Junior's Friend Joey

[hazlogs]

Malachi: 8 July 2001 (Sunday)

Harbor Park Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a 
  flower bed, a few benches, and a plywood wall barricade. The area where the 
  fountain was, and presumably the new fountain will be, is currently enclosed 
  by high plywood walls. There is a door in one of the walls, firmly locked 
  with a stout-looking padlock. The walls enclose much of the flagstone area, 
  now, only leaving a little around the edges of the old courtyard. Scraggly 
  hedges line one side of the courtyard, just behind some mostly graffiti-free 
  benches and a chain link fence. Cars on the nearby street have an excellent 
  view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the 
  waterfront. The park is almost constantly devoid of people as its reputation 
  for being one of the most violent and dangerous places in the city spreads.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the 
  park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. 
  Claire. A meadow surrounds the small glade.

Apparently in one of his quieter moods, Joey is wandering almost aimlessly, 
  hands stuffed into his pockets. He cuts through the meadow going towards the 
  fountain. Hey, one place to think is as good as any other.

Malachi sits on the back of a bench, sullenly nursing a can of Coke and 
  glowering out toward the river.

Joey turns as he gets closer to the center of the area, and is about to lean 
  back against the wooden fountain barricade whe he espies something. Well. He 
  tilts his head to the side, trying to make sure, for a moment, that it's the 
  same kid he thinks he sees.

Malachi tilts his head back to down the last of the Coke, then pulls his arm 
  back and flings the empty can toward the river; it arcs high and falls far 
  short.

Joey is walking towards them as he sees the can fly high, then not so high. 
  "Try going sidearm," he says, approaching the bench from the back. "Y'won't 
  arc it so much that way."

[Joey]
Either Joey is a pure ragamuffin, or the clothes teenagers wear today have 
  edged towards the 'vagrant' look. By the dirty face he has, it is probably 
  the former. He's short, only five-foot-four, though his build is unable to 
  be seen under the baggy clothes he has on. His hair, mostly hidden under a 
  ratty tan baseball cap, is a plain, nondescript brown, and looks like it was 
  cut with a butter knife.
        A thin film of dirt covers most of his face, further dulling the color 
  of his eyes, which match the same bland shade his hair does. While the color 
  is dull, something about the eyes gives off a sharpness, as if the boy were 
  more canny than he looks.
        The clothes are obviously not his own, probably salvaged from a 
  Salvation Army dumpster. His jeans are baggy cut-offs, too large for him, 
  the bottom edge completely covering his feet in wide circles. Under the 
  jeans, his sneakers were white, once, and also had laces. Not any longer. 
  His t-shirt is in simple black, the collar ripped slightly down the front. 
  Over the whole thing he's wearing a tan trenchcoat, meant for someone with 
  height. The lower part of the coat trails behind him like a cloak, barely 
  showing child-like hands inside voluminous sleeves.

Malachi eyeballs Joey with a frown. "What're you, a fuckin' expert?" Then he 
  gets a look of recognition. "Yer that kid who was with Junior."

The left side of Joey's mouth quirks up. "Expert, no. Just someone who learned 
  a thing or two." He tilts his head to the side, as another subject comes up, 
  and his smile breaks through. "Well, yeah, I was that kid," he says, trying 
  to be disarming.

Malachi folds his arms across his skinny chest. He doesn't return the smile; 
  the bad mood seems to have been permanently etched into his young face. 
  "Whatta you want?"

This gets another smile from Joey, as he's reminded of someone in Mal's look; 
  that same standoffishness, the same attitude, it's all there. "I was just 
  wanderin'," he crows, walking up to behind the bench, to the side of the 
  sullen lad. "And there you were. What, can't say hi to a friend of a friend?"

"Are you a fag?" Malachi asks, bluntly.

Joey tilts his head to the side, answering calmly and truthfully. "Nope," he 
  says. "Not my thing."

Malachi kicks his heel against the back of the bench. "Yeah, sure." The kid 
  sounds doubtful. He regards Joey sidelong, angry and distainful. "I don't 
  know where Junior is, neither, if that's what you wanna know."

Joey just gives the snotty little a glance. "Who said I asked that," he says. 
  "Not all that concerned 'bout him right now," he adds. He stays where he is, 
  vey quiet.

Malachi kicks the back of the bench some more, keeping a steady, forceful 
  rhythm. "Then... whatever. Hi or somethin'. You can go now."

"Buuut," Joey segues smoothly. He's not planning on leaving just yet. 
  "Junior's all been asking after you, seeing if you're doing okay in school 
  and all." He shrugs. "Than again, I ain't seen him in weeks," he lies. "What 
  message should I give to him from ya?"

Malachi scratches at a bug bite on his arm. "School's out," he says flatly. "I 
  passed. It still sucked."

Joey huhs, and leans forward a bit. But, something seems to have him on alert. 
  "SO no bullies fucking with you any more?" He's heard that story. "Can't be 
  that bad of a deal."

Malachi's mismatched eyes narrow. "Bullies or whatever, school sucks /ass/. 
  What's your fuckin' /point/?"

Joey turns his eyes to fix the kid with a glare. "S'called trying to be nice. 
  What's crawled up your ass and died?"

Malachi pulls his lips into a sneer. "Yeah, /nice/. Like Junior wants to be 
  /nice/, th' fuckin' ass-licker."

Joey's lip twitches. "Heh," he says. "That's what you think of him? For fuck's 
  sake, the kid protects you, gets you shit for your birthday 'cause he know 
  you ain't got shit." He turns. "I saw that look on yer face, you little 
  dicksmack," he says. "Junior don't know when folks are usin' him, but I know 
  better."

Malachi shows Joey an upraised middle finger. "Fuck you. It's not /my/ fault 
  your friend is a faggot dumbass."

And right there, somwething in Joey turns to ice. He looks like Mal as if he 
  remembers the kid, not just seeing him. And, just as quickly, his right arm 
  shoots out, grabbing the proffered middle finger.

Malachi immediately yells and tries to yank his finger back. "Hey!"

Joey pulls back on the finger, attempting to move mal's arm behind the 
  latter's back, for an arm-hold. If it works, it will be painful, without 
  anything yet being broken.

The Bone Gnawer has no problem getting Malachi into the hold, albeit with a 
  great deal of yelling and cursing on the kid's part. The stream of profanity 
  is unimaginative but quite filthy.

Joey knows a way to shut the kid up, which is what he attempts, now. That 
  would be, namely, pushing Mal to the ground, face-down, while still trying 
  to keep the hold. "You," he breaths, sounding very very different. It's as 
  if it's someone else speaking, and that someone else isn't nearly as 
  amiable. "You will shut the fuck up and listen, now, or I snap your wrist 
  like a fucking twig. Got me?"

Malachi makes some muffled 'mmnnff' noises, as much from pain as anger.

With his free hand, and his knee in the middle of Malachi's back, Joey grabs a 
  fistful of unruly black pre-teen hair, lifting Mal's face off the ground. 
  "Now," he says. "Let us get a few things right. Where I come from, when 
  someone gives you shit and protects you, you do NOT throw it back into his 
  face." He twists the arm just a little sure, to ensure the boy is paying 
  attention. "I know that you're just using him, and since he's my brother, I 
  ain't letting that happen any more." Another twist, and Joey leans down so 
  his voice is right besides mal's left ear. His voice is chilled, solemn, and 
  deadly serious. "You'll give him the thanks and respect he deserves for 
  being so nice to a little pile of shit like you, or I will take those 
  glasses of yours and cram them up your ass before I gut you. And if you hurt 
  him, I'll rip off your leg and club your head in like a melon with the blunt 
  end. Do I make myself clear?" he asks. The next comes out as a shout that 
  echoes across the park, with a tough of Rage and pure hatred. "DO I??!"

Malachi spits out some dirt; bits of grass stick to his face and his glasses 
  are askew. He's silent, breathing heavily throughout Joey's speech, saying 
  nothing until the shout -- at that he flinches and mumbles something that 
  sounds vaguely like 'yeah'.

Joey is just this side of beyond reason as he yells again, all of asn inch 
  away from Mal's ear. "I can't hear you!"

Malachi grimaces in pain -- even without Joey's weight pressing him down and 
  the knee in his back and the fingers pulling his hair, the shouts in his ear 
  are damn hurtful. "Ow, fuck, /yes/, okay? /Yes./"

Joey releases the grip on Mal's hair, and uses that free hand to flip the boy 
  over onto his back, which releases the twisted arm. "Something to remember 
  me by," he growls, looking feral in the night, and way twisted. His arm 
  shoots out, attempting to go fll-force into Mal's stomach. Why? Because a 
  shot to the face will leave a mark.

Malachi makes the expected 'oof' of hurt, breath whoofing out of him. He curls 
  up and tries to roll over onto his side, arms around his stomach.

Joey gets up, and steps back so Mal can do just that. Still keeping some 
  wariness in his anger, he stays out of the kid's reach. "Just you fucking 
  remember that, you load that should have been swallowed. You don't use him 
  any more, and if you hurt him, I'll fucking erase you."

Malachi remains curled around his stomach and makes no reply. No audible 
  reply, anyway; his eyes are closed, face twisted into a grimace.

Joey watches the boy writhe in pain for about half a minute. Seeing that he's 
  done what he has, his expression ices over. He turns on his heel, and walks 
  away.