Waking Up on the Wrong Side of the Park Bench

[hazlogs]

It is currently 08:38 Pacific Time on Mon Nov 24 2014.

Currently in Saint Claire, it is raining lightly. The temperature is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the southwest at 5 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.35 and rising, and the relative humidity is 100 percent. The dewpoint is 38 degrees Fahrenheit (3 degrees Celsius.)

Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (15% full).

Harbor Park -- The Meadow(#194RJ)

One of the last bastions of green left in the city, mottled and withered grass and weeds covers the earth like a badly stained carpet, with the construction work turning what is left into just bare dirt. The vegetation seems marginally healthier the further it is from the river and much healthier towards the central area of the park around the fountain. Construction work is ongoing here: a raised earthen berm about five feet tall is being built all around the park perimeter, with two breaks each at the Bridge Street entrance and the First Street end. Wooden posts are being erected at regular intervals all along the earthen wall, while tasteful iron gates and fences are being added at the entrances. Overpowering the scent of living vegetation are the exhaust fumes from a busy street to the west and an unpleasant stench from the Columbia River to the east. From the street view or river view, the park is now isolated, as if it existed apart from the city. People in tall buildings have an excellent view of any goings-ons for now, though. In the center of the park, a small glade of six tall trees and a flower bed surrounds the fountain.

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.

Cool and cloudy. Typical day for the area really, and with it comes all the typical Monday inhabitants of the park. Business goers on lunch, moms and their strollers. A dog here or there. And Mack. After sparing the park for a few weeks, she has returned to be a regular sight once more, though today she's without her box drum. Just a backpack, a notebook and a pen, and from where she sits on one of the benches, a lot of note taking or sketching of the fountain area.

Charlene has spent the morning doing Charlene things - mainly working out in the forge at her place, cleaning up, and then heading into town on her motorcycle to hit up one of the delis near the working part of town - one known for some pretty good sandwiches. She enters the park, making a relatively straight line for the fountain, pausing when she sees a somewhat familiar face sitting there, sketching. Still, shouldering her backpack - sans guitar - she heads over to sit on the rim of the fountain out of the breeze to avoid being splashed by the spray, setting her pack down and starting to rummage. If Mackenzie looks over? Charlene will be friendly. A lot happened the last time these two met.

Fitz, meanwhile, is stretched out on a bench nearby, using a cheap-looking backpack as a pillow, his face covered with a thin grey jacket. He's been sleeping there (presumably sleeping) for some time, and people tend to keep their distance.

Mackenzie does, in fact, look over toward the new arrival. While their eyes might meet only briefly, the scowl that drapes over her features seems content to stay settled even as Mack drops her gaze back to her paper to scribble more into her notebook. That book gets closed and then she stands up with a bit of a huff and starts making her way out of the park. Her path crosses the bench where the sleeper lies, and its as she is giving him a quick lookover that another park goer takes advantage of the girl's distraction. A Thwump is heard as a taller boy makes contact with her in a rough, and intentional, shove that knocks her notebook out of her hand at the foot of the bench. "The fuck!?" she shouts as she turns back to face a highschool age boy donning a varsity jacket and a bitter smirk.

It was to be expected, really, and the woman with the cowboy hat simply sighs and digs out a brown paper bag that's already starting to show spots of grease - good sandwich in there, certainly. It's set on the side and, as she's getting out the bottle of water, there's the conflict, the shouting, and the clattering of the notebook on the pavement. Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing at the woman and the boy.

Fitz practically spasms upright at the sudden noise near him, arms flailing, almost falling off the bench, his jacket slithering to the ground. He looks around, eyes wide, head twitching this way and that -- and a bare second later, launches himself off the bench and charges the varsity boy with an angry, inarticulate yell.

The jock wasn't expecting that, and it's clear from the wide-eyed stare he gives. Still though, he puts up his arms like a linesmen waiting to block the opposing team and readies for the assault. Mack, whose own reaction was readying a counter of her own sort, finds herself equally caught off guard, and so takes a step back to let things play out as they will. "Ace move asshole."

The moon is small, so Charlene has quite a good handle on things. Still, she waits to see what might occur if things go badly. She does lean over to inform the jock. "She is a biter and will kick your ass. Just sayin.'"

The jock doesn't hear Charlene, being rather occupied with the crazy asshole colliding into him at speed. The two young men hit the ground in a flurry of punches and kicks and general classless brawling. The jock's no slouch at this kind of thing, clearly, but Fitz seems to be in a state of rabid, saliva-flying hate. The pair start rolling over on the ground, the highschool guy mostly trying to disentangle himself, cursing and 'what the fuck!'-ing all the while.

Mackenzie can't help but grin and shake her head in amused disbelief. "Instant karma there, pal. And here I thought you might be getting the hang of how not to be a dick." A shrug comes up, "Guess not. And the funny thing about it? I don't even /know/ this guy who is kicking your ass right now." The girl seems unbothered by the violence she watches unfold in front of her, though she does have the sense enough to keep a careful enough watch if others might try to get involved or not.

Charlene scoots around the side of the fountain to watch, eating her sandwich as things progress, offering advice to the kid who's currently being hit as she eats. "Guard your face. Counterattack, kid, it's your only chance!
Charlene does set her sandwich aside, though. Can't have this kid getting killed.

It doesn't look like anyone's getting killed; the whole thing looks more like a schoolyard brawl than anything. In any case, the jock manages to free himself from Fitz, and now both are on their feet, facing off, both covered in dirt. Letter Jacket looks especially mussed, since, well, Fitz looked like he dragged himself out of a hole before any of this started. Letter Jacket also doesn't look like he wants to continue. Fitz, on the other hand, stares wide-eyed and teeth-bared grin at him. There's drool on his lips and chin; he wipes it off unconsciously and mutters, "C'mon, c'mon c'mon c'mon c'mon..."

The jock backs off a bit more at this, flustered, and looking righteously pissed off. Rather than address the kid who just kicked his ass, he points a hard finger toward Mack. "You're gonna pay you little bitch. Just you wait." Mack throws throws up a rather cool and unbothered middle finger at him with one hand, while the other hand offers a sarcastically flirty wave goodbye. As the highschooler shuffles back and makes for a quick escape, the girl turns toward the other. "Dude. Sorry about that." Her tone is genuine as she offers this, and it's with a grin that she adds, "But holy shit that could not have worked out better."

Like any bully, confrontation means that he immediately goes elsewhere to find other, easier prey. Charlene takes up her sandwich again, gives the retreating cowardly jock a wave, and leans over to look at the scruffy 20 year old. "Holster those shootin' irons, Tex. Your target's goin' thataway."

Fitz wipes his mouth again. Apart from dirt and such, he looks pretty unscathed. Mack gets a sharp look, then Charlene. Then he yells, "FUCK," and makes a scramble toward the bench he was sleeping on, snatching up the backpack he left there and rummaging frantically around inside.

"Whoa. Geezus. Chill man. What's wrong with you?" asks Mack with a quickly furrowing brow. She also notices that /her/ notebook is over there in the line of his snatching. "Wait! That one's mine!" she offers in a rushed, pleading sort of tone suggestive of pending panic.

Charlene takes a sip of her water, recapping the bottle, her voice soothing as she talks. "Hey there, man, why don't you calm down just a little bit. Fight's over. Opponent's gone off to lick his wounds." She sounds /very/ persuasive.

Fitz apparently finds what he was looking for in the backpack, though he doesn't take it out or otherwise reveal what it was he was worried about. That, combined with Charlene's words (and the way she says them, probably) provide some measure of calm. His lips purse into a cocky little smirk as he zips the bag up and flicks a sidelong glance at Charlene. "Yeah. Yeah, he has." He hauls the back back onto his shoulders, grabs up the discarded jacket as well. "And, yes, you're fucking welcome," he says to Mack, still smirking unpleasantly. And then he starts heading off.