A shadow is casted on the city street, tagging behind good ‘Ol Jefferson. Jeffferson is on his nightly walk. He walks past several stores. But the fact that his friend Doyle had gotten into deep trouble with a killanobi didn’t sit well with him. It made Jefferson burn more cigarettes in a day. San Francisco, Jefferson flicks a cigarette to the side, the city that shines.
He takes out his cigarette pack, opens it only to find there isn’t any cigarettes left. Just my luck, Jefferson says words to himself that usually a child should not hear, three days in this city. He tosses the empty pack into a nearby trash can. And I am already out! At night a person would expect cars to be out zipping and zooming on the road; but there is only few cars doing that.
A street punk gets in Jefferson’s way.
“Hey,” The Street Punk said. A street light shows he has barely any hair on his head. He seems genuinely concerned. “Is your stalker instinct expired or something? ‘Cause you are being followed.”
A street light shows Jefferson grimace.
“No.” Jefferson said. “But if you know what’s a killanobi is, then you would know what’s best for yourself.”
Jefferson takes a turn around the Street Punk but the Street Punk grabs his shoulder.
“I’m part of the Street Watchers, and the way you said Killa Hobie makes me worried.” The Street Punk tells him. His forehead becomes wrinkly. He has a strange tattoo on his neck. “I don’t like it when that happens.”
A streetlight shows The Street Punk is wearing a sleeveless hoody with a long sweater underneath it, he wore baggy jeans that have some rips in the seams at the knee’s, he wore ear piercings that somewhat glit. Anyone in daylight could tell this streetpunk didn’t have a care in the world to get a new pair of pants. He has an odd tattoo on the side of his neck.
Jefferson couldn’t tell The Street Punk exactly why he is being followed out here. So the Street Punk invited him to do the explaining at his house; which is rent-controlled. The Street Punk made sure that they lost Dean on their tracks by doing something unconventional; getting into a large crowd. Dean did not expect that coming. Jefferson made it to The Street Punk’s house without getting seen.
“What kind of spirits have you been angering?” The Street Punk opens a beer bottle as he sat in his seat. “By the way, Bridget, it’s just an average man.” He takes a sip from his beer. “Bridget’s my girlfriend.”
Jefferson is sitting in a red, old styled couch.
“Bobby, put your beer away!” Bridget came in; she has wild dirty blonde wild hair with a headband that didn’t work. She slaps the Street Punk’s hand and takes the beer bottle away. She marches to another room.
“Now, that is a strong woman.” Jefferson said.
The Street Punk rubs his forehead.
“A couple of my friends have told me that a strange, demon-like sick dude has been stalking you…” The hair on Jefferson’s neck rose up. “What kind of spirits have you been angering?” The Street Punk asks, putting his hands together.
Jefferson taps on the arm of the couch; as Bridget came back holding a coke.
“One; this doesn’t involve spirits, Two; It’s not me, and third; it’s my friend who did it.” Jefferson leans back into the couch. “I have this friend of mine; who is half demon.” He is rubbing his hands together.
The Street Punk and his girlfriend are frightened.
“You are angering the spirits!” Bridget jumps to conclusions. “You should be ashamed of yourself; people get killed for doing dirty things like that.”
“Not everything is black and white; some demons are friendly.” Jefferson takes an un-open Pepsi and flips it open.
Bridget did not seem pleased to hear it.
“We’ve heard and learned what they do.” Bridget said. “They are not welcome in our world.”
Jefferson’s hands ball up.
“These days Juvenile Demons give the reputation that demons have now in these false-vague-movies.” Jefferson defends the image of Demons. “They make mistakes as everyone else does. They are not always mean. You are promoting that terrible image of demons. Now be ashamed of yourself.”
The Street Punk takes Bridget’s shoulder.
“Bridgy,” The Street Punk said “You’ve gotten too far being Preachy.”
“And what’s with Preachy? I have not heard of it; is that something that’s trending these days that nobody talks about?”
“Bridget is very, very religious; last time we got kicked out a hockey game.” The Street Punk said, letting go of her shoulder. He shook his head. “You don’t want to know…”
Jefferson shrugs his shoulders.
“About your demon friend—“ The Street Punk starts, but is interrupted by Jefferson.
“Half demon!” Jefferson corrects him, sharply.
“What about your…little half demon friend?” Bridget asks, grabbing The Street Punk’s hand as he is becoming red. “Can he…you know…do possession?”
Jefferson shook his head, laughing.
“No.” Jefferson then takes a drink from the Pepsi. He swallows his sip. “Doyle is half Brachen.”
Bridget’s grasp on The Street Punk’s hand loosens.
“What’s that?” The Street Punk asks.
“They are a real life version of Batman only with; superhuman abilities, green skin, spikes on their faces, and oh, red eyes.” Jefferson has up four fingers. “Doyle can’t possess a soul if he wanted to. “
Jefferson takes another sip from the pepsi.
“So what does your friend do that gets him into trouble?” The Street Punk asks.
“Doyle is an Irish man.” Jefferson pauses, and then with a slight smile he said, “And Doyle does ‘favors’…Believe it or not. He’s a demon magnet.”
“What’s a Killa Hobie?”
The look in Jefferson’s eyes became dark and settles.
“He’s not the worst, not the top bad, not the meanest…” Jefferson puts the Pepsi on a table. Goosebumps go down his skin. He looks up towards the couple. “He’s 270 years old, he tortures half-breeds to death, and he is a skilled hunter. You can compare him to a lion…”
The scene briefly shows Dean making his way towards The Street’s Punk house.
“Because for reasons unknown; The Powers That Be made a demon almost like a lion.” He taps on his palm. “People say they did this to make life more interesting. Or he was made for something good; but he…”
Jefferson shudders, shaking his head.
“You never want him on your tail. Not even when you are on the run from the law; you do not want to be a half breed demon. Not just because of The Scourge. But because of him.”
Dean is stopped by a garbage truck.
“And he will kill you…slowly…and painfully if he is truly mad.” Jefferson takes another drink from the Pepsi.
The Street Punk and Bridget are huddled together.
“He comes from Africa…or Australia.” Jefferson finishes. “So I can safely assume that Doyle helped a family that Dean was terrorizing.” Jefferson is a man of words. But sometimes he uses too much. He sighs. “And that Dean finally did what he should have done when a bounty came up for Doyle. That Bounty is pretty much gone now.”
The Street Punk and Bridgett are sticking together.
“He may be feared; but I am not scared.” Jefferson said.
The Street Punk rubs his hairy chin.
“Then why is he coming after you?” The Street Punk asks. “Why is he not going after Doyle?’
Jefferson looks down towards the floor.
“Doyle maybe a nice guy…” Jefferson cracks his knuckles. “But when you push him over the edge…”
Bridget puts her hands together.
“You are not answering the question.” Bridget adds, as the two are not clinging together.
“He wants Doyle not to put a fight when they meet again.” Jefferson said, and he sighs. “I know he can take care of himself…but this one…”Jefferson shook his head. “It’s way too personal. This would only happen if Davis…”
Jefferson slaps the table.
The tattoo under Jefferson’s lip is a spider. But he isn’t wearing his ear piercings.
“So how close are you to Doyle?” The Street Punk asks.
Jefferson sighs, calming himself.
“He’s my brother.” Jefferson finally admits. “My full name is Jefferson Francis McCoy.”
For a long time he had denied being Doyle’s brother; he didn’t sound Irish because of growing up in America. Mostly he grew up in New York away from Doyle. But Jefferson finally met Doyle some years ago. Jefferson was surprised to hear an actual Irish accent; all he heard of Irish was from stereotypical movies.
Jefferson has a feeling Dean is coming.
“What’s your name again?” Jefferson asks The Street Punk.
“Bobby, can you buy a cigarette pack for me?”
……Two hours later…
…Outside The Street Punk’s apartment…
“This is Bobby NewHeart ‘The Street Punk’, a survivor of the double murder.” A reporter said, Lindy Heartz, right there at the time The Street Punk is going to make his statement. There were people waiting to hear what he has to say.
The camera turns towards The Street Punk with a conflicted and sad face.
“I cannot tell you how sad this makes me,” The Street Punk said, holding crumbled up paper. If Television had been good back then for viewers perhaps everyone would have been able to see his tears. The Street Punk had to squeeze his eyes for a minute or two, just so he wouldn’t get a red eye from this terrible ordeal. “And how I cannot aide this investigation….”
Pictures were being taken of him whether they would be scrutinized or not.
These days words can be twisted into different meaning; they always go for the boyfriend.
“They will not believe me, no one. Except; for those who knew what I am talking about.” The Street Punk said. “I am so grateful this man had told me buy him another pack of cigarettes. I wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t ta---t-taken….taken the back door.”
This wasn’t the right time to make a statement. But The Street Punk had to make his story clear. So no one would assume he did the murders in cold blood. I will make a better picture of Demons around this city. The Street Punk looks upwards at the starlit sky. I will show you two; Bridget and Jefferson. Mark my words! The snapping and clicking from Camera’s brought him back to reality.
“Who did it?” A male reporter asks.
The Street Punk looks towards a reporter.
“I’m sorry; but I can’t tell you.” The Street Punk tries answering the questions he could.
Even one that might be useful.
“Do you have anything to tell us?”
The Street Punk closes his eyes for a moment there and then they reopened the next moment.
“If you are watching this….Man, this is hard knowing this ruthless-centuries old—creep is coming after those close to you…” The Street Punk said. He clears his throat. “God help you.”