Vivamus, Moriendum est (Rorschach x oc)

25. Why did it have to be me?

Mary's P.O.V.

"You fellas gonna tell me what happened to yer friend there?" Flannel man asked once again.

"No." Ollie snapped, he seemed to be reaching the end of his notably short tether of patience.

Flannel man shrugged, "might be nice to talk a bit. Get to know each other. Pass the time."

"It won't."

"She's, our sister. Bit of a klutz this one." Roger laughed nervously.

Ollie nudged him in the ribs. "Ow." He complained.

"Where ya'll headed to?"

"Arizona. Ow! Definitely not Arizona." Roger unconvincingly corrected.

"Arizona, eh?" The damage was evident from Flannel man's answer.

"I'm on my way back to Kentucky. I could take you folks as far as that if you'd like?"

"We'll see." Ollie grumbled.

Roger taped his shoulder; Ollie swatted his hand away in irritation. Something that I couldn't make out what whispered.

"What?" Ollie demanded.

Roger tried for the whisper again.

"Shut it." Ollie snapped, shoving him.

Flannel man appeared to take no notice and simply continued to ramble on.

"My son moved out this way not to long ago. Haven't seen him fer a while. I figured I come out from the farm and visit him. He didn't even come to the door. Knew he was home though. But I ain't got nothing better to do. Figure I'd go to a nice breakfast and be on my way back home."

"Oh, look there's a diner there." Ollie pointed out suddenly.

"Oh, there's a place run by the nicest lady a few miles from here. It's called Patsy's. I went there on my way here and promised I'd be back on my way out."

"Pull over." Ollie commanded.

"But-"

"I. Said. Pull. Over." Ollie's tone had become icy and rather frightening.

"Alright." Flannel Man relented, pulling the truck into the parking lot.

The frame rumbled and shook. I gaged and tried to swallow back the discomfort.

This diner was a sad little ramshackle building. The parking lot was small with no painted lines designating spots. It looked unappealing during the day, and I shuddered to think what it would be at night.

Inside was tiny and as the stove tops and ovens worked, they seemed to cook the building as effectively as the greasy slabs they called food. Cigarette smoke hung in the air with the smell of gasoline and burnt food.

One other patron occupied the space, tucked away in the corner of the place. He looked as if he had rubbed some of the grease off his plate into his hair. He held a cigarette loosely between his fingers and stared out at the wall with glazed eyes.

A flickering and occasionally sparking neon sign proclaimed the place as 'Ron's'. The flannel man chuckled when seeing the sign.

"Ain't that neat. My name's Ron."

A waitress in an ill-fitting pink uniform came over to us. Her eye shadow a startling shade of blue, her lipstick smudged and coating her teeth as much as her lips. Her hair was piled atop her head looking just as fried as the fare she served. She too held a cigarette in her fingers and took a long draw from it as she approached.