06-13-2018, 12:21 PM
(This post was last modified: 06-13-2018, 01:13 PM by PepsiWhirda.)
Bayou Blues
“When nothing is at stake, everything's a waste.”
― Crystal Woods
― Crystal Woods
As the haze-draped moon approached its zenith, the hooded figure slouched down the dimly lit New Orleans alley. While his relaxed posture and meandering pace spoke of someone wholly uninterested in their surroundings, his fiery red eyes darted back and forth anxiously, examining every window, every balcony, even the particularly deep shadows for signs of movement. At this time of night, in this rogue-infested corner of the city, Remy LeBeau had to keep his wits about him.
Summer had befallen the Big Easy. The air clung to Remy’s skin, thick with moisture. From far off over the gulf a light breeze whispered across the cobblestones, bearing the tangy pungency of lightning—an approaching storm. His eyes locking onto a dark splotch at his feet, Remy knelt down and brought two fingers to the substance. They came back sticky, stained with red. Blood, still fresh. The distant, ominous rumble of thunder brought with it a new sense of urgency. When the storm arrived, the seasonal June downpour would wash away any trace of the woman he pursued.
Remy straightened and started forward once more, increasing his pace but maintaining the wary scrutiny of his surroundings. Somewhere nearby, a dog bayed into the night. The alley ended on a wide avenue—Gentilly Boulevard—the westmost boundary of the Fairgrounds. The shadows of the alley gave way to splashes of vibrant neon. The silhouette of the Fair Grounds Race Course rose ominously before him, deserted at this time of night. To his right, the door of the Seahorse Saloon, one of his old haunts, stood ajar. Major Harris’s Love Won’t Let Me Wait spilled out onto the street, overlaid with dozens of voices.
“Good a place as any,” Remy mused. It never hurt to indulge in a drink when on the chase. Wiping his stained fingers on the hem of his trenchcoat, he turned up the epaulettes of the garment and strode confidently to the open door.
When Big Benny stepped out to meet him, Remy stopped short. Fully a head taller than Remy’s six feet and a hundred pounds heavier, with skin blacker than a moonless night, Benny Bordelon peered at him through heavy-lidded eyes. All head ‘n no neck. How a man gets by wit’out seein’ behind ‘im in dis city I’ll never know.
“Benny, mon homme!” Remy said, grinning widely. “Long time no see!”
The huge man grunted, not fooled by counterpart’s over-the-top display. “If it ain’t Remy fuckin’ LeBeau. If mem’ry serves, last we met y’ made off wit’ somethin’ important to my employer.”
“C’est pas vrai!” Remy protested. “Benny, ya got me wrong.”
“Like hell,” Benny growled. “Weren’t no one else in Sinister’s lab dat night.”
Remy shuddered at the mention of Sinister, the geneticist who had carved out his brain tissue and brought him back in control of his powers. It was true, the mutant had to admit. He had taken a memento for his troubles, a mysterious vial of purple liquid now stashed in a safe deposit box on the outskirts of the city. Once a thief, always a thief.
“Y’ cost me my livelihood wit’ dat trick, Remy. Weren’t no one who’d take me on after dat.”
“And now,” Remy said, following the huge man’s story to its inevitable conclusion, “now ya bounce for de Seahorse.”
“Reduced to a fuckin’ doorguard,” Benny growled, taking a menacing step forward. “Breakin’ up bar fights ‘n slappin’ around drunkards.”
Surreptitiously, Remy dropped his left hand to the telescoping bo staff hanging from his belt. With a moment of focus he activated his powers, converting the potential energy inside the weapon into kinetic energy. He felt the familiar and reassuring vibration of power in his haunch, an insurance policy against the formidable Benny’s advance.
“Look, mon homme, we can debate de finer points’a a night long past till we’re bleu dans le visage—dat is, blue in de face, y’see? Or, y’ can tell me if y’ seen this girl t’night, ‘n when we part ways, your pockets’ll be fuller for your troubles.” He fished a creased photo of Marie Durousseau from a deep pocket and held it out to Benny.
Benny crossed his muscled arms and curled his lips into a sneer. “Ain’t no amount’a cash would make me work with da likes’a you.”
Remy saw the rage rising in Benny, the huge man’s white-knuckled fists twitching in anticipation. But he could see, too, the flash of recognition on Benny’s face when he glanced at the photo, followed quickly by a nervous shuffle of the man’s feet. He’s seen Marie.
“Everybody’s got a price,” Remy drawled, “be it paid in coin or in blood.”
Whether in response to the thinly-veiled threat or an effort to protect his secret, Benny lunged. Remy saw the attack coming a mile away, easily sidestepping the brute and slipping the bo staff from his belt in one fluid motion. As the huge man staggered past, Remy telescoped the bo staff to its full six-foot length with a flick of his wrist. Benny recovered, quicker than Remy expected, and if the sight of his bared weapon scared the man in the slightest, it didn’t show when he lunged again. Remy twisted into a deft pirouette, the bo staff tracing a wide arc, and smacked Benny in the small of his back.
An onlooker would have thought the blow to be of little consequence to the huge and thickly-muscled Benny. But an onlooker would have had no knowledge of Remy’s mutant abilities, or of the kinetic charge built up in the staff. The resulting explosion lifted the fully three-hundred pound man from his feet and blasted him back into the Seahorse Saloon, tearing the bar’s door from its hinges. He crashed through a table, splintering the wood and sending a handful of frightened patrons, and their drinks, down to the floor with him.
“I think dey call dat 'party foul,' mon homme,” Remy tsked, lamenting the waste of perfectly good booze. He stepped across the charred threshold. “But den, dis is New Orleans. It won’t be de first or de last of de night, eh?” He surveyed the stunned crowd expectantly, wondering if anyone would rise to Benny’s aid. No takers.
To his credit, bruised and battered Benny tried to stand, but succeeded only in clutching at a broken ankle and slumping back, groaning in agony. Remy walked up to him, planting his boot threateningly on the huge man’s groin. Benny froze, eyes wide.
“Now den,” Remy said, fixing Benny with a fiery red stare. “De girl, Marie Durousseau… where is she?”
Gaping openly at the mutant, Benny’s mouth opened and shut several times. Not unlike a catfish, dis one. At long last, he lifted one arm and pointed a fat, trembling finger at a door at the back of the bar. He sighed audibly when Remy eased up on his sensitive parts.
“Much obliged, grand bâtard,” Remy spat. He grabbed a pint glass from in front of a horrified woman and drained it in a single motion. “And t’ya, ma petite.” With a wink he proceeded toward the door Benny had indicated, the crowd parting silently to let him through. He de-telescoped his bo staff and returned it to its place on his belt.
No sooner had he reached for the doorknob than a second explosion, this one dwarfing the first, rocked the building. To his horror, Remy realized it had come from the other side of the door. “Marie!” he screamed. Without another thought he wrenched the door open and dashed inside.
But then he was somewhere else.
