The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Will Stab for Spare Change - 10/22/04

Friday, October 22, 2004

I can't believe that Gwen is working with them.

Granted, she probably doesn't know their true nature (not that I really do myself, but…). They don’t appear to her as purple-glowing freaks— they'll just look like normal human beings, if a bit unmemorable in the face department. So they could really pose to her as anybody: government officials, police, researchers, doctors, who knows. 

But who could have convinced her that I had a voice from beyond (G_d?) that told me what to do through a magical knife encased somewhere in my body? Wouldn't she want to talk to me about it first? "Mark, these guys are telling me that you have that old dagger we found in the woods fifteen years ago stuck inside you and it gives you instructions from the Grand Silver Wizard On High. Can we discuss this?"

No. Maybe someone convinced her that I’m insane, instead. That would be an easier sell. Occam’s Razor says yes to that.

Nothing about this makes sense. But so it goes. Whether she really thinks she can help me or not by siding with my enemies, Gwen has stepped over to the other side. And if I see her again, I won't turn my back on her for a second. 

I told Rence about what happened. My story upset him. Of course it did. He was attracted to the Sphinx. He wonders if I should have gone after her, or presented my case differently— could I be wrong, he says, about her ties to the purples? Well, I haven’t nailed down the explanation, but the fact remains that she works in a building groaning with purples… 

Sorry, Rence, if you ever read this, for snuffing your crush before it had a chance to ignite.

Besides all these otherworldly worries, I have a real world one coming up soon: rent.

I mentioned to you more than once that I was living hand-to-mouth here, right? No secret kitty, no extra cash lying around in my sock drawer (oh yeah, I don't even have a dresser). Well, now that I don't have a job, there's nothing in my hand to put in my mouth, much less in the pocket of my landlord. 

I'll have one last check from the Divide coming to me, which will take care of November's rent (on my birthday... wonderful), but after that, I'm screwed. I may be rubbing my hands over a barrel fire on the street this Christmas. Just need to afford a barrel first.

I don't see myself having much time to browse HotJobs while I'm trying to prevent my friends and me from getting killed. And interviews? As Dale would say, "Feh!" Imagine me walking into a building full of unknown people— a building that might well turn out to be like the Freiholt & Wagner tower. How will I know if I’m being accepted for an interview simply because I'm Mark P. Huntley, Purple Slayer Nonpareil? 

What a perfect opportunity to lure him into our grasp, the muchos whisper to each other. I'll garrote him by his cheap tie while you open up that pale belly and find the knife!

Even if, somehow, I was able to land a job in a, you know, silver-friendly environment, would I ever be at ease enough to perform some mundane task for eight hours a day? Gwen out there somewhere, directly or indirectly plotting my downfall. Naomi out of my sight, stupidly unaware of her own vulnerability. The purples planted in our office supply distributors, poisoning my coffee!

Tell you what does relax my mind these days, though… a nice drawing session. Lucy would be proud of the extent to which I’ve connected to my inner artiste. I’ve got my drawing pad set up in the corner, and sometimes I’ll sit down and just sketch for hours. Not even feeling the time pass by. Totally in the “flow” state, or whatever.

Unfortunately, it creeps Rence out and distracts him from his own work. Maybe because I’ve only got one area of artistic interest: the symbols.

I’ve gone through a couple of whole pads already. Can’t really afford to keep buying new materials. But you know, I think I’ve pretty much perfected every one of the symbols, so wouldn’t you say that was worth it?

Now if I can only figure out what they’re for. Have asked the Voice inside me on multiple occasions, but never receive an answer. Standoffish prick.

Back to Naomi. I checked in with her again today at her friend Sam's (deathly careful not to attract any violet tails along the way).

It was kind of weird. I showed up at the door, and before I could knock, the door opened and Naomi was standing there, looking at me with those glittering hazel eyes.

"Oh... uh," I said, "were you about to go somewhere?"

"No," she said. I glanced down. She didn't have any shoes on. And she wasn't wearing a coat, and it was coat weather. All right. Telling the truth. But…

"Did you hear me outside the door, then?"

She hesitated. "Yeah... yeah." Then looked at me. "I guess you wanted to come in?"

I took her up on that sugary welcome. Sam wasn't home, which bothered me, though I couldn't expect that pint of a girl to be my surrogate, round-the-clock bodyguard for Naomi. 

We talked for a little while before Naomi took off for her four-to-midnight at Alexander's. I think she’s gradually warming to me, which is a minor miracle, given the—stress of our first couple of encounters. She asked if I'd heard from Rafael yet, and I have not... it's been what, four days now? I wonder if he's gone for good. Scared into cover now that the muchos are ramping up their master plan, whatever it might be. I'm starting to think I'm on my own.

Where should I even start? I'll have to bide my time for more answers from Naomi. Just give it a little more time. Apocalypse can wait until whatever's going on in that girl's head clears itself and she talks to me. 

Meanwhile, I'll put my own head together with the head of Rence Robichaux and see if we can figure out the next step. Probably it’ll be tracking down a silver on our own; we can't wait around for the middleman forever. 

Actually getting hold of a silver is not going to be easy. They're a sight rarer than their blood nemeses, and I have a feeling they're not in the phonebook. Maybe it's time to hit the streets. 

posted by Mark Huntley @ 7:26 PM

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