Part XIII
The Present
Wet, red blood looks so good on pink. He had ditched the cream BMW, and come back to the scene. He waited until a TV camera finally caught him amongst the rubberneckers. He hissed. He might be grey-haired now for how long it took for them to film him. He had almost confessed on the spot just to get their attention, but he had resisted that impulse. Thank God. He chuckled at his own joke, and the man next to him had looked at him strangely. Creepy. Then, he woke up.
Preston Glover lived the whole scene in his dream. Now he sat in his comfy leather seat watching horny teenagers go into the party. He clicked his fingers against the steering wheel and began a long hiss, but cut it short when a scene popped behind his eyes. If they were fashionably late it would make for an even better last act. Since they weren’t here yet it would probably turn out exactly like that. Thank God. He chuckled. During his musing his shoulders had slouched, he rolled them back, straightening his spine. He soon began staring at the vehicle’s digital clock, observing the glimmering patterns changing. How did that thing work? Things that ticked always fascinated him. He still had nothing to worry about, the last stragglers were still trying to stagger into the already block-busting party. His eyes darted from the house’s door to the farthest reaches of the streets leading to it. Leading her and the lovely Alaric to it. And their doom. He chuckled raucously at that. Who needed TV with networks owned by the Moulin Rouge (after he saw that movie he said everything he hated (which meant things that insulted his theater ideal (which meant theater that didn’t involve him)) was owned by that place (he still didn’t know why he hated that movie so much)) when one had a sense of humor like his; he didn’t quibble; anything that was slightly funny he found terribly funny because how long would it be till his master called him home. When he finally finished ruminating on his humor and the accursed Moulin Rouge the porch of the colonial house, which was literally rocking from side to side if only slightly, was empty. He would give them two minutes. He stared at the clock. 8:05. 8:06.
His breath held at the bottom of his diaphragm. It began to vibrate up to his vocal chords, through his throat, over his tongue, and out his trembling lips. He snarled. They. Weren’t. Coming.
A bitter syrup flooded his mouth as he raced through the streets, his car swerving from the solid yellow line in the middle to over the white line on the edge and back again. He cursed, spitting syrup at a car in the opposite lane who laid on the horn as he passed. He finally swung across the street to park in front of an internet café succeeding in blocking both a 250 pick-up truck in its spot, and the opposing lane of traffic. If he had realized he had done this it might have him given a slight flicker of happiness.
He sat down at a computer and began his search. He would find them. Tick. Tick. Tick.
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