blackshire
Moderator
Max sat, eyes blank and uninterested. Bored and frustrated. Children prattled past him, screeching as they stumbled, their parents oblivious to their spawn's whereabouts, no doubt. Blackshire sighed, loudly, propping one boot up on the carry-on bag at his feet.
Looking out the window, the snow continued to fall, burying the greater New York City area along with Max's hopes. His flight to London, en route to Europe for the GXW Tour, had been scheduled to take off well over an hour ago. Pushed back another 3, due to this monstrous blizzard that was slowly, agonizingly being dumped on top of them.
An epiphany swept over him. Perhaps now was NOT the right time to make the next move in GXW. Perhaps...
"...screw this", Max said.
Reaching into his inside coat pocket, Max pulled out a beaten pack of smokes, three single matches tucked inside. He grabbed a smoke, a light, and got to his feet. Slinging his carry on on his shoulder, jabbing the unlit cigarette in his mouth, he wound through the terminal to Gate 32's 'Help Desk'. He nodded to the stewardess manning the computer.
"H'lo. Listen. M'name's Max Blackshire. ... write that down ... This flight has been delayed for hours. It's been rescheduled and pushed back four seperate times--", Max uttered - the flight attendent cutting him off.
"Sir", she broke in. "There's nothing we can do about the weather!"
"I wasn't done", Max told her flatly. "I've got three bags in the luggage cart of that plane--"
"Sir", again she broke in. "We CAN'T remove any luggage from the plane!"
"... I wasn't ... done."
Max let it hang. The woman just stared at him, finally "getting it".
"My address is on the tags. Mail me the bill for the shipping. Same address."
Max turned, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
"Sir!", she called out. "Sir!"
"Thanks, love."
Walking on, Max struck the match against the concrete wall just before stepping through the exit, the snow and wind whipping at him angrily.
"...f__ing snow", he muttered.
- - - - - -
On the isle of Manhatten, tucked in a cramp, grimy "suite" at the 42nd Street Grand Majestic Hotel, she laid curled on the unkepmt bed. This hotel was neither grand, nor majestic. It was, simply, the first hotel that she had stumbled across. And for over a month, it had been her home.
Staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the woman who'd checked in under the name 'Belinda Janks' frowned. She was running out of money. Running out of ideas. Out of places she could go -- places outside the reach of her husband, Sonny Monroe, and his family. But more, Bridget Monroe felt as if she, and her unborn child, were quickly running out of time.
She rolled over, away from the view of snow falling outside her window -- just as the phone suddenly rang. Bridget bolted upright, a hand held on her stomach. She reached out, grabbing the reciever as she sat up.
"New York City, eh?", the voice on the other end of the line said. It was Sonny Monroe -- Bridget nearly dropped the telephone, then clenched it - knuckles white, sweat forming on her palms.
She was frozen ... unable to speak, to move, to breath. The seconds ticked away ... Sonny whistled an unnameable tune.
"...what do you want from me, Sonny?", she asked - feigning forcefulness, confidence, and a number of other positive attributes. Trying to hide the fear she felt coming through in her voice. Her mind was reeling. How had he FOUND her? ... where IS he now?
"I want what I have always wanted, Bridget", he told her. "I Want You. Only you. ... come home. Today. Now. Let's talk things through--"
She shook her head, emphatically. "No!"
"...baby, please", he pleaded. Then, his voice suddenly turned far much colder. "You're not leaving me many other options."
"I don't want to have to come up there and bring you home myself. Don't push me to that."
It was a warning. Clear. Distinct. And Bridget got it, loud and clear.
Slamming the phone back on the cradle, her heart pounding, Bridget snatched her bag and started stuffing everything she owned into it - frantic.
The phone rang again.
"Ignore it, Bridget", she told herself, urging herself to stay cool.
But the trilling phone droned on... and on.
And on ... long after Bridget had charged out the door, down the stairs, and out into the cold, snowly streets of Manhatten. On and on. On the run. Again.
Looking out the window, the snow continued to fall, burying the greater New York City area along with Max's hopes. His flight to London, en route to Europe for the GXW Tour, had been scheduled to take off well over an hour ago. Pushed back another 3, due to this monstrous blizzard that was slowly, agonizingly being dumped on top of them.
An epiphany swept over him. Perhaps now was NOT the right time to make the next move in GXW. Perhaps...
"...screw this", Max said.
Reaching into his inside coat pocket, Max pulled out a beaten pack of smokes, three single matches tucked inside. He grabbed a smoke, a light, and got to his feet. Slinging his carry on on his shoulder, jabbing the unlit cigarette in his mouth, he wound through the terminal to Gate 32's 'Help Desk'. He nodded to the stewardess manning the computer.
"H'lo. Listen. M'name's Max Blackshire. ... write that down ... This flight has been delayed for hours. It's been rescheduled and pushed back four seperate times--", Max uttered - the flight attendent cutting him off.
"Sir", she broke in. "There's nothing we can do about the weather!"
"I wasn't done", Max told her flatly. "I've got three bags in the luggage cart of that plane--"
"Sir", again she broke in. "We CAN'T remove any luggage from the plane!"
"... I wasn't ... done."
Max let it hang. The woman just stared at him, finally "getting it".
"My address is on the tags. Mail me the bill for the shipping. Same address."
Max turned, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
"Sir!", she called out. "Sir!"
"Thanks, love."
Walking on, Max struck the match against the concrete wall just before stepping through the exit, the snow and wind whipping at him angrily.
"...f__ing snow", he muttered.
- - - - - -
On the isle of Manhatten, tucked in a cramp, grimy "suite" at the 42nd Street Grand Majestic Hotel, she laid curled on the unkepmt bed. This hotel was neither grand, nor majestic. It was, simply, the first hotel that she had stumbled across. And for over a month, it had been her home.
Staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, the woman who'd checked in under the name 'Belinda Janks' frowned. She was running out of money. Running out of ideas. Out of places she could go -- places outside the reach of her husband, Sonny Monroe, and his family. But more, Bridget Monroe felt as if she, and her unborn child, were quickly running out of time.
She rolled over, away from the view of snow falling outside her window -- just as the phone suddenly rang. Bridget bolted upright, a hand held on her stomach. She reached out, grabbing the reciever as she sat up.
"New York City, eh?", the voice on the other end of the line said. It was Sonny Monroe -- Bridget nearly dropped the telephone, then clenched it - knuckles white, sweat forming on her palms.
She was frozen ... unable to speak, to move, to breath. The seconds ticked away ... Sonny whistled an unnameable tune.
"...what do you want from me, Sonny?", she asked - feigning forcefulness, confidence, and a number of other positive attributes. Trying to hide the fear she felt coming through in her voice. Her mind was reeling. How had he FOUND her? ... where IS he now?
"I want what I have always wanted, Bridget", he told her. "I Want You. Only you. ... come home. Today. Now. Let's talk things through--"
She shook her head, emphatically. "No!"
"...baby, please", he pleaded. Then, his voice suddenly turned far much colder. "You're not leaving me many other options."
"I don't want to have to come up there and bring you home myself. Don't push me to that."
It was a warning. Clear. Distinct. And Bridget got it, loud and clear.
Slamming the phone back on the cradle, her heart pounding, Bridget snatched her bag and started stuffing everything she owned into it - frantic.
The phone rang again.
"Ignore it, Bridget", she told herself, urging herself to stay cool.
But the trilling phone droned on... and on.
And on ... long after Bridget had charged out the door, down the stairs, and out into the cold, snowly streets of Manhatten. On and on. On the run. Again.