GW Robichaux

Concession Stand Conversation

"C'mon already," GW muttered under his breath. The line to the concession stand was moving at a snail's pace and the second film was due to start in less than ten minutes. He'd gotten to the drive in late after a performance with the band, and had to have popcorn if he was going to sit on the hood of his truck and watch a horror flick.

Bethany had left her car to replenish her drink, beginning to think she should head back to Vegas soon so she could have something alcoholic to drink. That and she had something she wanted to attend to, and hopefully if all went well she would have a very good finish to Halloween.

She stepped into line behind a dark haired man, seemingly impatient for the line to move and she tipped her head to one side, eying the length of the line. God, she hated waiting, she really did.

GW stretched, impatient for the line to move. When the movie started up he didn't want to miss any of it because he'd been stuck in the concession line. Frankenstein might be a little dated, but it was still a classic that he never tired of watching on Halloween night.

As he stretched a slender blonde came into his field of vision, a real looker who would have been completely without blemish if it weren't for a scar on her face. GW had scars of his own, just not so visible.

"Evenin'," he greeted the blonde, nodding his head in the direction of the line. "Think th' popcorn is worth th' wait?"

It took her a few moments to realize that the man in front of her was talking to her, she'd been too busy watching an advert just to distract herself from the boredom that was waiting in this line. Bethany turned rich brown eyes to the man in front of her and was surprised to find that he was attractive to the eye, never a bad thing.

"Probably not," she informed him with a smirk. "But it adds to the movie viewing experience."

GW's eyebrows went up in surprise at the accent even as he returned the smirk. "You're a long way from home, aren't you? I haven't heard an accent like that since I was on your side of th' pond a few years back." Helene's accent had been similar, but not quite as polished as this young woman's.

"Can't watch an old movie without popcorn, the buttery, salty kind that doctors hate." What was the point of living if a person denied themselves the small pleasures in life?

He shuffled forward two steps as the line moved, then turned back to his conversation partner and extended a hand. "I'm GW Robichaux, Miss, and you are?"

Bethany's eyes crinkled a little in the corner and her lips hinted at amusement. "You have no idea," she assured him a moment later.

She hadn't missed his accent, foreign in the array of Vegas accents that surrounded them. "And from the sounds of things I'm not the only one far from home."

When she was offered a hand, she reached out to take it in her smaller one, gripping tightly until callused skin met GW's. "Bethany Richards." Now if she was in Vegas the name would have had some kind of reaction but she wasn't.

"Guilty as charged, Cajun country born and bred," he replied, a bit surprised at the controlled strength evident in the handshake. He contemplated going gallant and bringing the hand up to his lips, but thought better of it and released it. He didn't want her misinterpreting the gesture after all. "A pleasure t' make your acquaintance."

The name did sound familiar, but it took a minute for him to make the connection. "Ah! You run Heaven's Peak, non? I've been there once or twice. Nice place." Not his typical scene, but it was a nice change from his usual haunts every now and again. Definitely not a place where his kind of music would find a home, unless it underwent a radical change in atmosphere and clientèle.

"That I do," Bethany murmured with an obviously proud smile. She withdrew her hand, tucking both in the back pocket of her jeans, leaving her thumbs free to tap them against the denim.

She tipped her head and eyed the line again, rolling her eyes as it was barely moving. "I'm beginning to think it would be quicker to drive to Vegas to get a drink."

"I'm inclined t' agree," GW surveyed the line and shook his head. "I think we could run down t' th' convenience store an' buy microwave popcorn and some cokes and make it back before we reached the front of th' line."

He sighed and turned his attention back toward Bethany. "But then we'd miss out on th' start of a classic horror flick, which is th' whole reason I came down here t' begin with. How long have you been a horror fan?"

"Depends on how fast you run," Bethany commented casually but there was something in her eyes that suggested something untoward, almost a predatory glint.

She shrugged a second later and reached up, ruffling at her hair, which in turn pulled the tanktop up, giving a brief display of the tattoo she'd had inked near her hip and across her stomach.

"Since I was a child," she shared. "You?"

"The same," GW responded, admiring both the tattoo and the shapely formed midriff. He figured since they were doing show and tell he might as well show his own tat. The Cajun shrugged out of his jacket and pulled the sleeve of his t-shirt to display the tattoo of the Marine Corps emblem inked into a well muscled shoulder.

"I saw Dracula when I was eight an' that was it. When I was little they scared me, nowdays its more for laughs an memories." He'd seen enough over the years between growing up in a family of magic users and the Corps that the Hollywood version rarely scared him anymore.

Bethany tipped her head, fighting the urge to smirk as GW showed off his tattoo and she allowed herself a moment of admiration for both the tattoo and what it meant.

"It's easier for things to scare us when we're children." Bethany slid her hands around and pushed them into the back pockets of her jeans, hitching her shoulders upwards. "The age of innocence or so everybody would have you believe."

"I would agree with em.'" GW replied, taking a step backward as the line moved. "Childhood is a more innocent time, in a way. Simpler, less stressful."

He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and tapped one out against the palm of his hand, and fished out his lighter. "A dirty habit I know," he told Bethany, "but one I haven't been able t' give up."

'Depends on your parents', Bethany thought to herself.

She bit her lower lip and just lifted her eyebrows. "I have a couple of those myself."

"You're only human," GW replied with a nod as he lit up his smoke and took a deep drag. Oh yeah, he'd needed that. He held the pack out to the woman, offering her a cigarette in case she indulged as well.

Bethany held up a hand and shook her head. "That's one vice I've never actually indulged." When the line moved forward as did Bethany, taking that one step closer to a fresh coke. She was beginning to wonder if she should just call it a night and head back to Vegas.

"Good for you," GW said sincerely. "Don't ever start. I've never been able t' give it up entirely, just reduced it down t' a few a day."

Sounds of the movie starting up got GW's attention. He looked back toward the giant screen where the black and white images began to flicker and then at the head of the line again, and shook his head. "It's just not worth it. I think I'm gonna have t' watch the movie without popcorn." He should have just rented the movie online and watched it at home, but he'd wanted to get out of the house.

The Cajun nodded politely to Bethany, then decided to throw caution to the wind and dug out his wallet to hand her a business card. "Guess I'll be seein' you around Bethany. If you ever decide t' do somethin' different at the club give me a call, non? We might not be your typical genre, but we're damn good. Have a good night."

With that, GW nodded again and stepped out of the line to walk back to his truck.

Neighbors

"Hey batter batter batter," GW muttered to himself. He knew it was a useless exercise as the baseball player was a thousand miles away and couldn't hear him, but he said it anyway. The Astros had been his favorite team growing up, mainly due to the fact that Houston was the closest city with a major league team, and he'd kept a fondness for the ballclub into adulthood.

The Cajun took a sip of his beer and watched the television from his seat at the bar of his neighborhood watering hole. His team was up 5-3 in the bottom of the 8th Inning, but the Diamondbacks had two men on base and no outs.

"They better get movin', you bet." he mused before taking a bite of his cheese fries.

Sarita hadn't intended to go into the little bar near her apartment complex, but she'd returned from a walk to the grocery store to find herself locked out, so she trudged inside with her two bags to wait for her roommate to pull into the parking lot. At least she didn't have milk or something else that needed refrigerating with her.

The place wasn't very crowded, and she decided to get one beer, something inexpensive just to cool off, while she loitered around waiting on Katrina's big butt to come home. Only a couple of days until payday, thank God. The tips had been a little better this week, mostly married couples coming in with their kids. No need to indulge the creeps who wanted to put their hands up her skirt.

It was almost time for her to write a letter home. A letter that would doubtless come back unopened, but she kept hoping that her mother would soften and start talking to her again. As long as she only tried every few months or so, it didn't hurt too much when the envelopes came back untouched. But maybe one day she'd actually get an answer.

That, of course, would probably happen just as easily as her winning a Grammy award for songwriting.

"No! No! No! Merde!" GW swore loudly as the bat connected with the ball and sent it sailing up into the upper deck in right field. He took a deep sip of his beer and watched glumly as the player made a victory lap around the ball diamond, high fiving the other base runners.

The Cajun had been afraid of that. The Astros pitcher was a high priced flop that was eating up payroll space that could be better spent on other talent, and the Diamondbacks had some of the best hitters in the Western Division. It was an uneven matchup at best.

"Th' manager, he needs t' go."

"That's what happens when you spend money like water," Sarita remarked, lifting her own bottle to her mouth. "They've been wasting cash on marquee names when what they ought to be doing is scoping the minor leagues for somebody with a solid record for pitching and a better arm. Too bad steroids are such a big no-no, they might actually help in that case."

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, swiped the pretzel bowl on her right to pull it closer to her. It was hard not to pay attention to sports in a place like this, where everyone gambled on everything. Once they'd had a betting pool at work about how many drunk driving accidents there would be after a catered event the restaurant had held. Which was really kind of morbid, but she'd won four hundred dollars.

"You're a little far from home, aren't ya?" she asked rhetorically, having already picked up on the guy's accent. "Don't tell me, you're here for the baseball."

"Non," GW responded easily, having caught her accent as well. To someone not from the gulf coast region she would be pegged just as a Texan, which was a large amount of real estate. But to someone from his neck of the woods it was easy to spot the subtleties in her accent that identified her loud and clear as someone from the Houston/Galveston area.

"I've been livin' in Vegas for more than a year now, th' money's good and there's plenty o' gigs for a Cajun band. Lots o' folks settled 'round here after Rita blew through the bayou back in '05, every now and again they like th' sound of home."

He took a bite of his cheese fries and eyed the brunette curiously. She hadn't been here before, or at least he hadn't been here when she had patronized the bar. "You're a fair bit away too, you bet," he told her after chasing down the fries with a sip of his beer. "Get tired o' th' Hurricanes or somethin' else blow you up this way?"

The Cajun extended a hand. "GW Robichaux."

"Sarita Torres. Nice to meet you." God, if he tried to pick her up, she was going to pour her beer over his head. But the handshake came and went and she decided he wasn't that sort. He looked too clean-cut for it, for one thing. His mother probably still baked cookies for him and sent them in carefully wrapped packages in the mail.

"I'm not that much of a sports fan, it's just that you kind of can't escape from it out here. Superbowl time is the worst, because then all the gamblers crawl out of their holes with more money than brains. They do tip well, though, gotta give 'em that."

Her curiosity piqued, she continued, "You're in a band? Do I need to ask for your autograph?"

"Heh, it ain't worth all that much." GW shrugged and kept one eye on the screen behind her, and winced as the Diamondbacks got another run in. It was going to be a quiet night in the Astros locker room, he could tell.

"Th' band is called th' Cajun Devildogs. We mostly play Cajun style and some Bluegrass tunes, along with th' more traditional country styles." He was proud of his band and wasn't afraid to hide it. It had been a lifelong ambition to run his own successful band, and GW had worked his ass off to get it to this point.

"So you work in th' casinos then?" He asked her curiously. It had to be more interesting than the game, which was going down in flames unless the Astros pulled their heads out of their rears. At least the Saints looked to be good this year.

"I wish. I'm a waitress, over at Toretto's, just across from the Luxor Hotel? Well, I'm currently a waitress pretending to be a songwriter. The second part's not working out so well." Sarita smiled self-deprecatingly, her dimples becoming more pronounced. "It turns out you need a little more than nerve to get your foot in the door around here.

Not that she hadn't tried, because she had. But everyone she'd talked to thus far wanted a 'name', or at least some kind of known representation. But she didn't have the money lying around to hire an agent, and somehow she'd gotten the stubborn idea that she could do this on her own if someone would just give her a chance. So far, though, there had been no joy.

"I've probably seen your flyers here and there, depending on where you've been putting them up. Are you getting a lot of good buzz from the locals?"

"What's your genre? It can be tough, getting your foot in the door in this business." GW sympathised. So far he had kept their songs completely in house, there hadn't been any reason to go looking elsewhere for material. Along with that he had his education in composition and experience to draw on when he had roadblocks.

"We've been getting pretty good buzz, yeah. I've had to work my tail off to generate it though, being th' manager, fiddler and lead singer." He finished off his beer and signaled the bartender for another. It wasn't like he had to drive home and there were no rehearsal sessions or gigs until the day after tomorrow.

"There's a regular gig at th' Orleans, we play there once a month. Been doing a lot of road shows in the region too."

"Its not really a genre so much as it is a combination of different stuff," the waitress answered, offering a one-shouldered shrug. "Kind of like Lucinda Williams meets Tori Amos I've put together a few things that I think are really good, but the problem is I'm the only one who seems to think so."

She seemed to have eaten over half of the pretzels in the bowl without quite realizing it, and she pushed the bowl away from her with a bit of embarrassment. Too much fat and salt would go straight to her ass and decide to bring friends when it moved in. Thank God for the fitness room where she lived. "Have you been in any of the local trade rags?" she asked GW. "I don't get to clubs as often as I'd like because I usually work nights, but I do try to keep up with the local scene."

The bartender set down a fresh beer in front of GW, who nodded in understanding at Sarita and took a sip of his beer while he thought it over. Lucinda Williams meets Tori Amos wasn't exactly the sort of sound the Devildogs aspired to, especially considering they were an all-male band. Still, if Johnny Cash could take a Trent Reznor tune ostensibly about heroin and turn it into something that sounded like a gospel song, then Sarita might be able to write something that they could use.

"We were profiled in th' paper 'bout six months ago, and had write ups in th' local rags here an' there since we showed up in Vegas."

The Cajun put another forkful of cheese fries into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, wondering if he should make the offer or not. He chased down the fries with a swallow of beer. "When was th' last time y' wrote somethin?"

Sarita thought about it, tracking backwards over the last few months. It was nearing the end of summer, and she'd last hauled out her notebook in... "June," she said aloud. "I broke up with my ex...again...and wrote a couple of things about it. They aren't that great, though, but I've got other stuff that's better."

She paused, looked at the dwindling contents of her bottle. "Do you write the songs for your group too, or do you have enough on your to-do list for that already?"

"It's a collaborative effort," GW told her. "Everyone contributes songs, though most o' the work is done by me or Henri, the other fiddler in the group. We've both been playin' in honkytonks an' bars since we were kids, and I went t' school for music on the GI Bill after I got out o' th' service."

He sipped his beer. "It keeps us busy an' out o' trouble."

"Oh, you were in the Army before?" He was probably older than her, in that case. Really cute, though. It was probably just as well he hadn't tried to pick her up, because the whole beer-over-the-head thing would just have been rude. And she so did not need a boyfriend right now. "My step-dad's career Air Force," she added with a slight wrinkle of her nose. "Nice uniforms, but not a lot of fun at parties."

"I've thought about going back to school, do some actual studying of music, but there's no money for it since I'm on my own. I've always been more of a self-starter, anyway." Her beer was finally finished, and she set the bottle down on the paper coaster before eating a few more pretzels.

"Ugh, I need to stop eating these, I'm gonna wreck my diet."

"Marine Corps," GW corrected without rancor. "Seven years. I've known a few wing wipers when I was in th' service. Career types tended t' be kinda boring, so I can't say I'm surprised about yer stepdad. If yer serious 'bout goin' to school y' could always join th' guard or reserves t' pay for it. Iraq's windin' down so it isn't like they'd send y' straight t' th' firing line."

He chuckled about her comment on the pretzels. "Beer an' cheese fries ain't doin' mine any favors neither, but exercise will burn th' calories off, sure thing."

The Cajun set down his beer and looked at her with a serious expression. "If you're serious 'bout tryin' t' make a livin' off your songs, why don't you put some stuff together an' meet me at th' Panera Bread shop down by the supermarket on Saturday morning? I'll take a look, offer some suggestions an maybe take a few to see if th' rest o' th' band would be interested in playin' any." At her uncertain look he raised a hand and shook his head. "I'm not interested in hanky panky, I've got a girl already."

Not that he'd seen much of her lately, Meredith seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth. If not for her karmic abilities he'd start getting worried, but she was a big girl who could take care of herself. It didn't mean he would wait forever, but he would wait a while longer.

Oh, God, was she talking to an actual nice guy? The last year or so had made her a little cynical about men in general, despite how young she was, and she directed her gaze to the television screen and the end of the miserable ballgame. Yeah, it hadn't gotten any better for the Astros.

"I'm on a break from relationships," she said, giving GW an odd sort of smile. "When my stupid ex-boyfriend left this last time, I decided that all drama all the time was over-rated. If I wanted to hear yelling and slamming doors, I'd still be living with my mother."

At least this meant she wouldn't have to explain the other thing, her 'second job'. It wasn't exactly something she went around bragging about. But if she could really interest the Cajun in some of the things she'd written, maybe she could start keeping her legs closed after work unless she felt like doing otherwise.

A girl could dream, right?

"But yeah, I could do that. I actually live nearby, in an apartment complex, but I got locked out. The perils of forgetting your keys, y'know?"

"Been there, done that." GW smiled sympathetically. He'd done it a few times over the years, and experience had taught him to keep a backup set in a location only he would know about.

The last thing he wanted to do was talk about relationships to someone barely out of her teens, so GW simply nodded at her comments about the drama but said nothing.

"Sounds like we got ourselves a business meeting then," GW dug out his wallet and signaled the bartender that he was ready to pay up. He handed the bartender a twenty and Sarita a business card. "Y' can get hold o' me that way. Unless I hear otherwise I'll see you at the bagel shop at ten a.m. on Saturday."

"Thanks." Sarita tucked the little card into her jeans pocket, glanced at her watch. Katrina had been job hunting today, but she should be back any time now. "Its been really nice talking with you, GW. We used to get kids from Louisiana who'd drive in for our football games. I miss the accent."

She put her own slightly more crumpled bills on the bar, turned to face the street so she could catch sight of her roommate's car. At least there'd be some good news tonight, and maybe more once she talked to the Cajun again. She'd have to go through her notebooks tonight, see what she thought was her best work.

Sometimes there were benefits to getting locked out of your house.

The NPC of Sarita was written by Stargazer

Good Samaritan

Marie Chambers, scourge of the courtroom... Litigator of evil... Viper of Wolfram and Hart...

And totally useless when it came to cars.

With head under bonnet and a clear look of distaste at the prospect of getting oil on her business suit, the redhead was not looking forward to doing the necessary. Whatever 'the necessary' might turn out to be, at any rate. There was a lot of smoke, whatever the case. Or was that steam?

About as much use over an engine as Sonya Ramius at an elocution contest, Marie squinted, pulling out a small mobile telephone in the hope of getting ahold of someone who knew what they were doing.

"Great," the lawyer remarked, finding next to no signal registering on the screen. "Just great..."

GW couldn't help but notice the woman in a business suit with her head stuck under the hood of her overheating car, or at least it looked like it was overheating to him judging from the color of the steam as he drew closer.

It was late and there weren't a lot of cars on the road, and GW would never forgive himself if he didn't stop and something happened to the woman. If Vegas didn't seem to be such a supernatural weirdness magnet maybe he would have simply left it alone as he saw she had a cell phone, but it was and so he pulled his truck over to the side of the road about thirty feet ahead of her.

He was on his way home from a gig, and was dressed in black jeans and an olive drab t-shirt that were a bit dirtier than they'd been the start of the day from packing gear away and the heat of the stage lights. To add insult to injury he'd had beer spilled on him so he probably wasn't smelling the best right now.

GW hoped she didn't freak and call the police.

The Cajun got out of his truck and walked back toward the redhead. "You all right there, Ma'am? Looks like you've got a lil' engine trouble. Need a hand?" He kept his tone friendly and light, and made sure not to move too quickly. He was looking to help her out, but sometimes Good Samaritans wound up in the hospital. Or the Morgue.

Ah fuck, I'm gonna' get raped...

Marie's was the mental reaction of just about any woman alone at night, being approached by an apparently 'helpful' male. Of course, once she caught sight of what George actually looked like, the redhead reflected with a slightly more positive mental outlook.

Hmm, wonder what he'd look like with a monkey wrench.

"Well, it's kind of... Stopped," Marie answered, offering the sum total of her mechanical expertise. "And it hisses a lot. Kind of like an old person, but with wheels."

"Name's GW Robichaux, ma'am," GW offered as he came up to the car, just so she'd have a name to go with his face. Maybe if she knew his name she'd conclude correctly that all he was here for was to help out. "I'll take a look n' see what I can see."

She wasn't pointing a taser, peper spray, or pistol at him so that was a good sign.

He smiled once again at her then peered down under the hood. Steam was billowing out from around the edges of the radiator cap and he ducked his head back out from under the hood and faced the owner of the vehicle once again, this time the smile was replaced by a somber expression. "Well, th' good news is you made it off th' road ok. Th' bad news is you won't be goin' anywhere soon with that unless you get some coolant into it."

The Cajun gestured toward the vehicle. "Th' engine overheated, probably din' have enough anti-freeze. Could be a leak somewhere, could be it just didn't get topped off when you got th' oil changed." It was probably a safe bet she didn't change the oil in her car herself, not when she drove a luxury car and wore a tailored business suit. The woman's entire demeanor screamed 'money'.

"Right..." Marie answered, not so much skeptical as disconcerted, hence the slight wrinkling of nose in response to the noted advice. She understood the basics of what had been meant, she just had very little practical experience in dealing with it. The kind of problems she fixed were of a more legal nature. "Guess that's that, then."

Cars. Feh. Why couldn't the company just give them all drivers, hmm? OK, so it might be a little expensive, but...

So much for the vehicular demonic blessing ceremony.

"Is it dead or you get any on you?"

GW shook his head regretfully. "'Fraid not ma'am." he gestured toward his truck. "I'm a musician, not an auto mechanic. Water would work for a temporary fix, but I don't have any o' that either."

He wondered how long it would take to get a tow truck out here to tow her car to the nearest mechanic. At least an hour probably.

"Way I see it, we have three options,:" GW told her. "Option one: I give you a ride t' the gas station an buy a jug o' antifreeze or t' wherever you need t' go an' you can deal wit' your car later." He doubted she'd go for that one. Get in a car with a guy she didn't know at all? Not likely. GW wouldn't blame her at all if she didn't pick that one.

"Option two: I go get the antifreeze an' come back. Might not fix the problem, but it should buy some time t' get wherever you need t' go." he gave her a quick once over, "if that's the option I think you outta stay in the car till I get back, it's safer that way." If nothing else it would save her from possibly getting taken out by some idiot drunk driver.

"Option three: we call a tow truck or the cops. T' be honest I don' think the cops'll be much good, better t' call th' tow truck but that's up t' you."

"If I could get a signal, yeah..."

It would have been the most preferable option. Probably the one she had been attempting to pursue by the time he got there, but to no avail. Marie could have tried walking up and down the road, of course. Before she could make such a decision, however, that was when he entered the picture.

"'Kay, you get the antifreeze and I'll pay for however much it is. I'll be sitting in the car. That's why God invented tasers."

GW chuckled and nodded in agreement. "Sit tight Ma'am. I'll be back in a bit, you bet."

It was only a few miles to the nearest gas station, and GW returned about ten minutes later with two jugs of antifreeze. By the time he'd returned the woman's car had stopped smoking, which he took as a good sign

A check of the coolant reservoir showed that it was indeed bone dry, and GW poured one full jug into it and then waited.

The woman had emerged from her car, and GW nodded cheerfully. "We'll get you back on the road again in no time."

It wasn't any big deal to him, the antifreeze didn't cost all that much and he didn't have anywhere to go but home.

After talking to her, GW took a handkerchief out of his pocket and carefully twisted off the radiator cap to pour more coolant directly into the radiator. It was still hot, so he had to watch out to avoid being burned.

When the gesture to offer financial compensation was apparently refused, Marie blinked in surprise. Guys like that no longer existed outside of Hollywood fiction. Not unless they were after something else and that was now seeming less and less likely. If they did, then Wolfram and Hart would almost certainly have got to them before she ever did.

Oh, wait... Good looks, honesty and a decent haircut with it. She knew what was up.

George Robichaux was gay. It was either that or he was an actor and, really, one was as good as the other.

Yep, that was it. Everything made sense now, no matter how much Meredith Underhill would have disagreed.

"Well, thanks!" Marie beamed, pleasantly surprised by the lack of sexual assault in her night of automobile calamity. "You heading to a bar or something? I've heard Homme J'Adour's good for that kinda' thing."

GW blinked. Homme J'Adour? That had to be the first time he'd ever been accused of being gay.

"No, my band an' I just got done w' a gig over at the Orleans. I play the fiddle an do the lead vocals fer the Cajun Devildogs. If country music is your kind o' music then you might wanna give us a listen sometime." He dug out his walled and handed out a business card. "We've got gigs all over, the next couple months."

Maybe he ought to go see if Meredith was home instead of heading directly to his place.

"Ohhh...!"

Now things made even more sense and Marie smiled in realization with her next nod. Unless, of course, he was a gay musician. But regardless of sexuality, a career like that might explain some of it.

Taking the card and scrutinizing it with a momentary frown, the lawyer was reminded of her own career and did likewise with a much more professional means of her occupational identification. It was plastic, glossy and personalized, complete with a 'Wolfram & Hart' logo.

"Y'ever run someone over or get charged with noise violations, give me a call," the redhead offered with a good-natured smirk.

If Meredith and especially Lorne ever got wind of his consorting with the firm, times could get very interesting. Until then, however, Marie was just another potential friend in life.

A Wolfram & Hart lawyer huh? Great, just great. He'd heard some of the shenanigans that the New Orleans office had been up to since the city was founded, and Mere had talked about some of what the Vegas office had done.

Maybe this Marie Chambers wasn't that bad, GW had no way of knowing whether she was or not.

Still, having an attorney owing him a favor was never a bad thing. He pocketed the card and smirked back.

"You should be good t' go now," he told her, screwing the radiator cap back on and closing the hood. "Best get it checked in the next day or so though. You take care o' yourself, Miss Chambers, hear?"

With that he nodded politely and headed back to his truck. He might just head over to Meredith's after all, if she was home.

But first, a shower would be in order or he'd show up at her door smelling of beer and antifreeze.

Amends

GW Robichaux was a stubborn man, and not one to sit around moping.

With the passage of time and no sign of Meredith, GW concluded that at a minimum she was still upset with him and that worst case scenario she'd broken up with him without bothering to tell him.

He wasn't about to apologize for his words, he'd meant them and still stood by them. That summer spent working for Tante Marie had taught him a great deal about the unintended consequences that could happen to people who messed with magic they didn't understand. The last thing he wanted to see was something happen to Meredith, Elian or Lorne because they went off half cocked in trying to fix the ex-bartender's memory.

So instead of sitting and brooding over his potentially ex-girlfriend, the Cajun had thrown himself into his work. He'd written and rewritten enough music to fill two albums and worked feverishly to promote his band all over the west.

It was late in the evening, and GW was tinkering at home with a song that had been giving him trouble. He'd fiddle a few lines, make a change and fiddle it again, repeating the process over and over until he was satisfied.

Sometimes Meredith had wondered why she even bothered having an apartment. For the amount of time she actually spent there, she half considered throwing her stuff into a storage locker and living out of her car. At least it would be cost effective, because as it stood these days, her apartment was merely just an expensive place to store all her belongings.

The last week or so had been spent, obviously, in the dwelling of her best friend; as indisposed as the green demon had been in his altered state, Meredith clearly could not leave the six year old Lorne by himself. Thus, the reluctant and always-involved brunette had opted to stick around the Nightclub to keep an eye on the curious but otherwise well behaved junior demon.

But taking care of one man in her life had caused Meredith to forget about the other; She had been so completely occupied with picking stray Lucky Charms out of the carpet and inventing new uses for crayons that she had hardly the time to think about the main man in her life.

The last time Meredith spoke with GW, the two parted ways on a sour note. As time had gone by and Meredith remained occupied with Lorne, she had realized at the end of it that she really wasn't angry anymore. In fact, it had come to mind that she couldn't even rationalize her own anger. Although the stubborn brunette was widely known among her peers for being, well, stubborn, it had finally began to dawn on her (after Lorne had sadly informed her about the email he received from his friend that restoring Elian's memory was definitely, one hundred-and-ten percent unprobable), that she and Lorne were just going to have to cut their losses and accept things the way they were.

So after Lorne had been inexplicably restored to his normal self, (which, to Meredith, the whole situation was strange to begin with), the photographer had decided it best to tie up a loose end with her boyfriend before the situation festered more. She honestly wasn't sure how GW was feeling, because she had neglected to even phone him over the last while. If they were even still together, Meredith would honestly be surprised. It would have been her fault, she realized, but she owed it to GW to at least show her face and figure out where they stood.

If anything, apologies never hurt anyone.

Detouring from her own apartment to GW's, Meredith Underhill did something she wasn't known for doing - she swallowed her own damn pride.

Pulling into the driveway of the home she helped to find, the headlights from Meredith's red Accord splayed across the front of the house before she killed the engine. Deep breaths followed, and running the palms of her clammy hands over the knees of her jeans, she readied herself before she got out of the car to knock on the door.

The song was being particularly difficult tonight. GW had a certain sound he was trying to achieve with the melody, and nothing he put down to paper sounded quite right when he tried to play it on the fiddle. But GW was a stubborn Cajun, and he wasn't going to give up on what was potentially his best work yet, if he could just get it out of his head and successfully onto paper. Sometimes he wondered why he couldn't have been like Mozart, who'd been able to composes fully orchestrated music in his head before putting it down to paper.

There was a knock at the door and GW tossed down the pen he'd been chewing on while trying to figure out the song.. Merde, would those kids ever quit? He already subscribed to the damn newspaper and bought candy for the local school fundraiser. What did they want him to do next, open a vein and donate blood?

"I told y'all already, I ain't interested..." he said loudly as he opened the door, his voice trailing off and his dour expression turning to one of surprise as he saw who was on the other side of the door. The last person he'd expected to see.

"Mere...hey."

"Hi."

Large brown eyes lowered and looked away, fingers toying with the hem of her light green teeshirt; She felt awkward and incredibly sheepish. The normally robust and outspoken Meredith was trying her damndest to come to grips with an apology, sometimes it wasn't the easiest thing to admit you were wrong.

"I uh.."

She looked back up at him. Her teeth worked at the inside of her lower lip and her eyes darted back away. For some reason she began to find the mailbox absolutely fascinating. Or not, but all the same, it provided a much needed focal point for an awkward situation.

"I want to talk to you," she began, eyes moving back to his face, "Can I come in?"

At first GW said nothing, he simply drank in her presence since it had been so long since he'd seen her. After a moment his southern instincts kicked in and he stepped back from the doorway, gesturing for her to come in. "O' course you can come in, please."

He was suddenly aware that he hadn't shaved in three days, and the shirt he was wearing had a pizza sauce stain left from lunch earlier in the day. When he got focused on composition, everything else tended to fall by the wayside, as the pile of crumpled up paper next to the sofa attested to. A half used notepad sat on the coffee table next to his fiddle and bow, along with a nearly empty beer bottle resting on a coaster off to one side.

"'Scuse the mess," he apologized, "'been workin' on a song that doesn't wanna come out without a fight."

It had felt like a literal eternity since Meredith had last been there, and GW's house seemed oddly unfamiliar. She supposed she was to blame for that, as it was nearly an eternity since she'd last come by.

Fingers still playing with the material at the bottom of her shirt, Meredith entered the house and ended up in the livingroom. Seemed GW was as busy as she had been over the last while. At least he'd kept himself occupied, and the brunette had wondered if the apparent feverish songwriting had perhaps found inspiration from their current circumstance. Musicians usually thrived on that kind of thing. Hopefully GW wasn't composing the next greatest song entitled, 'Meredith Underhill, What A Bitch.'

Once inside the house, she swallowed hard and sighed. She hoped she could just get this apology thing over and done with and still come out on top with at least a shred of her dignity left.

"Look, I know we parted on bad terms," she stated finally, after releasing her grasp from the bottom of her shirt, "But I'm here because I ... well... I wanted to apologize. For the way I acted."

GW nodded. He knew that must have taken a lot for her to say those words, and figured it might be a good idea to meet her part way. "I'm sorry I lost my temper, I shouldn' have done that. You were worried about Elian an' I wasn't helpin'."

He sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair. Sometimes he thought about going to the barber and getting a high and tight like he'd kept it back in the Corps, low maitenance hair had its advantages. "Mere, I ever tell you I spent a summer workin' fer my Tante Marie when I was a teenager? She actually ran a shop outta her home back in those days."

This apology thing may not have been as hard as Meredith initially suspected; she did know her boyfriend and her seemed to share a common thread of stubbornness, but he seemed open to not wanting to have another fight about it. The last thing that the brunette wanted was a fight about a fight. Perhaps he was just as hopeful to get this entire ordeal under the bridge and out of the way.

"No, you didn't," she replied, turning her face every so slightly to look at him with an eyebrow lightly raised. She wondered what his aunt had to do with any of this, but she offered an open ear anyways. More than likely, there was a point to it.

"Well..." his Cajun accent seemed even more exaggerated as he remembered those days. "It was my first real job, workin' fer my great aunt, th' unofficial head o' th' family an' th' most powerful Witch in Acadia Parish. I was a gopher an delivery boy mostly, gettin' stuff fer her or deliverin' items t' folks who couldn't come t' the house."

He sat down on the couch and gestured for her to join him if she wanted. "There was this one couple, Bobby Jo and Suzie Thibidoux, kids really, younger than you an' me now. They were really into magic, and accordin' t' Tante Marie were decent spellcasters. Anyway, there was this one spell they were just achin' t' try out, a summoning spell apparently, but they mistranslated th' text o' th' spell. They thought they had everything figured out, but the components they bought from Tante weren't right fer th' spell an' when they summoned th' creature it got loose an' went on a killin' spree, startin' with them."

"It took Tante an my Granmere Lucille three days t' track down an' banish whatever it was that th' Thibidouxes summoned, in which time it killed six other folks. That's one o' the main reasons I'm so harsh on messin' with magics folks don't fully understand, I don't wanna see folks gettin' hurt or worse. I especially didn' wanna see you get hurt."

A long sigh was heaved and Meredith pushed her bangs out of her eyes. Her long brown hair had been tied up into a loose bun on top of her head, stray ringlets falling over her brow and over her ears. "Lorne has a friend named Jules," she began to explain to her boyfriend in a tired and subdued voice, "He is an extremely powerful magician or wizard or worlock or whatever who lives in LA.. Lorne knew him back from his days at Wolfram and Hart, and the guy's gotta be like a million years old."

Meredith had never met the man, but Lorne seemed to hold his opinion in high regard. Normally the demon was rather trusting of just about anyone, but when it came to Jules Winnegan, Lorne was firm that the man's integrity was as good as gold. And so was his word.

"Apparently we're not dealing with magic anyways when it comes to Elian," she explained, remembering everything Lorne had told her, "According to Jules, the only way possible to restore Elian's memories is a failsafe of some sort, like a password I guess."

Seemed kind of silly, but all the same.

"Anyway, if Elian had such a thing in place, we figured he would have told Lorne about it," she went on, "And he never mentioned it. Even if there was a failsafe and he told someone about it, without his memories now, we'll never know who it was."

GW chewed on that for a moment, looking for flaws in the argument. He frowned, finding no wiggle room in the statement about the likelihood of Elian's memories being restored. That was too bad, he would have liked to have seen the former bartender's memories return, if only for Meredith's sake. Either version worked just fine for GW.

"He never told Lorne 'bout him bein' a higher being, there must have been a good reason for him t' keep it t' himself, so there's no way t' know if he had a failsafe or no," he shrugged and looked at his girlfriend wryly, "Guess we'll just have t' pray fer him t' somehow come across th' failsafe on his own, assumin' he had one. Th' odds are probably 'bout th' same as winnin' th' lottery though."

As far as he was concerned, the subjects of Elian and the earlier argument were now closed.

The Cajun eyed Meredith speculatively. As far as he was concerned she looked great, if a bit nervous. It was time to finish clearing the air between them. "So....where does that leave us? You willin' t' put up with a stubborn an' slightly opinionated Cajun?"

Meredith heaved a sigh. She was reluctant to close the book on the subject, but in reality, she would more than likely drive herself crazy trying to find something that didn't even exist. She'd probably end up finding Jimmy Hoffa first, or Atlantis.

Sometimes, you really did have to cut your losses and move.

Except in the case of her relationship, because it appeared at least that was able to be saved.

A small smile was offered to her boyfriend. "Yeah of course," she told him response, "It's only fair, I mean, you have to put up with a stubborn Canadian.."

A matching smile crossed GW's face, along with something akin to relief. He'd been afraid that the issue of Elian's memory had damaged their relationship beyond repair, and was glad to find out that it wasn't the case.

She was still standing there awkwardly, so the Cajun patted his lap, "You look like y' could take a load off, chere, why don' y' have a sit an tell me whats been goin' on?"

"Would you believe i've been babysitting?" Meredith answered him, relieved in the subject change. The conversation's move in another direction had been an excellent way to help clear some of the tension that was lingering in the air, and the photographer was able to relax a bit, realizing things weren't as bad as she had originally thought.

"I don't know how Lorne does it, but he manages to get himself into more trouble than anyone i've ever known," she went on to explain, smiling and offering a small chuckle. "I mean normally I feel like I'm babysitting him anyways, but this time it was literal. He turned his clock back a good thirty years and I had a plucky little six year old on my hands. I don't know what caused it, but Lorne seems to think it was his run-in with a creepy little girl in Searchlight a couple weeks ago."

Again, yet another reason why Meredith really needed to stay away from that town.

"He's back to normal again, but it was definitely an experience," she added. "I had my hands full."

GW's eyebrows nearly went up to his hairline at Meredith's explanation. Lorne as a six year old? The mind boggled. Meredith definitely had been handed a full plate while they'd been apart, and he was glad that the reversion had been temporary. Trying to raise a green skinned red eyed demon child would have been a difficult prospect at best.

"I think I'll keep my visits t' Searchlight confined t' the Nugget or the VFW hall, th' place is seems t' be a supernatural trouble magnet."

He gestured toward the Violin and notepad full of scrawled music notation, "I've been a mite busy myself, what with workin' on the' album and takin' road trips t' promote the band."

Meredith had definitely noticed the abundance of scrap paper lying around, and figured it was the result of a busy musician hard at work. She was glad things were going so well for him and his band; she couldn't think of anything worse for a band than having no gigs or no ideas for new music.

"I'm glad to hear it," she told him with a smile, "I was going to ask you how the band was doing, but I guess by the looks of things around here, things are really taking off. I'm sorry I haven't been to any of your shows in town.. but yeah, last time I checked, they don't exactly allow six year olds into bars."

Although technically, younger Lorne had been so absolutely fascinated by the television, that Meredith could have left him sitting infront of it for three days and he probably wouldn't have budged an inch. But what kind of caregiver would she had been if she left her best friend to starve to death?

She gave her boyfriend a sheepish little smile. "Do you have any shows coming up soon?" she asked him, "Because I really want to make up for lost time and come show some support."

"I can imagine," GW told his girlfriend wryly, "I would have liked t' have seen Lorne as a little squirt though, I imagine it would've been a sight, you bet."

Since his girlfriend didn't seem to be moving over to where he was, he'd move to where she was. GW stood up from the couch and walked toward the brunette. "We've got a gig comin' up next friday at th' Orleans. We're gonna take a road trip t' California next month, have a couple gigs in LA an' San Diego." He was pleased that his hard work promoting the band was paying off and it showed. Meredith had certainly chosen a good subject to break the ice.

"I'd love t' have you at one o' our gigs, chere."

Meredith offered a warm smile. "I'll definitely come," she told him, "Front row."

It had literally seemed like forever since she had seen GW. But when he moved closer to her, the nearness of his presence and his scent alone was enough to bring back that welcome sense of familiarity that was missing over the last few weeks.

Unsure of whether or not she would be crossing her bounds, Meredith was hesitant to move; but pushing uncertainty aside, finally went to embrace the Cajun carefully and gingerly, unknowing of his reaction. Then again, she hardly cared. She just wanted to hold him again.

"I really did miss you," she admitted, finally.

"I was beginin' t' think I'd never see y' again," GW confessed as he wrapped his arms around her. "If I hadn't heard from y' soon, I figured I'd come an' find out one way or th' other." The awkwardness of the hug's start was a testament to how much time they'd spent apart and the poor parting the last time they'd been together. But the awkwardness soon passed and he tightened his hold, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume.

"I missed you too."

Meredith sighed, mostly in relief. She wasn't known to be one who openly admitted fault, being as stubborn as she was. This whole apology ordeal had been much easier than she thought.

The hardest part about it would be to finally let go of the hope that she could fix Elian. Meredith could fix alot of things, and in the past she had made it through by the skin of her teeth; her karmic power had come into play most of the time, and had been a great help. She had considered herself lucky to possess such a talent when other people did not. Having the ability to pull strings was a great deal of help when one set out to accomplish difficult things.

However, when it came to bringing back one of her best friends, Meredith had finally conceded that she was helpless to save him. It was just something she had to accept.

But there were still some things Meredith knew she could save, and knowing that, she wouldn't let GW go without a fight. Smiling finally at her boyfriend, the steadfast brunette pushed hair out of her face which held a newfound expression of acceptance and resolve.

"We never did get to have dinner together," she told him finally. "Are you hungry?"

Boots

May 7, 1998

United States Marine Corps Recruit Depot Paris Island (near Beaufort SC)
9:30pm/2130hrs

The sound of the rain striking the metal roof of the bus reminded GW of static from a radio, thap thap thap in continuous rapid fire. He fidgeted in his seat beside Bastian, along with thirty other boys and a few girls that were making the same journey they were. For the next thirteen weeks his whole existence would be limited to this strip of swampland turned military base, and he couldn't stop wondering what was going to happen.

The teenager had seen Full Metal Jacket a number of times, long before he'd ever thought he'd be living through the boot camp experience first hand. Ever since word got out that he and Bastian had joined the Marines, old vets seemed to come out of the woodwork to tell stories of their own times at boot camp and he wasn't sure whether he should be excited or terrified. He wasn't at all interested in having someone in his face and yelling at him when he couldn't yell back, but that was just for starters.

Most of the other recruits were sitting there in silence as the bus crossed over the causeway from the mainland to the island, lost in their own thoughts, and GW glanced over at his friend sitting beside him. He hadn't seen Bastian outside of school since that night, the other boy hadn't been allowed out of the house and he'd been grounded as well, going out only when his parents asked him to get something at the store or run a younger sibling to an event. What was going through his friend's head, GW could only imagine.

Bastian was staring out of the window in silence. He'd been silent for days now, not wasting words when he could grunt and not wasting noise when he could simply move his hands. His parents had seen him off, his father stonily silent and his mother crying her fool head off, but the larger boy had barely seemed to acknowledge them

Etienne had taken the belt to him when they'd gotten back from the police station, after punching him twice in the car when he'd tried to explain to the older man. "You dumb boy, dey call me at work t'come get you, and you wanna explain? You ain't explainin' nothin', you. Jus' shut your dumb mouf 'til we get home, den I gettin' th' strap from de closet." And he had too, had used the belt on Bastian's back over Marlene Sonnier's screams of protest.

But it was over now. It was over, and he was leaving them for a while. No more punches, and no more strap. That, at least, was a relief.

"GW?" he said as the bus continued to roll, saying his friend's name for the first time that seemingly interminable ride. "You got a piece of gum? My mouth's awful dry."

"Sure Bas," GW snapped out of his own woolgathering and pulled out a stick of gum from his pocket, glad for the distraction from his own thoughts. He handed it to his friend and resumed looking out the window, seeing the swamp give way to higher ground as they drove onto the military base With the darkness outside, it was difficult to see much of anything beyond the streetlights, but the numerous recruit barracks were impossible to miss and GW swallowed hard.

This was really happening. It wasn't a dream and it wasn't pretend. There would be no escape either, they'd been told before leaving the airport about the dangers of trying to leave Paris Island by themselves due to the swampy terrain. Not that GW would try to leave, his family would disown him if he tried anything like that. No, GW would do his damnedest to become the best possible Marine he could be.

Bastian unwrapped the stick of gum and put it into his mouth, tucking the paper into his shirt pocket. His mother had put a bag lunch into his hands, of all things, just before he'd climbed onto the bus, but he hadn't even considered eating any of it. If he could find a trash can once they got out, he'd probably discreetly throw it away.

"Ain't gonna be so bad, reckon," he said in a strangely thoughtful voice, looking out at the rows of recruit barracks. He'd be sleeping there tonight instead of in his room at home, and he wondered if they'd cut his hair tonight or in the morning. He was kind of upset about the thought of sporting a buzzcut, since he'd always been proud of his longish hair, but other than that there seemed to be little to complain about. Nothing that would change things, anyway.

: "Gettin' out from under Daddy gonna be good for both of us, me an' him." He rubbed his lower lip, which was still slightly swollen from his father's large fist slamming into it. "I wasn't sure of what I'd be doin' wit' m'self after graduation anyhow. Dis just makes it easier."

GW nodded silently and gave the other boy a thumbs up as the bus slowed to a halt in front of the receiving building. The front of the red brick building was brightly lit, and the pavement in front of the bus was marked with several rows of yellow footprints.

Standing in front of them was a large man in a Marine uniform and the stiff 'Smokey Bear' hat.. Almost as soon as the bus had stopped he was on board, standing at the very front of the bus as the recruits stared up at him. "You have ten seconds to be off my bus and standing on the yellow footprints. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not refer to anyone in the first person, including yourselves. Do you understand me?"

"Sir yes sir!" was the response from most recruits including GW, having been warned ahead of time not to call a Marine by anything other than 'Sir' or 'Ma'am' during boot camp.

"Get off my bus! Move! Move! Move!"

He wanted to ask GW what came next, since the other boy seemed to be more aware of what was happening, but the man in the uniform was already stalking in their direction, and so he didn't dare open his mouth. Well, this was really happening after all. But it wouldn't be so bad. At least there would be no leather belts lurking here.

Three hours later GW stared at his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth and didn't recognize himself. His full head of thick black hair was gone, shaved down to the skin. His civilian clothes were gone, instead he was dressed in olive drab and camouflages just like all the other recruits. The DI's had issued them their gear and taken their civilian clothes away before allowing all recruits a brief phone call home to let their folks know they'd arrived at Paris Island safely.

According to the schedule they would spend the first few days here in the receiving barracks being evaluated and inoculated before being delivered to the Drill Instructors that would actually be responsible for their training, but the ones who were running receiving barracks seemed to be pretty bad themselves. He''d already been 'dropped' for not moving fast enough for their liking earlier, and exercised until his arms and legs felt like jello.

Rubbing his hand over his freshly shaven head, Bastian eased his weight off of his rubbery legs and onto his bunk. The DIs had run him pretty ragged too, making it clear that he'd need to shed some weight if he were to last for the entire stay at camp. But other than muscles that were screaming at him about how ill-used they'd been, he felt...not bad.

"I tired, GW," he said, then yawned as if to prove it. "T'ink we gonna hafta go through de same t'ing tomorra? Dey keep runnin' me like dey done tonight, I'll be down to skin an' bones in no time." He scrubbed his hairless skull again, silently lamenting the trip to the barber's chair.

"'Reckon so Bas'," GW rinsed out his mouth and put the toothbrush away in his hygiene kit. It wouldn't be much longer before lights out and there would be hell to pay if they weren't out of the head and back in the squad bay. So many new terms they had to learn, and learn instantly. Windows had become portholes, upstairs above and downstairs below, the floor was the deck, walls were bulkheads and stairs had become ladders. Strange that the DI's insisted on calling everything in nautical terms when they were on dry land.

He clasped the other boy on the shoulder, "I think we're in fer a hell of ride, podna." Gesturing to the doorway, or 'hatch' in marine speak, "We'd best be gettin' back before they turn out th' lights."

With a muted grumble, Bastian forced his aching legs to work and carry the rest of him out of the head. If nothing else, he'd sleep good tonight. He wondered if he'd actually make it here. Anything would be better than going home in disgrace. Hell, anything would be better than going home.

"We gonna be all right," he said to his friend as the two of them made their way towards bed. Maybe if he kept saying that, it'd turn out to be true.

Trouble in Cajun Country, pt2

The four hours between the time he and Bastian were arrested and the time his father came to get him were some of the worst of GW's life.

The two teenagers had been booked at the police station and dumped into the general holding cell along with the drunks and petty criminals picked up over the course of the day. Being locked up was an eye opening and humiliating experience for GW, listening to the ribbing and catcalls from the crooks in the cell and feeling the high from the booze give way to pounding headache of a hangover. He was locked up like a common criminal.

Mr. Sonnier had arrived about an hour before his own father, and the look on the man's face sent GW's spirits even lower. He knew Bastian's home life wasn't the best, his friend occasionally sported bruises and black eyes that he tried to pass off as the effects of being clumsy, and GW feared that Bastian would have a fresh set of bruises before the night was through.

GW had taken one look at his father when he finally arrived and knew to keep his mouth shut. The older Robichaux's jaw was firmly set and there was a tenseness in his movements that spoke of an anger tightly controlled. If GW spoke before being spoken to that anger might not stay controlled. Jean-Bertrand Robichaux had never struck any of his children in anger, and had only rarely spanked them, but the look on his father's face suggested to GW he was sorely tempted in this case.

When the duo finally arrived home, GW's heart sank further at the sight in the kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table and sipping coffee with his mother was his great aunt Marie, the unofficial head of the extended family.

"Why am I not surprised t' see you here?" His father's tone was resigned, with just a touch of amusement.

Marie looked at her nephew with a similar slightly amused expression, then turned a much more solemn look in GW's direction. "Ivy Gastineau called me at home," she explained. "Her husband Davey mops de floors at de precinct house. Reckon she was mighty surprised to hear dis boy got walked in dere by a policeman."

The old woman got up, her hand grasping the head of her cane tightly as she levered herself to her feet, and she stumped quietly across the floor towards the teenager and his father. Sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window caused her shadow stretch over the linoleum surface, and she looked up slightly to see GW's face without obstruction. The boy still looked half drunk, and Marie's lips pursed with disapproval.

Then she slapped him, the flat of her hand coming into stinging contact with his left cheek. Her dark eyes snapped sparks at him, pinning him to the spot. "You mighty disappointin', George," she said evenly, shaking her head. "You tryin' t' ruin your life, you?" The rubber tip of her cane thumped against the floor solidly, punctuating her words, and she leveled an admonishing index finger at him. "Reckon I gonna hear what was goin' t'rough your mind, if anyt'in'."

GW's father said nothing as his aunt slapped his eldest child, he simply moved to stand behind his wife and put his hands on her shoulders. Susan Robichaux opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when her husband squeezed gently, a silent signal to let Marie do the talking for now.

GW's head snapped back from the force of the slap and the teenager touched his cheek where the impact of the slap still burned. He looked between the three adults in the kitchen and could tell he would find no sympathy from any of them. "I...I was thinkin' 'bout th' peckerhead lookin' down his nose at us just because we was catcallin' his boy." The teenager looked down at his feet, knowing what he'd done was stupid but there wasn't anyway to undo his and Bastian's actions. "We weren't thinkin' too good. I'm sorry fer what I did, me," his voice was barely audible, "I'll make it right, pay t' fix de SUV."

Hopefully he'd only be charged with a misdemeanor, he wasn't eighteen yet and it was the first time he'd ever been arrested for anything.

"Mmm. You boys, I swear." Marie's voice was still censuring, and her headshake was slow and disapproving. "You an' dat Sonnier young'un, runnin' roun' carryin' on like trash. Is he gonna pay fer de damage, too? Dat boy ain't got two quarters to rub together, him."

Still looking the disheveled teenager over, Marie spoke to his father. "What de police say, Jean? Dere a court date set? How much money it take to fix what's broke?"

Jean eyed his son from his spot behind his wife. He'd been trying to get through to George for years now, seemingly with no effect, and now this had happened. If his eldest continued in this pattern, he could end up dead or in prison before he reached twenty five. Something had to give.

"No estimate yet, but it'll be several thousand easy. All th' windows are busted and they'll have t' fix th' body work too. Not gonna be cheap, that's certain." He watched as George looked down at his shoes again, the boy's face turned bright red.

"Talked to the police, th' charges are public intoxication, possession o' alcohol by a minor, and vandalism for George, an' th' Sonnier boy's gonna be charged w' exposure as well. A fine example for his brothers an' sisters, George is settin."

"Exposure," Marie repeated, as though she couldn't believe it. "Don' have to ask where dey got de liquor, I guess. Lord, Lord..." She had begun to talk past GW as if he were no longer there, and the toe of her shoe began to tap on the kitchen floor, a sure sign that she was thinking. Planning. Plotting.

"What th' school say? Dis gonna affect George gettin' his diploma? He gonna need dat if he wanna do somethin' 'sides play music." Not that playing the fiddle was bad, in the old woman's opinion. Her own husband had played the fiddle for years, still picked up the instrument every now and then. But music couldn't always put food on the table, nor could it support a family by itself, not without luck.

"How serious is this fella about pressin' charges?"

"I had a long conversation wit' th' Principal an' George's history teacher, Mr. Jessup. If the charges are dropped. George 'll get 'is diploma, but th' graduation ceremony is out, an he's definitely suspended no matter what. Th' prosecutor, he's a brother Knight o' Columbus, Immaculate Heart parish council. He might be persuaded t' drop the charges, him, if we can work a deal."

They were both talking past GW now, and the teenager gathered his courage to speak up. "Don' I get a say in any o' this? It's my life we're talkin' about!" He was indignant that they were talking like he wasn't even in the room.

"George, be quiet!" His mother had found her voice, and it wasn't one GW wanted to hear. "You're in deep trouble and you aren't going to be able to get out on your own. Wait and hear what your father and your great aunt have to say before you talk. Marie and I have already discussed things and your father knows my views, now you will sit down and be quiet or you are no longer welcome in this house." Her voice was like iron, and GW knew that there would be no further argument. He either did as he was told or he would have to leave.

GW sat down and waited for the rest.

"You open your mouf like dat again an' I'll slap the teeth outta it," Marie said, her voice sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard it. "Your parents ain't raised you to act like trash, an' neither have I. You shame yourself an' us wit' dis nonsense. Tearin' things up, peein' on stuff like you some baby. You ain't two no more, George!"

The tip of the old woman's cane slammed into the kitchen floor, and she pointed a stern finger at the teenager. "You damn disappointin'," she intoned, cursing on this rare occasion because they boy just refused to listen. "Lucky your daddy ain't lef' you in jail, an' it was a struggle to get him to bring you home. Now you gonna sit and you gonna listen...den we see if dis can be fixed."

There was a silence, a strained one, and finally Marie looked back towards her nephew. "De Marines," she said after another beat. "De Army. Somethin'. He got to go away from here, find out what he wants to do with hisself. Can't go on like dis, Jean. Not 'less you want to see him in Angola."

"I didn' pee on nothin'!" GW protested without thinking, "Dat was Bastian! I'll admit what I did, but I didn' pee in public!" That had been a surprise, he'd never expected Bastian to do something like that, but the other boy sometimes just wasn't all there.

The rest of his great aunt's comments left the teenager speechless and caused his jaw to drop. The Marines? The Army? Were they out of their minds?! He already had his future planned out, what did he need with the military?

"I been thinkin' bout' th' Marines for George for a while now," Jean told his aunt. "They can give him some direction, straighten him out. Lord knows I done all I can, best let th' Corps have a try."

His attention turned to his son. "I talked to th' local recruiter son, they offer signin' bonuses for enlistments that would cover yer expenses on repairin' the car and any fines th' prosecutor requires. There's nothin' wrong with servin' yer country, son. The Marines are one o' th' finest outifts in th' world."

"Hmm. Th' recruiter, he a nice man?" Marie asked, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. She had a deep fondness for Jean's oldest son and always had, but right now she was just so exasperated with him that anything would suit her as long as it got him straightened out. "Don' wanna send George off wit' nobody who's trouble. Reckon that's how we got here."

She looked at the boy ruefully, shaking her head. "We tryin' to help you, hard-head. You want t'go to jail? Mebbe end up workin' on a shrimp boat all summer to pay fer helpin' tear up dat car? What else would you suggest, you so smart, huh?"

"He won't have much t' do with it, Marie." Jean was amused, "Once he puts George here on the plane he's done. His job is t' recruit, not t' train." He looked at his son thoughtfully, "he'll be in th' hands o' th' drill instructors after that. Imagine they seen a lot o boys like George, me. Dey'll tear him down an build him back up a Marine."

GW looked back and forth between his father and his great aunt, the mental gears whirling in his head. He didn't see anything wrong with working on a shrimp boat or helping farm the rice fields, they were honorable professions. But he was more concerned about what this meant about his prospects for getting his high school diploma and whether there would be any charges.

"Will they drop th' charges if I join up? And what 'bout Bastian? Can't leave him t' face it all by himself."

"Knowin' what I know 'bout Bastian's father, I'd 'magine arrangements were made de second he hung up de phone," Marie replied somewhat grimly. She knew Etienne Sonnier only to speak to, but she had seen the bruises on his son too, on more than one occasion. While she genuinely felt badly for the larger boy, she had her own family to worry about.

"Likely he'll be sent off to join up himself, since I doubt he wants to see th' inside of another jail cell. Mebbe he'll get some sense in his head, him. Comes a time, a boy's got to learn to be a man. Reckon it's dat time fer both of ya'll."

The old woman set her cane aside, folded her arms sternly across her chest. "Jean, when's th' soonest he could go? If dere ain't no charges and he gets his diploma, how soon could dey take 'im?"

"He's supposed t' be done wi' school in less than a month," GW's father replied, scratching the back of his head in thought. "I don' know how much time he'll be suspended, but imagine they ship out recruits every week, so within a week o' whenever he's done with school. I'll talk t' everyone, make th' arrangements. George'll be on his way to Boot Camp by the middle o' next month."

GW had quit trying to put in his two cents, it seemed like he really didn't have any choice. He slumped in his seat and crossed his arms, seeing the future he had planned for himself flying away, all because he had to get back at that old fart who'd talked down at him and Bastian.

Seeing the teenager's dejection, Marie took momentary pity on him. George was not a bad boy, and truly neither was Bastian. But they were impulsive, headstrong boys, and that was going to get them in trouble one day if they weren't reined in by someone. Better to have the armed forces do it than the penal system.

"We doin' dis for your own good, you," she said, coming to stand next to him so she could tousle his hair as she'd done when he was still a child. "And reckon you t'ank us for it one day, even if you mad now. I don' want to only see you on visitin' days." She nodded emphatically, then stepped away from GW's chair.

"I goin' outside to have a chew," she said to the other adults in the room, then addressed her great-nephew again. "'Fore you leave, I make you a charm for protection. Never know what lay waitin' out dere in th' world. I want you safe, George, don' forget dat." The screen door creaked open, then smacked shut with the sound of finality. The moon was high and full in the sky, shining down through a gap in the tress, and Marie looked up at it before letting out a long sigh. "Boys..."

Trouble in Cajun Country, pt1

"Damn, we're gettin' clobbered," GW muttered before taking a swig from the flask in his hand.

The teenager leaned back against the back of the bleachers and gestured out toward the pitching mound where the Crowley pitcher had just given the team from Midland High another home run. It was only the fifth inning, but Crowley High was down six to zip. At home.

Midland had won the division championship last year, and opponents needed to bring their 'A' game when they played against them. Crowley was decidedly not playing their 'A' game tonight, and GW wasn't sure they would be able to rally back to beat their district rival.

"Is Budreaux even tryin' to strike em' out?" He shook his head in disgust and handed the flask back to his fellow senior and former wrestling teammate. "TJ's little league team could play better, an that's th' truth!"

Chuckling, Bastian Sonnier reached out and accepted the flask for a drink of his own. "Dey tired, reckon," he said with slightly tipsy good-natured humor. "Saw dat ole boy St. John at Papa's liquor house las' night, doubt his head's quit spinnin'. You wouldn't be able to field nothin' after that neither."

Scratching his chest, the other boy squinted up into the lights surrounding the ballfield. "C'mon, ya bunch of girls!" he catcalled towards the playing field, and several older people in the crowd cast disapproving looks his way. Bastian smiled and waved. "You playin' like my gran'mother, you, and she got the 'ritis so bad she can't half move!"

GW shook his head and smiled, Bastian could always be counted on to liven things up. "We never liquored up 'fore a meet when we was wrestlin', they shouldn't neither." The boy put his fingers to his lips and whisted loudly, "Go sleep it off, Robbie! Let th' relief have a shot!"

His voice had just the touch of a slur to it. He'd already had a few beers down behind the Vocational School with several of his and Bastian's friends. Beer was easy to come by, it was the harder stuff that people wouldn't sell to them.

Several people turned to stare disapprovingly once again, but GW ignored them and took the flask back from his friend. "Y'all are playin' worse than my little brother's team, you are! Mebbe I call him an' see if he can fill in!"

The early evening was very warm, and Bastian was sleepy and a little drunk as he and GW continued to sit there. He'd filled the flask from his father's bottle of whiskey, which he'd swiped out of the older man's desk and then replaced without being caught. He was larger than his friend, built like a young bear, and he'd wrestled his way through high school both on and off the team.

"We oughta get up outta here," he suggested. "Dem boys gonna be runnin' their mouths when dey come off de field, and I'm likely to have to fight. Dat Gendron kid been givin' me a hairy eyeball since the fourth innin'. He open his mouth, I'm gonna pop 'im one." It might have been a joke, but a Bastian who'd been drinking was a Bastian who was likely to say - or do - anything. And bring GW along for the ride.

He looked at his friend in the way a mildly drunk person would, then clapped one hand onto his shoulder. "You all right to stay, or you wanna go?"

"Non, mon ami, I ain't lettin' no one run me off, no way no how." GW prized loyalty from his friends, and was loyal in return. Bastian had always been a good friend and he knew that he could count on the other boy to have his back if things got hairy.

"'Sides, th' band ain't playin' anywhere till tomorrow night." He'd been performing in bars, honkytonks and festivals since he was twelve, and planned to do it full time as a job after he graduated next month. There were hundreds of little bars in Southern Louisiana that offered live Zydeco and Cajun dance music and he had no doubt that he could make a living with his fiddle and was itching to get out of school and get started.

He took the flask back from Bastian and took a long swig of the whisky. "Anyone try somethin', they gonna regret it."

"I gonna knock his lights out, me. His daddy bought 'im a car las' month fer his birthday, he been makin' fun 'cause I got to walk ever'where." Bastian scowled, the heat and the liquor beginning to take their toll. The Sonniers were, if not poor, then at least hard-pressed, and there would be no cars as birthday presents without a minor miracle. "You jus' wait. He say one word...gonna be trouble."

The field drew his attention away from brooding when the crack of a bat sounded, and he squinted at the players as the batter began his hustle towards first base. "You run like a woman, you!" he jeered loudly, and several of the spectators tried to shush him. He waved them off impatiently, his strong legs bringing him to his feet as he continued to heckle. "Mebbe your coach should put you in a dress, huh? Might make you more comfortable!"

"I think you want to sit down," a stern voice said, and Bastian's shoulders hunched as he turned. "That's my son you're talking about." The man was in his early forties, maybe a little older, and the teenager's face darkened with annoyance.

"T'ink you wanna kiss my butt, you."

Oh, shit. GW didn't normally get into it with adults, at least not outside of the occasional bar fight that he couldn't avoid. People that old were trouble, trouble for him. But he'd said he'd stay and couldn't not back his friend's play.

"You always fight yer boy's battles, mister?" GW challenged, just drunk enough to not realize that it would only exacerbate the situation. "Yer boy looks like he can take care o' himself, he do. Why don' you jus' sit down?"

"Young man," the older gentleman said, drawing himself up to face both boys squarely. "This is a public place and there are ladies and children present. If you can't conduct yourselves decently, you should leave." He was clearly an upscale sort, his shirt freshly ironed, the knot in his tie only slightly loosened. Bastian decided he hated him.

"Nuh," he said, shaking his head. "You de one should leave. Me an' him, we live here. Dis our place, not yours." A thick index finger lifted, stopped within a hair's breadth of poking the man in the center of his chest. Behind them, the ball game went on, but more and more attention was being given to the smaller drama playing out in the stands.

Bastian somehow got hold of the flask again, took another drink. He capped it, stuffed it out of sight into the pocket of his jacket. "Mister, take yourself outta my face. Ain't gonna say it no more."

"Why don' you just go someplace else mister?" GW tried to defuse the situation as best he could that is to say, not well. "We ain't hurtin' nuthin, and your boy's team is winnin'."

He stood up beside Bastian, hoping like hell they weren't about to get into a fight. "Stay cool Bas'," he told his friend out the corner of his mouth, "Don' be throwin' th' first punch, hear?"

"I ain't ast to be spoke to," Bastian answered, his voice just as low. "He ain't my daddy. But I ain't hittin' nobody. Not wit'out bein' hit first." The late evening sun was weighing heavily on the back of the heavyset teenager's neck, and he slouched where he stood in the bleachers.

The older man made a face, catching a whiff of the whiskey fumes coming off of the older boy. "You're drunk," he said with almost prissy reproach. "I'm going to call someone from the school tomorrow and have you suspended."

"Not drunk, me," Bastian argued, and the situation began to teeter closer and closer to a fight. "Jus' had a few sips. Nobody ast you, nohow. Mind your business, huh?"

"Ain't you never had a few sips before, you?" GW was getting angry himself now. A suspension could threaten their graduation prospects, and freedom to do as they pleased afterwards. "We hurtin' anybody?" he inched forward just a little, instinctively, "Ain't doin' nothin' but hecklin' de other team."

He wasn't sure what he was going to do. but he wasn't going to let this stuffed shirt ruin his life with a simple phone call.

Bastian turned very slightly, and his expression turned both embarrassed and sullen when he recognized Mr. Jessup, his and GW's history teacher. "Ever't'in fine," he said, his tone quieting, but the way he cut his eyes at the apparent interloper spoke volumes."Jus' havin' a disagreement, sir."

There was a silence, and the second adult on the scene looked both boys over. "Have you been drinkin', Sebastian?" Mr. Jessup asked the larger teenager, a knowing if sympathetic expression of his face, and a dull red flush crept up Bastian's neck to color his ears and cheeks. "Yessir. Little bit. Not much."

Mr. Jessup sighed, nodding. He understood how restless these older boys could get, and liquor only added to their restlessness. "I think maybe you and George here need to go cool off, huh?"

GW didn't budge from his spot. "Ain't done nothin' wrong Mr. Jessup," he told the teacher, his expression mulish, "just a li'l catcallin' o' the other team, that's all. He just a sore winner, him, cause his boy's playin' fer Midland." He eyed the adults warily.

All he wanted was to be left alone to finish watching the game and then maybe go out to one of the Zydeco bars out in the country that didn't bother checking ID. He'd performed in jam bands in bars like that all over Cajun country and knew them well.

Bastian was looking down at the tops of his scuffed-up work boots. He had wanted to be left alone too, to sit with his friend and drink a little while watching the game, savoring these last few days of high school. Unlike GW, who simply didn't apply himself as well as he could, Bastian was just not very smart, and without coasting on his success as a wrestler he'd likely have been booted out of school altogether. His large hands twitched at his sides, then hung limp.

"He's intoxicated," the first man said, and a grunt escaped from the larger boy's throat. "I'm as upright as you," he said stubbornly. "Ain't ast you to be lookin' out fer me."

"Sebastian."

That was Mr. Jessup again, and Bastian blushed harder. Would the man at least stop using his full name? "Not my fault his boy run like a girl."

The history teacher snorted, then covered it with a cough. "Would you at least like a cold soda? Its awfully warm here tonight. You can have one too, George. We don't want trouble, all right?"

"I'm not lookin' fer trouble Mr. Jessup," GW liked the history teacher, but wasn't in the mood to give ground right now. "He threatenin t' get us suspended, him. He oughta be mindin his own business rather than pokin' into others."

The teenager's jaw clenched and he looked away. "'Suppose I could do with a cold soda, sure."

The older man shelled out money from his own pocket to buy two Cokes for the boys, and Bastian's meaty hand closed around the cup as though he were looking for a lifeline. Or someone to strangle, whichever came first. If Mr. Jessup had not come along, it was likely that he would have gone ahead and punched the ballplayer's father right in the mouth, adult or not. But in front of a teacher, someone he'd have to see every day until he graduated, he had subsided into a sullen, brooding silence.The bleacher seat sank beneath his weight, and his booted feet thumped onto the space in front of him one at the time.

He muttered something in gutter French as he re-focused his attention on the ballfield again, picking out the form of the aforementioned ballplayer where he hovered just beyond second base. Maybe he should catch up with him after the game. He felt like hitting somebody, and it just might not matter who that turned out to be.

"I gonna drink this, and then I'm goin' to the parkin' lot," he said to GW, trying to pretend as if the adults weren't still hovering entirely too close. "Game's almost over anyhow." The other boy would back whatever play he made, he knew that already. Only GW would have stood up next to him in the face of the earlier confrontation. He could always count on his buddy. "You 'bout ready to go?"

GW was still fuming at the interference by both the teacher and the visiting player's father. They hadn't been hurting anything, just having some booze and heckling the other team. Since when had that become a crime? He sipped his soda and eyed the ballplayers on the opposing team.

He chuckled at Bastian's muttering, having understood the words perfectly and agreeing with the sentiment expressed. Bastian normally had more of a temper than he did, but tonight GW's was shortened by the booze and the poor performance of the home team, and the boy was in a foul mood.

"Sure, ain't havin' no fun here anymore anyhow," he told his friend, chugging his soda down and tossing the can toward a nearby trash bin before standing up.

"See you at school Mr. Jessup, we'll be goin' now."

Mr. Jessup watched them leave, his expression troubled as he looked at their retreating backs. He'd genuinely been trying to help, especially the Sonnier boy, who always seemed to struggle unless he was in a wrestling match, but he was afraid that he might well have just made things worse. He'd check on them when he saw them at school again, make sure everything was all right.

"Dumbass," Bastian muttered, squashing the cup in his hand before pitching it into a trash can with much more force than was necessary. "I gotta get outta dis place," he added, waving his hand around as if to indicate the school in general. "Bad 'nough dey on me all week, now can't even have no fun at a ball game. Merde!"

The teenager swiped one fist through the air, swinging at nothing. He fumbled the flask out of his pocket and took an almost defiant drink, then offered it to GW. "We oughta go find some beers, us," he said. "I got money, got paid yesterday. We'll go where dey don' care how old we are, hear some music. I got my uncle's car. Feel up for it?"

"Sounds good t' me, podna," GW responded, slapping his friend on the back before taking the offered flask and tilting it back for a healthy sip. "I could stand t' hear some music, mebbe do some dancin'," the teenager scanned the full parking lot, noting the different types of cars. They ranged from thirty year old rusted out beaters all the way up to brand new SUV sitting next to Bastian's uncle's old chevy pickup.

"Well, well, well...lookie here Bas, whatca wanna bet this is peckerhead's?" GW circled the SUV, looking at the bumper. Sure enough there two stickers on the back: My son is a Midland High Honor Student, and Midland Baseball.

"Midlan' is balls," Bastian announced, still stinging from the way the older man, the ballplayer's father, had looked at him.. You're drunk. As if some rich snot nose knew him from Adam! It was all crap as far as he was concerned; school, teachers, work, life, all of it. The boy cursed under his breath, bumped his shoulder against the SUV in an aggressive fashion.

"You drunk," he said to GW in an overly prissy voice, clasping his hands together in a schoolmarmish way. "Shame on you, you piece of gutter trash. Huh. Ought to not be speakin' to your betters. Show you not to forget your place." He circled the vehicle, scowled at the bumper stickers, placed both hands on the passenger door.

"You ain't better den me, you," he muttered, looking through the window at the dashboard and stereo system with a scowl. How much did a car like this cost, anyway? A lot, probably, more money than his whole family had. Bastian's frown deepened, fueled by alcohol and frustration and the uncertainty of the future. What would he do with himself after graduation, if he graduated? He'd never really thought about it.

"T'ink I don' like dis car, GW."

"I don' like it much either, podna," GW replied, and took another sip from the flask before handing it back to his friend. "Thinkin' it looks pretty ugly. Mebbe we can pretty it up some, non?" He glanced in the bed of their pickup and reached down for the tire iron under the spare tire.

The teenager tapped the iron against his hand, staring at the SUV with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Jus' needs a little tune up, thass all." When had the day gotten so hot? Bastian had no idea. But even in the new evening dusk, he could feel how overly warm he was, and he wiped a hand across his forehead. He finished the contents of the flask off, then did some rummaging of his own in the truck bed.

Tools rattled, empty beer cans rolled back and forth, and finally he came up with a good-sized hammer. "Gonna show you who's better, reckon," he muttered, giving the object an experimental swing. Just as if it were a baseball bat. He'd always knew he hated baseball for a reason.

"Don' like you, me. And don' like your car neither."

"Think it'll look better with some busted headlights 'n windows," GW told his friend conversationally, and took a swing at the passenger side tail light. The tire iron shattered the plastic with a satisfying 'crack', and tiny peices of red and white plastic littered the ground at GW's feet. He moved around to the front and repeated the process on the passenger side window, turing the glass into hundreds of jagged pieces the size of a grain of rice.

"We best be doin' what we gonna do and get gone, Bastian."

"You waitin' on me, you backin' off," Bastian said with grim humor, then swung the hammer with clumsy determination at the back windshield. It cracked but didn't shatter, and he grimaced before slamming the object into the passenger door instead. That made a nicely pronounced dent in the metal, and he darted a glance at the ballfield

Two more dents followed the first one, and the larger boy let out a grunt of effort as he knocked the rearview mirror off onto the ground. They were going to have to make a fast getaway after this. It wouldn't be just suspension if they got caught; both of them could face expulsion.

"Midlan' is balls," Bastian said for the second time, realizing that his bladder was suddenly entirely too heavy. And the night was hot, not just warm, but hot. He looked at the hammer, at the damage he'd already done,. then shambled around to the back of the SUV. "Dey is merde!"

It started out as a few drops, then turned into a small deluge as the offending bumper stickers got a good dousing. Bastain was muttering the words of Crowley's fight song under his breath, the hammer on the ground next to his foot. And that was the precise moment in history when a couple and their two children made their way into the parking lot, having decided to try and beat the rush of the departing spectators.

Later, it was unknown if either boy heard them approach, but they absolutely heard the clear sound of a boy no more than nine ask, quite loudly, "Daddy, why's that boy peein' on that car?"

Merde. After destroying the window, GW had contented himself with knocking off the mirror from the door and puncturing the tire with his pocket knife. Once he'd accomplished those tasks he'd gone to put the tire iron back in the pickup, and then heard the little boy's voice. Merde.

They were truly up the creek now. If they'd been able to make a clean getaway they might have been able to claim that they didn't know anything about it and the cops would have had to worked to build a case against them. Now, they were caught red handed by several witnesses and GW noticed a few other people coming their way. That included an off duty police officer he recognized from a few events he'd performed at, the man had been moonlighting as security to make extra money. The older man did not look happy at all as he surveyed the damage and then the two teenagers.

"You boys just started up the creek without a paddle, you did," the officer told them, shaking his head and reaching for his radio to call it in, "Y'all just put yer hands against th' truck there and stand still."

GW nodded resignedly and did as the cop ordered.

"Daddy gonna kill me," Bastian slurred forlornly as his own hands came to rest against the side of the truck. He squinted into the glare of the flashlight, then looked down to avoid it when the light hurt his eyes. His fly was still undone. He hadn't meant for this to go so far, but he'd been too drunk to care. Now it looked like he was in for it.

"Daddy gonna make me dead," he added, and the police officer said, "Well, you should've thought about your daddy before you started destroyin' things." The larger boy ducked his head, ears burning with new humiliation. The click of the cuffs going around his thick wrists was very loud, deafening, and his stomach quaked with apprehension.

"GW?" he whispered, looking at his friend over the hood of the old truck. "I sorry."

GW's head hung low and he felt like he was going to throw up. Bastian's father wasn't the only one who would be furious. His own had never hit him aside from taking him over his knee and hitting him in the rear with his belt, but this was far beyond the few bar fights or late nights he'd pulled before. His cheeks were burning bright red from the shame and the booze, and the teenager had no idea how he was going to face his family again.

"I gotta t'row up," he slurred in warning to the policeman before vomiting up the alcohol he'd consumed over the course of the baseball game. The stinking mess narrowly missed the cop's shoes and the officer grimaced at the smell as he put the cuffs on GW's wrists.

"Ain't yer fault I was here," he whispered back to Bastian. "I started it anyhow, Bas, don't you pay it no nevermind."

One thing was for certain, they were in deep shit now and GW had no idea how they were going to get out.