Half baked in the AM {Memphis}

[Detective Kevin Slame]

Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me what's wrong,
I'd be lying if I told you,
Losing you was something I could handle,
Somebody turn the lights on,
Somebody tell me how long,
All this darkness will surround you,
Cause I'm burning for you,
Burning like a candle

[/i]




Ah, New Orleans during the day. The acrid smell of exhaust floated on the wind, bringing with it evidence of the River nearby. Shadows clung to each corner that lined the worn blacktop, gliding along with each pedestrian gracing the sidewalk with their hurried presence. The soft swishing of taxicabs passing by, sometimes interrupted with the obnoxious bleat of a horn, belted out its natural song…

“Hey, buddy, move it!” A voice yelled from somewhere behind him, followed by the loud honk of a car horn. Ah, the lovely sounds of the city. “Move it, or I’m gonna run you down!”

Turning his head to look at the owner of the very large truck currently pointing itself at his body- standing in the middle of the road as it was, so that its owner could watch the sun succumb to the army of shadows over the high, arching buildings- he could only blink slowly. As the truck inched itself forward, he took a few steps toward the sidewalk opposite him, slipping his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, and watched as the vehicle slowly trudged down the almost completely empty road.

…Only to find all six of its tires spontaneously bursting to leave the cab and cargo flying down the road, to crash into an empty dumpster.

Had he just pulled out his off duty piece and shot a truck full of holes? No, definitely not! Accidents were just notorious for happening, and Karma was just an ice cold bitch on a good day. Expect the unexpected, that was his motto.

As well as ‘what the HELL did I do to deserve this’, but he really wasn’t going to dwell on that one. The last time he fell into that train of thought, he’d woken up next to two very strange women, an array of empty bottles, a bathtub full of chocolate pudding and four angry bookies looking for their cut.

Self pity was for the sound of mind, after all. Anyone else was just in danger of going to Vegas and blowing the rent on chicken fights.
He didn’t even want to think about it.

Blinking owlishly, Slame turned his head to look at the street around him, his heart doing a funny ‘OH SNAP’ dance in his chest, while his head proceeded to pound the crap out of himself. Alright, so here was the question of the day:
Where the fuck was he and how did he get there?

At the frightened gasp from an elderly woman in front of him, he jerked his head down and muttered a curse, shoving the small gun clasped in his hand into the holster beneath his jacket. Keeping his face pointed at the ground, his teeth clenched and his hands shoved into his pockets, he made a beeline for the first dark, uninhabited space that he could find.

Cue the fifth dark alley that he’d had to hide in this week, and the overlaying smell of rotting garbage. Oh joy.

Letting his forehead rest in his hand, he sighed. The last thing he remembered was sitting in his kitchen, watching the highlights from last night’s game and munching on some stale nachos. So how in all that was holy did he wind up downtown, almost a twenty minute walk from his apartment? And HOLDING a goddamn GUN? God, if this wasn’t a sure sign of an impending mental breakdown, he didn’t know what was.

And thank you Jesus that mumbling coming from the end of the alley gave him an excuse to skirt away from the thought. Squinting into the dimness, he could just make out one form hunched over another one.

Another one…who was lying on the ground in what looked like the fetal position.
Not moving.
Or making any sounds.

Well, at least his walk had given him something to do. Thank you Jesus for morons and their lack of finesse. As he waltzed into the alleyway, he was immediately greeted by some cranked out kid, a passed out kid and a whole lotta white powder around them both. The concious one looked up and proceeded to tear down the alley to the street beyond, leaving his passed out friend to choke on her own vomit.

Awesome. Screw the damn 'huzzah, something to concentrate on that isn't how I got here!' He wanted to black out again.

With a bellow that echoed in the alley, he knelt next to the girl, feeling for a pulse. "Somebody call an ambulance! WE NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!"


[/center]

[Memphis Gracie Fox]

Memphis groaned and shielded her eyes against the too bright sun. The intense glowing star was much too radiant even though she wore a pair of over sized sunglasses that matched with her simple blank tank top that went with her well-worn black jeans and finally her favorite pair of chunky shit-kickers with little silver rivets in the shape of a skull and crossbones.

Who was driving the Mack truck that hit her and did anybody get the license plate?!

To say that the huntress had imbibed a little too much the previous evening was putting it mildly. After a go-round with a group of, well, she didn’t know exactly what they were ‘cept fucking ugly with snaggleteeth in the mouths on their stomachs. Oh yeah, that’s right. They had not one, but a trio of fanged jaws in their fat little bellies and smelled like a mixture between shit and vomit. Anyways, after disposing of those fuglies she felt it her right to celebrate the victory, and celebrate she had. After five Irish Car Bombs and god knew how many shots of the good Irish liquor, Mem had crashed out at the apartment of one of the guys she’d been partying with. Of course when he’d woken up from his own drunken stupor and pressed that nasty hard-on against her ass, it was all over. She had to kick his ass to Sunday and that got her rightfully kicked out of the bed. And what a comfortable bed it was too. Much better than the mattress on the floor at her own place.

Damn it! She’d gone to bed alone, why did he hafta’ go and ruin it by squirming his way in once she was passed out?! Just the thought of some meathead touching her while she was snoring sent a shiver though that clattered her teeth. Disgusting.

Memphis held her head as she made her way towards the tattoo shop she’d rented out. The gas station coffee that she was holding onto like a lifeline was black and bitter and from the taste of it had been brewing for hours, but the more she woke up the worse her head hurt.
She needed to get to the liquor bar at the shop and spice it up a little. Wasn’t that what people said was the best cure for a hangover? To start drinking again? Hair of the dog or some shit?

Ah, who gave a fuck. All she knew was that she wanted to get rid of the little cowboy that was taking up residence in her skull and kicking the hell out of her brain.
And she was nearly there too. That is until a little shithead came flying out of an alley and knocked the coffee from her hand.

“You fucking fuckhead!” The feisty huntress swore and even though her head was hurting like someone had shoved a screwdriver up her nose and jiggled it around, she moved to take after the kid. Maybe it was a good thing he was hyped up on something and ran like a bolt of lightning, because had she been able to catch him she wouldn’t have heard the man yelling for 9-1-1.

The russet haired dancer/tattoo artist/supernatural exterminator pulled the slim silver cell from her pocket and kneeled down beside the guy. “Does she have a pulse?” Memphis asked in a too-calm tone. “What is that you think? Coke? Heroin?”

She dialed the emergency and when a woman’s voice came over the phone, directed them to the location of the alley. She knew the area well. Her shop was only a few blocks over.
Damn that fucking kid and his junkie girlfriend. She was well on her way to air-conditioning and a relief from her headache.

[Detective Kevin Slame]

God, his fucking had hurt like a fucking BITCH, man. Squinting up at the stranger who ran at them- damn if his trigger finger didn’t start twitching as violently as the vein in his forehead- he did his best not to cringe as a peal of bright sunlight practically burned out his corneas. He just couldn’t have come out of his current blackout in the dead of night? Jesus, he felt like there was a sumo match inside his head, with his brain as the mat.

He really did need to get himself to a hospital and get checked out. It was really freaking funny how he, who dealt with death, mayhem and bloody guts for a living, was terrified of itsy, bitsy needles.

‘Nancy’ was his middle name. Gah.

And then the lady in question just had to start asking him hard questions. Coke or heroine? How the fuck should he know? He usually dealt with these morons after they’d OD’d, or popped a cap in their suppliers’ head. Not to mention that her mere talking in his EAR wasn’t making his headache any better.

This was the frikking hangover from HELL, man. And he hadn’t even had anything to drink! Someone Upstairs really hated his hairy ass.

Feeling for a carotid pulse, he drew a relieved breath when a steady pulse knocked at his fingers. Maybe the kid had just taken a little too much and had just lay down to sleep it off? Maybe he wasn’t going to have to investigate—

With a gurgle, the kid in question proceeded to roll over and spew a whole bunch of nasty shit all over the front of his coffee stained shirt. Gagging and coughing, the teenager curled up into a ball, muttered something about his mommy, then passed out cold once again.

Leaving him with fuckin’ vomit all over his shirt and pants. Man, this’ why he didn’t play the good guy anymore.

“FUCK!” He choked out, doing his best not to turn around and up chuck his own lunch…if he’d eaten any. Damn, he hated the whole mind-blank thing. Sitting back on his heels, his arms wide out and his face averted, he did his best not to start banging his head against the dumpster next to him. “To answer your questions; yeah, there’s a goddamn pulse, and from what it looks like, coke’s today’s drug of choice. Now PLEASE tell me that bus is on its way? FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”

As the last f-bomb slid off of his tongue, said ambulance screamed onto the scene. Call all three of them lucky, but the medics had been on route to a gunshot when they’d got the call, and changed route right as another bus took to the scene. Rushing out, the EMT’s gave him some pitying looks as they carted off the kid. Out of reflex, he began rattling off scene details and vitals he’d managed to take before becoming a talking toilet.

And, without a backward glance, the team was off. He’d have some paperwork to fill out in the morning, but there was nothing else that he or his fellow Samaritan could do.

Except maybe wash. In bleach.

Walking like he was a zombie out of a bad Tarantino movie, he looked back at the dark haired woman. “Thanks for the assist,” He said in a strangled voice. With another curse and a ‘what the hell,’ he stripped off his ruined shirt and held it ten feet in front of him.

“Happy fuckin’ Monday, huh? Bet that was a first for you.”