Spill Your Guts || Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

A Nighttime Ride

"Have a good night, sir!" I watched as the final customer of my shift walked out, waiting just long enough for him to disappear around the corner to hoof it around the counter at record speed. Key in hand, I practically jammed it into the lock and began shutting the place down. It was ten at night and while I wasn't exactly a goody two shoes I really didn't feel like dealing with a science test while I was running on fumes. I scooped all the homework I'd done in between customers off of the counter and into my bag, counted up all the cash and deposited it into the safe in the back room, and finally I was home-fuckin-free. And if anyone saw me practically skipping to my bike in excitement they were dead wrong.

Ok, maybe a little right.

And just like that I was off, heading back down the silent streets of the ever wealthy Woodsboro and admiring the way the porch lights illuminated the just slightly too big houses. It was still so new to me to live in such an area and be able to go to such a school, even if it was just for senior year. I was glad my little brother would get to have a nice long stay here at least. He had five more years to go, the little squirt, though it was hard to imagine he was already almost in high school. Could still picture him playing transformers in the back alley of our old house, after all.

But those days were far behind us now. Dad had a new job, mom won a lottery scratcher for twenty five grand of all things, and all of a sudden we were moving from the backstreets of LA to the rolling hills of Woodsboro. Not a bad upgrade, though it did take time to adjust to. Mind you, it was still a bit of a bike from my little job at the local corner shop in the center of town, but it was way nicer than anything I'd been used to before. Gone was the shitty cement floor and concrete block walls combo, instead replaced by a sunny looking home with bright wood paneling and a white picket fence to house my parents' almost 2.5 kids. Living the American dream, baby. No more waking up at three in the morning to a barrage of gunshots three streets over. No more having to wait for my parents to escort me home from school when it was only a five minute walk because they were worried someone would mug my backpack off me. No stupid worries of danger to distract me from my studies, from potential friends, or from my chances at a bright future.

All of this was a long winded way to say that when I curved onto a winding street a mile or so from my house and spotted a figure leaning against a tree at ten thirty at night, my spidey senses started to tingle. People don't do that type of thing in beautiful, rich, safe Woodsboro. Hell, people don't do that anywhere unless they're a tweaker of some sort or something. I eyed the property the tree was on, noting the beautiful expansive southern-style home that took up a mere fraction of the acres they probably owned. Not another house for a good few minutes walk in either direction. It was a bit too far in on the property for me to make anything out properly, being down a long windy drive, but it seemed pretty normal. Normal enough for the figure, who was dressed in a very not suspicious all black ensemble I realized, to be even more out of place.

I picked up my pace and rode faster, eyeing the person out of the corner of my eye. In the dead of night it was a bit hard to make them out, but it almost looked like they were wearing a cloak of some sort. The idea had my brows furrowing in confusion and my attention stolen just long enough for my bike's front wheel to hit a rock, spin awkwardly to the side, and send me careening forwards onto the asphalt. I hit my shoulder hard and rolled with my hands held tight against my body. The rock scraped lightly at my skin but luckily I didn't tear the flesh up trying to catch myself. It was a big no no to try to catch yourself if you were gonna fall anyways. At least that's what my parents had told me. That way you don't tear the skin off your palms or get a stray heroin needle stuck in your digits.

I rolled to a stop, dazed, and quickly stumbled my way back up to my feet. My eyes darted around to find the figure, straining against the dark, until finally I caught sight of them. They were looking at me now, about thirty yards off at the tree in between the road and the driveway. A man, I realized. Dark hair that fell over his forehead in two gelled strands and maybe a slim, youthful face. Other than that, all I could see was the whites of his eyes because he was still looking at me. I eyed whatever the device was that he was holding, determined it to not be my business and maybe be dangerous, and grabbed my bike. Pull, jump, kickoff, and I was out of there pedaling like I was the winner of Tour de France.