Short Stories

Drifter

There was a drifter roaming the hills and valleys of the eastern coast in search of a new home. Precious few in the world ever knew him by name; I was not one of them. I do know he was a stout, resolute sort of man of surprisingly young age- perhaps only in his 30s- although he looked much older. A beard covered much of his face, and the threadbare coat he constantly wore acted nearly as camouflage, so that he'd be very difficult to spot much of anywhere if you weren't quite sure what you were looking for.

Once, after a long day's travel, the drifter came up on a run-down city. Dusty bricks tumbled from third story balconies into rain-flooded cobblestone streets below. Still, the dilapidated metropolis was far from abandoned. As he wandered its side-streets the drifter passed a million beady eyes carefully watching his movements, whether they be peering out of apartment windows or squinting around alleyway corners. Many came up to him and pushed him, pestering him for his name and business in the township - to which he'd answer only the first, which seemed enough to satisfy. More than once he got jumped - though having no money to his name, his assailants always ended up empty-handed.

As the sunset died down into night the drifter finally found a park bench which - though somewhat twisted out of shape by an unknown force - was shielded from rain by a large oak. He decided to stay there for the night and aimed to look for some form of housing and work come morning.

Instead he woke an hour later, with a foot in his side.

"Geddup. GetheHELLup!" a voice roared, kicking again. It was gruff, and slurred horribly as though drunk.

The drifter scrambled upright, though his movements were sloppy.

"Yessir?" he answered, voice still slack with sleep.

"Fuckyothink thizis, somesshelter? Gethell OUT!"

The man grabbed the drifter by his coat and tossed him like a rag doll off the bench onto the ground. The rain had stopped as the drifter slept, but his face fell straight into a puddle that had collected in the meantime on the uneven park sidewalk.

"GedOUTTT!" the man bellowed. He kicked the now-spluttering drifter once more, hard and fast. Pain echoed from the drifter's side, though he made no cry. He only curled into a fetal ball and coughed to clear his throat of rainwater.

"P-please," he said tiredly as the pain waned again. "I'm only looking for a home. I don't belong anywhere. ...Can you help me?"

The man scoffed back as he peered down on the drifter.

"Cannihelp you?" he finally sneered. "Y're pathetic."

He paused. A horrible grin slowly creeped onto his face.

"But maybe I'm just whatya need."

After another moment's contemplation the man lent down a beefy hand. As the drifter took it, he was catapulted back to his feet. He found that his new companion towered at least a foot and a half higher than he.

"Can you help me?" the dizzy drifter asked again.

"Fuck knows."

"What's your name?"

"Anger," the man said. "Folla me."

Anger then took the drifter to the nearest pub - a seedy hole in the wall that stank of smoke and mildew. He ordered two pints of beer for the pair, and the drifter took careful sips. It tasted like urine.

"Ah, butthe real fun's downstairs," Anger explained, and walked on.

So the drifter and his guide navigated a thin set of stairs down to the pub's basement. Even outside the door the drifter could hear the shouts of a rowdy crowd.