By Brett Matthew West
Going nowhere fast, and with his reputation strong to accomplish his desired goal, Chance Macallister sat on the graffiti-covered MTA bus bench on the northeast corner of Demonbreun Street and 5th Avenue South. His legs stretched out, Chance's steer-inlaid Tony Lamas crossed.
Complaining never did Chance any good. The truth was this had been his hardest year. So many things had gone wrong he didn't know which troubles to pay attention to. So, he ignored them all. None of them disappeared. Compounded with interest, they just grew deeper and deeper.
Formidable grey clouds threatened an afternoon monsoon. Pop-up showers were common in Music City. Chance noticed the obligatory rust on the bench's metal back and wooden slats on the seat with various initials of previous vagrants engraved on them.
"Get out of the way!" Chance said.
He shoved a feral cat off the seat as a delivery truck whizzed by. The cat landed on its back. Ker-Splat! The tail-less feline gathered itself and hissed at him.
Chance did not know if the cat lost the appendage in an altercation or not. He snarled back at the noise maker and said, "Go meow somewhere else. This corner's taken."
As if offended, the calico bolted down the cracked sidewalk.
Chance sat his tin cup down on the bench and waited for some people to come by to fill it up. From his vantage point he observed the Country Music Hall of Fame with its diamond-shaped replica WSM radio tower, unique piano keyboard-cast frontal facade, bass clef-fashioned front wall, and sweeping Cadillac finned arch. All of which he was well versed in.
Nikons hung around their necks, happy tourists strolled out of the museum. They chatted among themselves about all the regalia they'd observed inside the glorified attraction. Others soon tagged along. Chance liked to guess where he imagined day-trippers originated from.
As they passed Chance's location, Tweed City declared to Pepto-Bismol Pink, "My favorite was the Brooks and Dunn: Kings of Neon exhibit. I really liked seeing all the Grammy, ACM, and CMA awards. Kix Brooks' guitar was another. That thing was awesome." Big Mouth further elaborated, "It's a Neon Circus and Wild West-themed Les Paul electric. The cowgirl on the fingerboard stood out."
Straightening up his posture, the almost always cynical Chance muttered to himself in a low voice, "Obvious New Yorker. You can spot an out-of-towner. You just can't tell gaga-eyed fans very much."
Hung on Herringbone's every word, Pinko popped his arm with a loud smack. She studied his navy blue, tropical button down shirt, the muscles that rippled underneath, and replied with a wink, "I'll scoot your boots when we get back to the hotel."
Chance rolled his azures. He scoffed and said under his breath, "Dream on. Maybe one day your dreams will come true. Somehow, I doubt this is your lucky day though. Phi Jamma Slamma looks like he's about to leave you in another world."
The nonresonant sound of coins clanked in Chance's cup. A wry grin came to his face.
"Every little bit helps," he smirked.
Chance glanced at the timepiece on his left wrist, a plain dial on a black band. Imitation leather, no doubt.
Lifting the Timex had been a breeze that involved a couple beers and a slight of hand. Chance claimed he had gained the watch through "survival of the fittest". When you're on the street you make do any way you have to. Chance had learned his lessons well.
A light sprinkle began. Chance stood up and removed the money out of his tin cup. He stuffed the dinero deep in his pocket. The possibility of a brighter future in reach, Chance retrieved the manila folder off the bench seat he'd placed there when he sat down earlier. If he hustled he thought maybe he could beat the downpour.
Chance highballed past the Walk of Fame Park and the Downtown Hilton. Reaching Broadway, he turned right to Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. The Bandaleroos played loud as he entered the crowded famous establishment. Chance had patronized the club on several previous occasions. Grabbing a boozehound shooter off the counter, Roger Brumlee nodded at him from behind the bar.
As Chance made his way across the floor he noticed a beer pong game set up on a table in the far side of the room. Chance's mouth watered. Tempted, their laughter made him yearn to join in the festivities. Perhaps there would be time for celebration later.
(TO BE CONTINUED:)
| Author Notes |
Freedom, by MKFlood, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
A steady stream of Irish Whiskey, the acclaimed "water of life," flowed as Ethan Stackhouse, Dylan Andrews, and Blake Morgan schemed around the table. A fourth chair sat empty awaiting its occupant.
An army commando gone bad after cold-cocking his Lieutenant in the field one dark night, Stackhouse was the first to speak. He popped a little white pill and said, "Wish Chance would get his gnarly butt here. Don't know what's taking that loser so long. Time means absolutely nothing to him. Should have cut him out of the action already."
Remembering long days spent together with Sergeant Stackhouse inside an Abrams tank on the front lines in Kuwait, Andrews chimed in, "C'mon, Redbeard. You know Chance is like a stray dog that shows up unexpectedly on your front porch and never does anything till he's good and ready. When you gonna trim that growth hanging off your chin? An elephant could get lost in that jungle you have. Just saying."
Stackhouse replied in a testy tone, "Shove the guacamole up your nose sideways, deuchebag. I told you when I got out of that pickle suit we used to wear back in the day, I'd never shave again."
"Temper, temper, ladies," Morgan cut in. He turned his head to the barmaid who approached their table and said, "Another round for the boys."
"Yea, and bring a pina colada with a shot of Jack Daniels poured in the middle of it," Andrews added. He noticed the questionable expression on Morgan's face and explained, "That's all Chance'll drink...if he ever gets here."
"Just chill. I see him now," Morgan retorted, "Chance is over there yapping with Brenda Conley."
"She always did have the hots for anything with pants on, and every other chick in this coop," Stackhouse commented. He drew a deep breath and stated, "I mean, it ain't like we got plans to talk about or something. I need that folder he's got in his sweet little hand...now!"
"Cool down, Dude. That bank ain't going nowhere, at least not till we pay them a little visit. 'Sides, it's only three blocks away up on Union. We can't rob the joint hot-headed. Won't work that way," Andrews stated. He turned to Morgan and said, "Eat another nacho. You'll feel better."
"I know one thing's for sure, Miller's Warehouse ain't the happening place. Been there three years. Never gonna get nowhere in life shuffling office supplies. Hate being broke all the time," Morgan confirmed.
"Gotta hand it to Chance," Andrews commented as their drinks arrived. He waited until the server placed them down on the table and left, then said, "We needed someone who could score the blueprints of the bank. Don't know how, but Chance got them."
"Where's your piece?" Stackhouse casually asked him.
The lanky hooligan patted his waistband and replied, "You taught me to always be prepared, Sarge. And, I got a peashooter for Chance. Just hope the boy knows how to fire a weapon."
"We only need him for the prints," Stackhouse responded.
"What are you talking about?" Morgan alerted.
"Think about it. A three way cut's more money in our pockets than four ways," Andrews remarked.
"I didn't sign on for what you're thinking," Morgan stated. He assured them, "Murder ain't in my blood."
"Dylan and me talked this out, and you better get a taste for killing, cause you're gonna waste Chance in the alley out back. That is, unless you want Dylan and me to split the fruits of our labor two ways,"
Stackhouse threatened.
"Waste him?" Morgan asked in shock, "I don't even know Chance except these two meetings we've had planning this heist."
"Then, it's no loss. He'll just be one less panhandler on the streets. He won't even be missed," Andrews commented.
Morgan thought a moment then agreed, "That makes him expendable."
"Now you're talking sense and he's nothing more than a dead man walking," Stackhouse replied.
"Hey, Big Man, you made a rhyme," Andrews laughed. He raised a toast and said, "Look at it this way, Blake. You're doing your civic duty by helping clean up some of the riff-raff from our fair city."
"Always did like a good double-cross," Morgan beamed.
"Not another word about what you're gonna do. Here comes our long lost stooly," Stackhouse informed his partners.
(TO BE CONTINUED:)
| Author Notes |
Freedom, by MKFlood, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
END OF CHAPTER TWO:
"Waste him?" Morgan asked in shock of the prospect. "I don't even know Chance, except these two meetings we've had planning this heist."
"Then, it's no loss. He'll just be one less panhandler on the streets. He won't even be missed," Andrews commented with a sly smirk.
Morgan thought a moment then agreed, "That makes him expendable."
"Now you're talking sense and he's nothing more than a dead man walking," Stackhouse replied.
"Hey, Big Man, you made a rhyme," Andrews laughed. He raised a toast and said, "Look at it this way, Blake. You're doing your civic duty by helping clean up some of the riff-raff from our fair city."
"Always did like a good double-cross," Morgan beamed.
"Not another word about what you're gonna do. Here comes our long lost stooly," Stackhouse informed his partners.
###########################################################################
###########################################################################
CHAPTER 3:
Unpredictable down to the last gesture, and with his mind full of pulsated thoughts, Chance proceeded at a methodical pace. His acute eyes observed events that happened around him. He spotted a server with her bus tub at the ready on a chair pulled back from a table.
Full of as much gravity as he could muster, Chance teased her, "You be sure and wipe that table clean, Augustina, you hear?"
She popped him on the arm with her wet rag and said, "Always do. It's one of them crucial factors in this business. What no good are you up to now?"
Chance laughed. He liked Augustina Morrisette's hair styled in a frontal pouf, then twisted into a chic bun on top of her head. The formal look exposed her long neck and presented her appearance the way he imagined a showroom girl should look. His own appearance could be melancholy. Chance wondered why a high-browed woman like Augustina had not yet been discovered in Tootsie's golden land of opportunity. Many others had been. Was she too fatalistic for fortune to smile on?
Chance approached life with a resigned temper. He said, "You know me too well, girlfriend. Ain't hard for me to find some trouble to get into. Reckon it's like a bad shadow. Follows me everywhere."
With prairie dog-colored hair stuck somewhere between yellow and brown, and a subtle walrus moustache that added years to his otherwise dapper appearance, talent agent Dawson Billingsly held a smart phone to his ear when Chance neared his booth. His latest client's showcase was about to commence. A sizable crowd had gathered to witness the event.
Billingsly nursed his third bushwacker, the distant cousin of a creamy chocolate pina colada. Spun in a blender, the vodka and rum concoction was topped with fresh nutmeg. Chance knew Tootsie's was a popular playground for many of Country music's biggest dignitaries, but theirs was a much different universe than the realm he dwelt in.
From the center of the hardwood stage, Micah Larson, emcee extraordinaire, grabbed the microphone.
His overworked raspy voice introduced the wannabes, "Ladies and gentlemen. Tootsie's Orchid Lounge is proud to present this afternoon's showcase featuring the newly formed band Common Dirt."
A polite round of encouraging applause erupted from the onlookers as the music began.
His own affairs to attend, Chance skedaddled on his way. He fist bumped Billingsly, a patron he'd encountered once or twice before and joked, "Awesome Dawson, you're so cheap you think a coffin for a funeral is a waste of time and moolah."
There were always plenty of simultaneous occurrences in the packed Tootsie's Orchid Lounge. When patrons drank shoulder to shoulder how could there not be? Chance knew most of them patronized the world famous bar from all corners of the globe just to say they slammed them back at Tootsie's and snapped a memento picture. Later, they would return to wherever they hailed from when their Nashville vacations ended and show off to their friends. Nothing but Facebook fodder and selfie sticks.
Home for Chance had been the Congregation Reform Academy on Old Hickory Boulevard. He spent his youth as a foster system failure and flunked out of the quagmire when he turned eighteen. Chance never complained. He decided if society performed in certain ways there must be good reasons for them.
Negotiating a clearing in the sea of humanity, Chance spotted his cohorts seated around a table like shoats in hot pursuit of a rattler. A weight far beyond anything he ever felt before descended upon him. He found himself in one of the worst quandaries of his twenty-four year existence and fought a mental tug-of-war. Complications were sure to abound.
Chance squared his shoulders and told himself, "If you slow down for snakes you might as well belly crawl."
(TO BE CONTINUED:)
###########################################################################
###########################################################################
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Chance Macallister - Homeless street urchin. Mastermind behind a bank robbery. Becomes assassination target of his co-conspirators
Augustina Morrisette - Tootsie's Orchid Lounge server
Dawson Billingsly - Talent agent. Hosts showcase at Tootsie's Orchid Lounge for the new band Common Dirt
Micah Larson - Raspy-voiced emcee
Ethan Stackhouse - Leader of bank robbers
Dylan Andrews and Blake Morgan - Chance Macallister's co-conspirators in bank robbery
Common Dirt - Country music wannabees
| Author Notes |
Freedom, by MKFlood, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
END OF CHAPTER 3:
Negotiating a clearing in the sea of humanity, Chance spotted his cohorts seated around a table like shoats in hot pursuit of a rattler. A weight far beyond anything he ever felt before descended upon him. He found himself in one of the worst quandaries of his twenty-four year existence and fought a mental tug-of-war. Complications were sure to abound.
Chance squared his shoulders and told himself, "If you slow down for snakes you might as well belly crawl."
###########################################################################
###########################################################################
CHAPTER 4:
A memory flashed through the diminutive Chance's mind. He recalled being sulled like a stubborn mule, and roused from his slumber under a table in the Shelby Bottoms Nature Center, only to encounter another stodgy day. A robust northbound 747 flew overhead from the Nashville airport eight miles away. Its contrail dissipated in the cerulean sky making Chance long to escape the doldrums of his mundane life.
Chance remembered an incident from five years earlier emboldened in the headlines of the Tennessean. A loaded passenger jet from Houston, Texas exited the taxiway of the terminal ramp and slammed into a ditch. The fond memory, saved newspaper clipping, and his twisted sense of humor made Chance chuckle. He imagined he heard the captain assure his passengers they flew friendly skies. Whatever they were.
Though life on the streets afforded him the possibilities, Chance seldom got downright drunk. He held tight to a leisured philosophy, and for the most part possessed good common sense. Nor did he allow alcohol to hamper his intellectual abilities. Not being inebriated made Chance more tolerant of the druggies, hoes, and other boisterous knockabouts he shared the dirty sidewalks of Downtown Music City with.
Looks deceived, but the prospects of quick money rang crystal clear as soon as Chance informed his first recruit, Tyler Andrews, of his grandiose scheme.
"You pull amazing stunts with your hands," Chance buttered the middle-sized carpenter up.
The never full cabinet maker and floor installer appeared awkward and helpless. The two deceptions served him well. In reality, Andrews was regarded as one of the most capable men working for the Maximum Builders corporation.
"You excel at anything you can work deliberate on. After all, you were the team leader on the project that restored those rooms in the Crysanthemum Motel," Chance reminded Andrews knowing he had him buffaloed as he did plenty of others. An advantage he often built on.
Andrews flinched and Chance closed in, "If you did sloppy work they would have run you off a long time ago. Those skills will come in handy once we're inside the bank."
His polo shirt sweated through so many times the color was almost black, Andrews placed an empty shot glass on the bar.
Careful not to have his plan overheard by the wrong ears, Chance encouraged the surly bartender, "Another round."
"Don't gulp it all at one time, barracuda. You ain't no fish!" The bartender grumbled.
The crotchety mixologist slammed the drink down on top of the bar, slung the glass all the way down the top of the bar, and went about his business so sudden Chance was taken aback. A simpleton like Andrews could not understand such behavior. His single-tracked mind scarcely grasped what the bartender did. The act made him madder than Chance had ever seen him before.
Give Andrews a grievance and the skinny-necked turd-floater would save the atrocity like fresh-printed money. His main form of folly. Andrews washed the dust out of his throat with the drink Chance provided him. The less talk he had to listen to the better humor he was in. Andrews considered the offer he'd been made. His new word of the day? Affirmed.
For reasons of his own that pleased his accomplishment, Chance nodded his head. He had gained Tyler Andrews' trust. Chance massaged his ear, and sunset quiet murmured, "The dinner bell has lost its clapper."
There was no need for further discussion.
(TO BE CONTINUED:)
##########################################################################
##########################################################################
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Chance Macallister - Homeless street urchin. Mastermind behind a bank robbery. Becomes assassination target of his co-conspirators
Tyler Andrews - co-conspirator in bank robbery
| Author Notes |
Freedom, by MKFlood, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
END OF CHAPTER 4:
Careful not to have his plan overheard by the wrong ears, Chance encouraged the surly bartender, "Another round."
"Don't gulp it all at one time, Barracuda. You ain't no fish," the bartender grumbled.
The crotchety mixologist slammed the drink down on top of the bar. He slung the glass all the way down the bar, and went about his business so sudden, Chance was taken aback. A simpleton like Andrews could not fathom such behavior. His single-tracked mind scarcely grasped what the bartender did. The act made Andrews madder than Chance had ever seen him before.
Give Andrews a grievance and the skinny-necked turd-floater would save the atrocity like fresh-printed money. His main form of folly. Andrews washed the dust out of his throat with the drink Chance provided him. The less talk he had to listen to the better humor he was in. Andrews considered the offer he'd been made. His new word of the day? Affirmed.
For reasons of his own that pleased his accomplishment, Chance nodded his head. He had gained Tyler Andrews trust. Chance massaged his ear and sunset quiet murmured, "The dinner bell has lost its clapper."
There was no need for further discussion
#############################################################################
#############################################################################
Chapter 5:
A key missing piece of the jigsaw remained to be found. Punctual, Chance checked his watch with its spidered plastic dial face. That's the condition the Timex was in when he absconded with the time marker. Soon thereafter, he entered one of his least favorite locations in the hellacious galaxy he knew as the streets of Nashville. A dry twig cracked under his boot. The crunch sounded like a snapped bone.
Looking down, Chance said, "Dog crap. Glad I didn't step in that. Why can't some owners clean up after their animals? The lazy reprobates."
Everything in this environment crawled at an incomprehensible snail's pace, especially for anyone who hadn't served hard time. Chance knew there had been strong men who'd walked these throes and wept until their hair turned white as chalk. He had realised this unimaginable torment for several years. An experience he vowed to reciprocate if possible.
A left at the eighth red maple and Chance looked up at a robin's nest with an interwoven piece of gold yarn. He counted three cyan blue eggs and knew they would soon hatch.
"That's a peculiar place to build a nest," Chance said out loud.
Circling an oversized white oak full of Spanish moss and lichens, Chance rested under a sweetgum, with its small branches and palmate lobes that looked like the palm and fingers of a hand. The tree hugged the far perimeter of the property next to a picket fence line. As if a puppet in a tiny room, Chance paced from one plot to the next. Each careful step returned another far-reaching memory.
Though he did not know any of them, nor pause to read the names of their occupants along his journey, Chance saw four family plots, six side-by-side companion permanent addresses, and an assortment of single places of internment. Headstones of various shapes and sizes marked each final resting spot. Fresh red roses in brass holders ornamented a couple of the better maintained sites..
This was reality and only important information ever seeped out through the vapors and thickets. An unseen predator attracted him in restraints, but Chance did not dwell in fear. Rather, Chance smiled as though he were to be paroled from the prison that bound him or just won a multi-million dollar lottery. Take your pick. Chance did not dread the heavy load he bore. He had toted the note for a long time.
An unseen entity seemed to chide him, "I don't know why you're smiling. There have been no jokes or ha ha stories told."
"I came to see you," Chance replied. He flashed one of his patented don't mess with me glances and stated, "You want something and so do I."
An eerie silence, as though stranded alone in the middle of strange dark woods, fell.
Making eye contact with the solid black tombstone that rested comfortably in the Spring Hill Cemetery on Gallatin Pike, Chance continued with a fixed look, "Even though he only talked when he required something, he was a friend of yours."
A tranquil calmness placated the air.
Lowering his voice as if there was an unwanted third party beside him eavesdropping on every word Chance reflected and reiterated, "So, tell me what it is you have to say. I think it's worth a lot and I'm listening."
A soft wind fluttered the treetops.
With full attention, Chance continued, "Ethan Stackhouse, Dylan Andrews, and Blake Morgan. The three of them have guests in their attics. Rumors have it they want to cut me out of the picture. The news hit me like a sucker punch. But, here's the laugh line. I haven't dropped the bomb on them...yet. When I do, it will rattle them to their cores." He pondered his comment and vowed, "They're all out of protection. Double caps will make sure of that. There's more, isn't there?"
He waited, anticipating.
Shaking his head, Chance replied, "You knew I'd come asking questions. You know me well. Sometimes, I wonder if you know me better than I know myself?" He brushed a leafless twig off the top of the stone and stated, "I assure you the fever hasn't stripped my advantage."
As Chance turned to leave he read the name on the tombstone. An icy cold chilled him.
(TO BE CONTINUED:)
#############################################################################
#############################################################################
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Chance Macallister - Homeless street urchin. Mastermind behind a bank robbery. Becomes assassination target of co-conspirators
Ethan Stackhouse, Dylan Andrews, and Blake Morgan - Co-conspirators in bank robbery
Unidentified entity in Spring Hill Cemetery
| Author Notes |
Freedom, by MKFlood, selected to complement my story.
So, thanks MKFlood, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my story. |
|
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author! |
| © Copyright 2015 Brett Matthew West All rights reserved. Brett Matthew West has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement