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Where modesty's ill manners, 'tis but fit that impudence and malice pass for wit.
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((Alright, my pretties, time to clear out! I'm going to do a slight bit of GMing to save Roland, hope you don't mind.))

As soon as Roland heard that voice, he turned around. Logically, he should have been scared shitless by the sight of a guy armed with a knife standing close enough for his unarmed ass to breathe on. But several thing prevented that.

First, the asshole with the knife had the voice of an officer who only got his job because daddy pulled some strings. Roland doubted that even Dutchy would get scared of that shit.

Second, the guy was rail-thin, sixty percent of Roland's weight at best. If he really tried, Roland could snap this pencil-neck, needle dick son of a bitch over his knee.

Third, Roland's anger had risen far too high to allow for any other sort of emotion to butt in. He glared hard enough to boil stones as the knife guy backed down immediately, seeing how he got the wrong idea about Dutchy. Roland barely noticed what he said, trying his hardest to keep himself from doing something he might regret. One more complication-

"No, really, what the hell is going on?"

Roland moved his hands faster than he ever thought he could, grabbing the harpoon he discarded when he saw what became of Dutchy and pointing it squarely at knife boy's face. "Get out!" he shrieked, the fury in his body making the harpoon's wicked point tremble inches away from soft, vulnerable skin. "Both of you fuckers get out before I cut you open!"

It wasn't long before both of the fuckers had indeed gotten out, and Roland was left alone with Dutchy again. He could still hear Dutchy mumbling incoherently, and to his horror, he thought he could hear Dutchy's voice getting quieter. Roland pinched Dutchy's cheek hard. "Stay with me, Dutchy. Stay with me. Don't you fall asleep now, don't you fucking dare!" Dutchy asleep = concussion = Marcus Roddy = finish the job = NO! Not to Dutchy. Not to him or Lily or anyone else. Never!

He had to get back with Sarah and Bridget, had to get back with them and do SOMETHING else! They couldn't stay here anymore, had to get out before another pissant with a knife showed up. In a series of rushed, deliberate motions, Roland hefted his daypack onto his shoulder, then hefted Dutchy's onto the other shoulder. He did his best to fit his harpoon into his bag, as long and sharp as it was, making it stick up a couple of feet above his head, then moved to do the same to his abandoned tennis racket before he reconsidered. Who gave a fuck about a tennis racket at this point? Honestly.

He got himself geared up, then reached down and pulled Dutchy up. "Come on man, come on. NGGGGH! I don't, I don't think I can carry you. You gotta walk. Come on, please, come on. Oh god oh god come on." Thankfully Dutchy had a clear enough mind to get up on his feet and start walking, even if his balance faltered and he tripped over his own feet from time to time.

The two of them were all set to leave when Roland realized that Sarah and Bridget would be coming back to that house to get them. He sighed and looked in his bag for a scrap of paper and something to write with.

Five minutes later, the two of them started a slow, difficult trek away from the house, Roland encumbered with goods, and Dutchy addled by his self-inflicted injury. They left behind them a roughly scrawled note on a table, a quick, impatient message directing Roland's comrades to another place entirely.

((Roland Hayes and Dutchy Ayers continued in Make Your Own Kind of Music))
Edited by Solitair, Apr 24 2011, 03:42 PM.
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