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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1775065-Jake-and-Terry-TEASER
Rated: 13+ · Other · Emotional · #1775065
A short Fic JAke wrote for a friend. TEASER


“So…tell me what you want with me again?”



A cigarette was lit in it’s holder, just another reminder of whose house this was. He had forbidden any smoking from his visitor, the tall, muscular goatee-d man standing rather formally against the wall.



And then he had promptly pulled his old, 20’s era cigarette holder from his sleeve, (Really, how did he move his arms with all that stuff in there), affixed a filterless to the end, and lit up. As the first puffs of smoke came, a lazy smile curled up the corners of the exceptionally pale man’s mouth. He was toying, and boy did he know how.



“Didn’t you just say that smoking was a dirty habit?”



His fingers twitched, as the grinning owner of this house continued to smirk. Two spindly, elegant fingers reached out and tapped ash onto the floor, a gesture that, in the owner’s normal circumstances, would have been crass and dirty. But, he was playing a game now. Cleanliness could be sacrificed temporarily, in return for another living, breathing body in his basement. The smile grew ever wider at that thought.



“Did I? I think I did. Well, that’s no matter, because I’m doing it classily. Something that you don’t do, judging by your ruffian appearance, Mr. Vertner.”



In normal instances, he would have insisted to be called ‘Terry’, instead of the more formal ‘Mr. Vertner”, but at the moment, he had no desire to get closer to the man whom he was now rather informally interrogating.



Or, rather, trying to.



Jake hadn’t answered a damn question.



He let out a breath. This would be the…fifth time Jake had commented on his ‘not-uppity-stuffy-dead-people-clothing-‘appearance. Though he did admit that Jake always looked…neat in his suit, it wasn’t his style. In fact, at this point, nothing would give him greater pleasure than spilling red paint all over that stupid black suit.



Maybe he would eat that fucking black rose pinned to the lapel, too.



Because that just looked gay.



“I told you, Mr….Jake…There’s been a series of disappearances in your area, and I’m starting to think that you may have…witnessed some of these people before they disappeared.”



And were tortured, probably raped by the looks of you, and murdered in your basement.



He finished in his head. Jake slumped against the wall, as casually as he could, given the arsenal he kept close to him at all times, and blew a lazy smoke ring. His lips, so soft and perfect, were pursed as he gave the reply thought.



Terry watched him closely, all too aware of the dark thoughts going on in that man’s head. He could just feel those creeptastic dead eyes rake over his body, appraising him like a sack of man meat.



“Why should I care? I see a lot of people here that wander about for a few days, then disappear like so many wisps on the wind. It’s just a testament, you see, to the futility of humanity. Their utter existence makes me angry, how they think they can flirt and flit between honest death and dishonest life. Come now, certainly a man like you can feel anger? I sense your anger, can taste it, radiating off of you. It’s all over your body, your pissed-ness. Like, in the way your jaw twitches, every time my voice makes a harsh sound. I suspect it is because you don’t like me, and not because you dislike the idea of my beautiful voice uttering something obscene and ugly. Ha. Oh? You hasten to cover it up now, but It’ll come back when you least expect it. You’re so easy to read.”



Jake’s cold blue eyes locked on Terry’s warm hazel eyes, and for a second, Terry might have sensed something human in them. Then, Jake chuckled and ruined it, the eyes went hard and dangerous, despite the pleasant enough sounding laugh. But, really, what struck Terry the most, was that Jake was perhaps…right.



There were, in fact, times where he had sunk into brief fits of depression, where he just wanted to DESTROY anyone and everyone.



It reminded him of his childhood. And man, did he hate that Jake could do that.



“Haha, what? Did I strike a sour chord, Mr. Vertner? Hit a bad note? What a pity. I usually play perfectly on tune. So, what did I say that’s making you make that face?”



Jake laughed again, this time with a tiny hint of menace in his otherwise

© Copyright 2011 Jake Broadbent (jakeysocio at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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