The Bad Old Days
folder
S through Z › Sin City
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
5,202
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Sin City
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
5
Views:
5,202
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Sin City, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Epilogue
How many people believe that luck is what you make of it? Sometimes it probably is. But how does that explain people who have nothing going for them but their luck? Everyone knows someone like that – the hapless fool who moves through his life with nothing but luck standing between him and falling over the edge of the abyss and into oblivion. Maybe luck is just another kind of karma and Mr. Hapless has earned a lifetime of blissfully repercussion-free wandering through the world. What does that say about people whose luck turns sour? Maybe the universe just hates them.
Cricket had laid low for two days after the disaster that had ended in Byron Robson’s gruesome death. He’d heard whispers of what the cops who’d found what remained of his body had done. There was disagreement on how many cops left the force after seeing the crime scene, but no argument that some officers had turned in their badges without bothering to give notice.
Sin City was too hot for Floyd “Cricket” Carson. He had snuck home, packed a case and started trudging to the train station. It was still raining and he was miserable, but at least it kept most people inside. The fewer people who saw him, the better.
A block from his house, Cricket’s steps slowed until he was at a stop, staring at the gorgeous, cherry red 1956 Thunderbird parked at the curb. Why take the train when he could travel in style? Things were looking up.
Twenty minutes later, Cricket was cruising. The rain was finally letting up and he was feeling better than he’d felt since he’d found out that the girl he’d gotten for Robson had died in the trunk of his stolen t-bird. “I may be bad, but I feel gooood,” he crowed. He’d gotten out of Sin City with his life.
Whistling, he turned on the radio and grinned to hear Brian Setzer singing about being a feline Casanova. Good things came in threes – a cherry ride, the beginning of the first sunny day in what felt like forever, and his favorite song on the radio. He saw a billboard for the Santa Yolanda Tar Pits and gave the picture of the gaping Tyrannosaurus the one finger salute.
He froze with his hand extended when he felt something extremely sharp push out of his seat and into his back over his left kidney. He was pretty sure it was going to hurt when his body caught on to what had just happened. A glance in the rear view mirror told him more than he wanted to know when he met Miho’s eyes.
Her eyes flicked toward the sign for the Pits. Cricket hesitated and Miho twisted the blade she’d shoved through the back of his seat and into Cricket. It hurt. “Okay!” he yelped. “Okay, okay. I got it.”
Cricket took the turn that would take him off the road and up to the Pits.
Fuck.
Why couldn’t his third piece of good luck have been a blowjob from Angelina Jolie instead of fucking Stray Cat Strut?
Cricket had laid low for two days after the disaster that had ended in Byron Robson’s gruesome death. He’d heard whispers of what the cops who’d found what remained of his body had done. There was disagreement on how many cops left the force after seeing the crime scene, but no argument that some officers had turned in their badges without bothering to give notice.
Sin City was too hot for Floyd “Cricket” Carson. He had snuck home, packed a case and started trudging to the train station. It was still raining and he was miserable, but at least it kept most people inside. The fewer people who saw him, the better.
A block from his house, Cricket’s steps slowed until he was at a stop, staring at the gorgeous, cherry red 1956 Thunderbird parked at the curb. Why take the train when he could travel in style? Things were looking up.
Twenty minutes later, Cricket was cruising. The rain was finally letting up and he was feeling better than he’d felt since he’d found out that the girl he’d gotten for Robson had died in the trunk of his stolen t-bird. “I may be bad, but I feel gooood,” he crowed. He’d gotten out of Sin City with his life.
Whistling, he turned on the radio and grinned to hear Brian Setzer singing about being a feline Casanova. Good things came in threes – a cherry ride, the beginning of the first sunny day in what felt like forever, and his favorite song on the radio. He saw a billboard for the Santa Yolanda Tar Pits and gave the picture of the gaping Tyrannosaurus the one finger salute.
He froze with his hand extended when he felt something extremely sharp push out of his seat and into his back over his left kidney. He was pretty sure it was going to hurt when his body caught on to what had just happened. A glance in the rear view mirror told him more than he wanted to know when he met Miho’s eyes.
Her eyes flicked toward the sign for the Pits. Cricket hesitated and Miho twisted the blade she’d shoved through the back of his seat and into Cricket. It hurt. “Okay!” he yelped. “Okay, okay. I got it.”
Cricket took the turn that would take him off the road and up to the Pits.
Fuck.
Why couldn’t his third piece of good luck have been a blowjob from Angelina Jolie instead of fucking Stray Cat Strut?