[ Benny smells the smoke before he sees it. It hangs heavy in the air like old perfume, burned paper and oil and something sizzling that might actually be meat (which is more than he can say for most of what he's sniffed out lately). He rounds the corner nice and slow, no sudden moves, his whole body still aching, posture lazy on purpose. It sure seems like a lotta people here are jumpy, himself included, and the last thing he wants to do is startle someone into putting a bullet in him.
It smarts, dammit.
He spots the fire, the guy tending it, and the unmistakable look of someone who’s been through hell and just decided to start barbecuing on the ashes. That's fair, he thinks.
Only after a long beat does he finally speak, voice low and dry as desert gravel. ]
the blocks - b
It smarts, dammit.
He spots the fire, the guy tending it, and the unmistakable look of someone who’s been through hell and just decided to start barbecuing on the ashes. That's fair, he thinks.
Only after a long beat does he finally speak, voice low and dry as desert gravel. ]
Only on Tuesdays. Sure smells good, brother.