*middle finger*

[hazlogs]

1/16/04

West Bridge Street

The desperate hopelessness of the industrial sector just to the south makes
      itself felt here, in crowding tenements and dying trees. Many of the 
      people here leave their homes to go to the factories and warehouses, and 
      to return again to noise, crowding, and the tempers of too many people in 
      too small a space. The street is a patchwork of potholes and attempted 
      fillings of them, cracked across with the imperfection of the work. The 
      occasional shop is tucked in here, small building among those a few 
      stories taller. From 13th to 15th Streets, every inch of land is used, 
      mostly for buildings, occasionally for a small, struggling garden which 
      even in the best years cannot hope to provide all the needed vegetables.

Olga looks up at Jacinta for a brief moment, studying her quietly. She looks
      somewhat skeptical, as her eyes take in the other's face, her clothes, 
      but slowly Olga's tongue darts out to lick her dry lips, and she nods her 
      head. "'M always hungry," she explains. "Uh, 'f you're payin', I mean," 
      Olga adds after a moment's thought. She turns her pot upside-down, 
      emptying the money into one hand, and stuffing it quickly in her pockets, 
      as if she were afraid a bird would swoop out of the sky to snatch it away 
      from her.

Crocuta wanders out of the donut shop sucking soda from a straw poked into the
      plastic top of a styrofoam cup. Headphones cover her ears, wires trailing 
      down to a CD player in her other hand, and as she starts heading down the 
      sidewalk, she bobs her head in time to the tinnily raucous music that 
      spills out.

Jacinta points to the store Crocuta just exited. "They have fry-bread? It
      smells like fry-bread." She reaches into her pocket, pulling out several 
      folded bills. "I don't got a lot, but I got enough." She stares after the 
      goth as she walks past. "You like fry-bread?"

	An Alaska Native, Jacinta is not the tallest warrior one could imagine. Her
      stout figure falls a full two inches shy of five feet. Her eyes are a 
      brown so dark as to be almost black, and there is a steeliness about her 
      gaze which belies her easy smile. A plait of black hair, reaching her 
      lower back, curls slightly at its tip.

	The jeans and T-shirt she wears show signs of long use. Her sweater, obviously
      hand made, has begun to fray at the cuffs and neck.

Olga is tall, strong, and pale. Her face is long, her nose protrudes, and her
      shoulders are hunched up, making her look a little like a bird trying to 
      warm itself in the cold. She is better dressed than one might expect from 
      her poverty: her clothes are trim and well-constructed, and though far 
      from fashionable, far, also, from tatters. She prefers layers of 
      clothing, wearing as much as possible short of sweltering. Her fine 
      blonde hair is always tucked neatly under something, be it a hat or a 
      cleverly tied 'kerchief. Olga has in fact so managed her wardrobe that 
      she looks more like one of the faux homeless, a rich kid in dirty boots 
      and patched jeans, than a real street person. She wears a long, stiff, 
      green army coat, which while presumably quite warm, doesn't suit her in 
      the least. She's almost always seen with one arm thrust up around a 
      shoulder, clutching the mouth of her heavy orange bag (look Olga's bag). 
      Olga is in her early twenties.

Olga stuffs her blanket in an orange plastic bag near her feet, already so full
      of junk it's a wonder she can get it in there, and then she somehow 
      manages to cram the money-pot in there, too. She pats her pocket once, 
      where the change and one bill are, just to make sure everything's still 
      there. Olga looks up at Jacinta, before heaving her bag up over a 
      shoulder. "The hell's fry-bread?" Olga asks as she takes a few moments to 
      move over to Jacinta, eyeing the girl with the too-loud music angrily.

Crocuta gives the pair a quick glance, then looks again as she takes in
      Jacinta's stare and Olga's anger. Though she doesn't meet the former's 
      eyes, the latter, the bum with the garbage bag, gets a flip of the 
      punk-goth's middle finger.

Crocuta doesn't pause in walking and seems likely to continue on her way --
      just another of the city's colorful assholes.

Jacinta shakes her head as the strange girl walks away, and reaches to open the
      door to the donut shop. "Fry-bread. You know." She seems at a loss, 
      gesturing with the hand holding the drum. "Fry. Bread. It's fried. You 
      know?"

Olga grumbles vaguely to herself as Crocuta passes, still giving her that evil
      eye, culminating in a "Dirty bitch," said loud enough for her to hear, 
      before she moves off grumpily after Jacinta. "Some people," she explains 
      to her pointlessly with a shake of her head, before tackling the matter 
      at hand: "Fry bread? Y' mean doughnuts? Yeah, doughnut; I like 
      doughnuts," she says with a forced half-grin as she tries to push down 
      the anger the goth-girl seems to evoke in her. Olga looks inside, breaths 
      in that stale sugary air, and smells genuinely as she moves to enter.