Something different
The swarthy man chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. Several passersby eyed him warily, then hurried on their way, not wanting to find out what had made him so happy. He clutched the mildewed old manuscript to his chest, ignoring the smell of the precious grimoire, and rocked on his heels. His grin was missing several teeth, which made him even less appealing than his smell, compounded of ancient body odor, rotting flesh, and various strong spices. He chuckled again and made his leisurely way toward the train station, his gait unsteady as though he was drunk. Alas, the explanation wasn't so easy to figure out.
He had an entire row of seats to himself, thanks to the late hour and his effluvia. Yet he didn't open the leather-bound book, as most would do, leafing through and skimming its contents. No, he knew perfectly well what it contained, and he was not about to risk someone catching a glimpse of a page and perhaps asking questions. Instead, he continued to hug it to himself, as if it were a long-lost friend he'd just found.
The man wasn't homeless. Far from it. He owned and lived in a rather large apartment building, run-down and not in the best neighborhood. All the better for his purposes. He rented out the other three apartments, but not for money. He took his rent in favors.
At the end of a long train ride, and an even longer walk, he flung open the door to his apartment with what could only be described as a giggle, high-pitched and tinged with madness. The other residents crowded around his door, whispering among themselves; a rag-tag crew of every race and heritage, united in their curiousity.
"Go shower," the man growled, holding the book possessively to his side. A rather hypocritical statement, coming from him, but a few of the crowd wandered off to do just that. From their appearance, it seemed their last showers had been some time ago. The rest of the crowd, however, pressed forward eagerly, some daring to step into the man's apartment. He barked something in a foreign language, and a line of fire sprang up to bar them from approaching closer. "Mine!" he crowed triumphantly, and slammed the door. As he did so, catching a few toes in the process, the line of fire disappeared, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
Now alone again, he giggled again, continously. The book was carefully laid on a table, old but clean, its faux woodgrain surface scratched. The smell of lemon cleaner hovered in the air, competing with the odor coming from the man. The apartment had clearly been furnished in "dumpster diver specials", and the former owner's tastes ran to avacado green. The walls were a charming shade of nicotene yellow, though the man didn't smoke. That was what did in the former owner, as a matter of fact. The threadbare carpet had been, at the time it was installed, a stylish orange shag with hints of brown, still visible in the areas where furniture had stood. Paths were worn in high-traffic areas, some down to the backing, and all a muddy brown. The architecture was good, though; in the right neighborhood, after being gutted and redecorated, the apartment would have been worth a lot simply for its historical value. Sadly, its fate was with the swarthy man instead.
The kitchen had potential, as well, under the dark wood and nicotene. Several glass-fronted cabinets would display dishes, if the man ate from anything but fast-food wrappers and paper plates. By the warping, it was easy to tell the glass was the original. He took down a plastic cup from some burger joint and filled it at the sink, letting the water run for a bit to get rid of most of the rust. If he'd planned to live for much longer, he would've done something about the pipes, but as it was, he figured they'd outlast him. But it was for heavenly glory, so that was all right. He downed the water in three quick gulps, then headed back to the table, careful not to hit his head on the gaudy light fixture over it. His hand hovered over the stained tome, hesitant now to open it. After deliberating for several long moments, he instead crossed himself, picked up the book, and put it into a military-style footlocker, closing the lock with a click. Time enough to do this later, he reasoned, and crossed the kitchen to grab a cheap beer from the fridge.
He had an entire row of seats to himself, thanks to the late hour and his effluvia. Yet he didn't open the leather-bound book, as most would do, leafing through and skimming its contents. No, he knew perfectly well what it contained, and he was not about to risk someone catching a glimpse of a page and perhaps asking questions. Instead, he continued to hug it to himself, as if it were a long-lost friend he'd just found.
The man wasn't homeless. Far from it. He owned and lived in a rather large apartment building, run-down and not in the best neighborhood. All the better for his purposes. He rented out the other three apartments, but not for money. He took his rent in favors.
At the end of a long train ride, and an even longer walk, he flung open the door to his apartment with what could only be described as a giggle, high-pitched and tinged with madness. The other residents crowded around his door, whispering among themselves; a rag-tag crew of every race and heritage, united in their curiousity.
"Go shower," the man growled, holding the book possessively to his side. A rather hypocritical statement, coming from him, but a few of the crowd wandered off to do just that. From their appearance, it seemed their last showers had been some time ago. The rest of the crowd, however, pressed forward eagerly, some daring to step into the man's apartment. He barked something in a foreign language, and a line of fire sprang up to bar them from approaching closer. "Mine!" he crowed triumphantly, and slammed the door. As he did so, catching a few toes in the process, the line of fire disappeared, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.
Now alone again, he giggled again, continously. The book was carefully laid on a table, old but clean, its faux woodgrain surface scratched. The smell of lemon cleaner hovered in the air, competing with the odor coming from the man. The apartment had clearly been furnished in "dumpster diver specials", and the former owner's tastes ran to avacado green. The walls were a charming shade of nicotene yellow, though the man didn't smoke. That was what did in the former owner, as a matter of fact. The threadbare carpet had been, at the time it was installed, a stylish orange shag with hints of brown, still visible in the areas where furniture had stood. Paths were worn in high-traffic areas, some down to the backing, and all a muddy brown. The architecture was good, though; in the right neighborhood, after being gutted and redecorated, the apartment would have been worth a lot simply for its historical value. Sadly, its fate was with the swarthy man instead.
The kitchen had potential, as well, under the dark wood and nicotene. Several glass-fronted cabinets would display dishes, if the man ate from anything but fast-food wrappers and paper plates. By the warping, it was easy to tell the glass was the original. He took down a plastic cup from some burger joint and filled it at the sink, letting the water run for a bit to get rid of most of the rust. If he'd planned to live for much longer, he would've done something about the pipes, but as it was, he figured they'd outlast him. But it was for heavenly glory, so that was all right. He downed the water in three quick gulps, then headed back to the table, careful not to hit his head on the gaudy light fixture over it. His hand hovered over the stained tome, hesitant now to open it. After deliberating for several long moments, he instead crossed himself, picked up the book, and put it into a military-style footlocker, closing the lock with a click. Time enough to do this later, he reasoned, and crossed the kitchen to grab a cheap beer from the fridge.