The boy with the yellow scarf

Chapter 12: I have been informed this is a rave

Jesper

So, Shane wrote on the note a phone number, and an address of a club where he sometimes plays. Apparently. Anyway, that's what he wrote on the note. So naturally I skip out of the villa and go. I don't have anything to lose. I pick a few pockets for train fare, and make it into the nearest town with a name that has entirely too many vowels.

I stare out the bus window at the peaceful countryside. Then I get out early and walk. I want to find some hill, some place I remember from the war. But I don't even know why. I don't know why I want to see it again. The deadmen won't be here. I shouldn't even be here. Well. I mean. I won't be for very long here.

I find the club just as it's opening. I am entirely unprepared for the music, however. How do they get music this loud? It's shock waves is what it is. Haven't these people ever had grenades thrown at them?

On the plus side, they do not notice me nor do they notice my sly fingers so I have more than enough cash for a drink if I could figure out how to order one.

I'm seriously considering just leaving. I'll find a phone somehow and call Shane if I don't die here soon. But I can't find one ---anyway----everyone here is homosexual. It's all men. No women that I see. Some are wearing make up. Well, what a good wingman Shane was. He invited me to a safe party. That was nice. Maybe things are different in this time. He certainly wasn't worried about being seen. Maybe people don't treat you that way for liking men. They don't try to shoot you or stab you or beat you to a pulp for something that didn't actually have to do with them.

Nope. Never mind. They do. Or those people are randomly coming in here to start beating up small college students. Either way, they are sufficiently intimidated by a sword.

"Let him go," I say, in broken French, as one holds up a college boy who was dancing moments ago.

"What the hell?" of course it's an American. I slash his face while my sword complains in gibberish. I mean, it's gibberish. I don't technically know it's complaining but given my life experiences I'm decently good at identifying whining in most any language.

My sword is intimidating. However, there are about eight of them and one of me. And I was feverish and ill to begin with. This is about to go really badly for me. And the other club goers are mostly scattering. A couple pick up chairs to help, but they don't have actual weapons.

"Go," I tell them, in French. "I'll handle this."

I have no way of handling this.

I'm thrown unceremoniously over the bar and into a row of liquor bottles. Such a waste of good liquor. Anyway, that's how I find out my sword can fly on it's own, and does so largely to avoid doing whatever it is I was trying to accomplish.

"Come back here you moron," I growl, ducking a punch, as the sword flies through the air around the room gibbering unintelligibly.

"Hello small one!" a really tall, very healthy looking man picks up my attacker and tosses him through a wall. "Need a hand?"

"Um---yes?" another one, nearly identical to the first, picks up another rioter and uses that rioter to beat another two.

"Come along," the first one picks me up by the scruff of my neck. "Time we got out of here."

"No, no I don't want to go with you—"