all, a quote turned habitual. He's still grinning, however - whatever boon was offered, he didn't expect it's acceptance.
 
Jimmy swigs from the bottle, setting it down on the props table, between the plastic skull and the gold-painted chalice. He shakes his head no absently - more of a habit than an actual no-thank-you - and stretches, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He pours some red-dyed water into the chalice. It will be blood when the page brings it on stage halfway through the coming scene. He is mouthing the lines on stage as they are spoken and then, on cue, he winks broadly at Morgan and steps back out into the spotlight.
 
Hair that looks like it was cut with a straight razor and dyed with motor oil, Austin leans against the windowframe and shivers a bit deeper into his thin leather coat. "Fuuuuck this place," he grinds in congenial agreement, voice all gravel. Cool air blows in through the open window. He takes a long drag on his hand-rolled smoke, then exhales, adding, almost to himself, "You are fan-fuckin'-tastic tonight, Jimmy. Run-do-not-walk from Tootin'-ville Cans-ass..."
 
Newman is sitting in front of the plastic skull, taking the bottle once Jimmy sets it down. "You're killing out there, Jimmy," he says. "After tonight, I'd be surprised if Broadway didn't come down here and pick you up in a limo."
Newman, in a chair, /by/ the table.
 
Straight cut and hearty as American Pie, Butch keeps his distance from the rest of the riff-raff collected here, including his little brother Billy. His ham-sized fists are jammed in the pockets of this varsity jacket. His mere presence, an All-State athlete, is enough of a statement for him to make congratulating Jimmy on his achievement.
 
Morgan gives Austin a solid what-for elbowing, stage-whispers "Shut UP Austin" still a teensy bit stricken. You know how girls can be. She murmurs something else, being backstage and only slightly in the way, whispers again "He's amazing and you're going to *ruin everything*. So just shut up." Maybe there's other noises from below - from the Pit; that open space down below the stage where they keep all the old flats and frenells. The Pit, where all the graffitti on the walls reads like painted history of Teutonsville, Kansas - which football team ruled, which cheerleader was a slut, who loved who in what year and who went absolutely no where. It's all a documented fact down there. Down there where Morgan "<3s" Jimmy and he "<3s" her, too.
 
Nathan Chandrashakaran, token Pakistani student, looks ridiculous in his robins-egg-blue page's outfit. But he picks up the chalice, sets it on a platter, and steps out onto stage.
 
Austin fixes Morgan with eyes blue like the little cubes of shattered safety glass left behind in the wake of an accident. What do you say to something like that, getting elbowed in the ribs by your twin sister? If you're Austin... nothing. The man just... stares. Just burrows holes in her skull, just stares deep into her, upper lip at one corner twisting to reveal his snaggletoothed sneer - but only briefly, before he takes another pull on the cigarette that dangles from the corner of his mouth, shivering. Then, silent, he exhales a really tremendous cloud of smoke into his beloved sister's face, thrusting his own face uncomfortable close to hers.
 
Newman, meanwhile, takes his share of the bottle and puts it back on the table, leaning forward a bit in his seat to look over the skull again. It's his pride and joy, this skull -- he wants to be sure it looks absolutely perfect before it has to spend its scene sitting all by itself on a table doing nothing in particular. He takes a little brush out of his back pocket and spreads the black around a little more inside the eye sockets, making it a little less shiny.
 
Billy sniffs, 'plopping' his index finger from the inside of his cheek. The moist digit is wiped on his ratty jeans, leaving a moist salvia imprint. Wrist across the back of his mouth, and he straightens in place, craning his neck to further inspect the action on-stage. A couple people to the far side of the auditorium probably even see his mushroom hat -- which does, in fact, kinda look like it belongs to that little midget dude from Mario Brothers.
 
The moment when Jimmy drinks the 'blood' is the final scene of the play, and the dramatic climax. Center stage, illuminated by a lone white spotlight, before a table bare except for a skull, he throws back his elbow and drains the cup, to a roaring wave of applause. He seems to swell with it, and the moment the light dies he reels backwards, waits in the dark for a moment, then returns towards the wings in which you wait.
 
Morgan opens her mouth like she's about to deliver the most attrocious, the most killing line. Her lips scissoring open, bracketing perfect teeth. She cants her head to the side, a certain look in her eye - who could be more beloved than him? She just coughs lightly. Fake fake. Cough cough.
 
Morgan's ponytail hits Austin in the shoulder; she is the first to greet Jimmy in the wings "You were tremendous," she beams.
 
Butch's hands slap out a applause of his own, and a bellicose, "Woot woot woot" before a high pitched whistle as one would hear at a sporting event in his limited, but enthusiastic appreciation of Jimmy's talents.
 
It bears noting that Austin isn't even watching the play. Just for history or posterity or whatever.
At the rise of the wave of applause, however, he joins the applause, real light, like a spring drizzle... taking a moment to squint a little skeptically at Butch. Austin leans away from his beloved/beloving sister, nonchalantly brushing off whatever vile and noxious goop Morgan's ponytail may have slimed across the shoulder of his even more beloved/beloving coat. The cigarette dangles from his mouth and he squints faintly at Jimmy as the thespian comes on back in. He wipes at the corner of his mouth, deadpan. "Jim. You've got something right here." The tip of his cigarette brushes his hand with a spectacular shower of sparks. He looks down at his hand for a moment, baffled... then tucks it in his pocket, adding, probably drown by the exhuberance of his sister and the triumphant applause of the crowd, "... cool show, man."
 
Newman keeps it simple. He gets his fat ass off the folding chair he was sitting in once Jimmy comes back in, and gives him an enthusiastic standing ovation for a few seconds before people start talking. "That was *awesome*," he says. "You had them in the palm of your hand the whole way! Blows the doors off Broadway."
 
"Yeah, right on Jimmy man," concurs Billy, slouching in place, hands now balled up in the forward pocket of his hoodie. "Total balls."
 
Jimmy seems to recoil from the attention, nodding and waving vaguely. Whatever he mumbles is inaudible, as he wriggles his way to the bottle on the table.
 
Butch maneuvers himself over to Jimmy, push and bumping those he needs to, to get to the man. Clapping Jimmy solidly on the back a few times like a receiver that just won the game he proclaims, "Yer /tha/ Man, Jimbo." Um, yeah. "Don't get all crazy artistic drunk before you get to London, man," Billy murmurs, grinning at bottle-clutching Jimmy. "You okay?"
 
Newman wisely keeps his mouth shut once he sees Jimmy's unusual reaction to what he thought was a display of theatric genius. Jimmy probably wouldn't understand a Sock Monkey reference anyway. He sticks around, though, since that's what Newman does.
 
Jimmy nods again, swallowing his answer with a mouthful of Malt Wine. He's a little wildeyed, as a crowd of students sift in through the stage doors - actors and actresses removing costumes, techies following said actresses, and a whispered alarm of imminent faculty causing cigarettes across the room to be surreptitiously dropped.
 
Hey, it's cool. Austin can dig it. When he's done with a guitar solo in his room or whatever sometimes he's real you know drained and he weeps and all that. He stubs out his cigarette on the window sill, then callously lets it roll down off the window sill and onto the ground. He watches it like an etymologist might watch an endangered spider crawl across some exotic desert floor. Then, jarringly, he plants his foot on it and straightens up, leaving the window open. "Hey, fuck this place, I spend enough time here in the brainwash factory when the sun's up, let's go get shitfaced..."
 
As Nathan Chandrashakaran passes by, Austin digs out his cigarette case and flips it open, offering it up to the erstwhile page, evidently an acquaintance. A whisper of faculty? No bother.
 
Austin is laid back in returning the silver, dented case to the inside pocket of his jacket.
 
Billy shrugs again, his usual 'whatever, man' absent. He looks up at the mention of approaching faculty; exchanges a look with Austin -- who's already put his cigarette out, right, so he's like: "Yeah, I'm down," and-a-pause-and-then: "Before Peaches" (his little nickname for the far too attractive drama teacher) "makes us clean this shit up."
 
Morgan knits herself back into the arm of her brother. Despite their open hostilities, all is always forgiven, the duration of petty behavior always losing out. Jostled by other stage-crew types all in black, Morgan stiffens lest they both mis-step into something like carried table or a box of candlesticks. Under the tow of sudden bodies, the propmaster is bellowing something that goes largely unheard, unheeded. As parents and friends leave their seats in the auditorium, there comes the expected crash and the propmaster bellowing again. She takes it personally, all the yelling and Jimmy basically ignoring her. Nevermind he's ignoring everyone else. "Whatever," stung, her eyes trace an upward path over Jimmy's silhouette "let's go."
 
"Nnngh, I can't," mutters Newman, looking downcast. "My dad is making me go hunting with him again. I gotta be there in a half-hour."
 
Jimmy, behind a blue-haired skateboarded, nods to Morgan, but makes no move to leave the corner he's wedged himself in. The wild-eyed look hasn't left him, and though everyone in the room seems to want to talk to him, he doesn't really look like he's listening.
 
Billy gives Jimmy one final hesitant, sideways look -- like what the fuck's wrong, man? -- but apparently decides J just wants to be left alone. A hand scratches at the base of his neck, just under the lip of his knit hat. He falls alongside Austin, opposite Morgan, and eyes the emptying autotorium. "Let's just bug this way," he suggests.
 
"Party out at the Quarry tonight." "...the Quarry." "...stole a case of jack daniels..." Mutters might as well be screams in this room. The passing flocks of schoolkids only have one thing on their lips. After they trail past, it's Peaches' turn to walk in, gently reclaim the chalice from Billy and set it back on its table while ignoring the paper bag in his other hand, and then turn to shoo at all of you.
"William, Marc, come on. We need to clear the backstage. You can make your plans outside."
 
Austin leans into his sister, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, all hostilities forgotten, all wrongs forgiven. He glances sidelong at Newman and says cooly, "What the fuck, man." Then, rather quickly, "Maybe see you around next time, Newman. Have a wild time with pops. Maybe we'll run into you, in the woods. If you see a kegger, don't shoot." Then, back to Billy, with a mouthful of teeth, lips peeled back from the snaggleteeth as he falls into step alongside his pal. "I been thinking... let's invite Peaches out with us some time. I bet she likes to party." Jimmy's obvious psychic distress is apparently entirely unnoticed to him. Instead, Austin makes a kissyface at Peaches behind her back as he passes by.
 
Newman shakes his head slightly, mostly at his own predicament. "I'm sorry, man," he says. "Maybe I can sneak off or something, maybe." But he won't. Not after what he's seen out there. Not after *that*. He looks back to Jimmy. "Hey, Jimmy, good job tonight. I'll see you tomorrow." Then, in his usual fashion, he makes himself scarce by following the crowd out.
 
Butch scowls at Billy, like Peaches suggestion is entirely his fault, and smacks a fist in to his other hand, implying 'brotherly love' is to follow after him and his stoner sibling are done toadying for the Peach.
 
Responding flash of a grin, half-turn to look over his shoulder. And -- just as a group of schoolkids mobs between they and the esteemed teacher, he turns away; whistling lowly. "Bet so," he acknowledges, cheerfully flipping his big bro off, before heading out across the stage. A short hop, a fire exit, and a stretch of asphalt away is an escape from school. "Meet you guys at McDonalds in like thirty," he calls back over his shoulder. "I gotta get my shit from home." Everyone knows what that means.
 
The room clears slowly. Jimmy trickles away unnoticed. Peaches returns with brooms. Helpful techies keep dropping things for her to pick up. Repeatedly. A few minutes pass.
Then:
Screams. Pale people walking back in. "Dead." "Freeway." "Shot." Teachers scurry. Parents call to their children. Children flock towards the exits. Someone's dead on the Freeway in front of the school.