Wild-Eyed Angst and The Queen of Spades, chapter 1
"Christy!"
Her best friends stood at the bottom of the stairs, their hands upon their hips, waiting. Always waiting.
Turning the music blaring from her room off and slipping on her sleeveless Adeline Records hoodie and grabbing a bag, she yelled back in her raspy voice, "Coming!" On her way out, she grabbed a pair of socks and her trusty all-black Chucks.
She sprinted down the upstairs hall, running a hand unconciously through her hair, which was blonde in the front and black in the back, pulled back into two small ponytails. Grabbing a guitar case perched on the top stair, she slung it over her shoulder, causing her semi-muscular arms to ripple a bit, and fished a ringing cell phone from out of her tight black jean pocket, the plastic screen making a slight sound as it rubbed over the bullet casings on her belt in her haste to answer it.
"Fuck it, I'll be there in a sec, Thom, hold your goddamn self for ten minutes!" Hanging up the phone, she sighed and threw the cell phone into her bag, then followed her friends, a girl with black dreads and a nose ring and a dude with platinum blonde hair. They all broke into a run out the front door, slamming it behind them and running for a Ford Fairlane the color of the sea that was parked on the street. Throwing her guitar case (not too roughly) into the backseat, Christy crawled into the driver seat and grabbed the keys from her pocket where her cell was, and started the car, barely taking off before the other two crawled into the car.
"God, Christoria, you didn't give us any time, and now Thom is gonna have a heart attack because we're gonna be late."
"Shut up," was all Christoria Elena Armstrong said. And she was pissed. Her knuckles formed over the steering wheel, the now-white tint to her skin accented her black-with-skulls nails. She glanced in the rear mirror to examine her two friends, the girl, Selena Estelle Hawthorne, wearing a black work shirt with a red star over her heart and a pair of worn out jeans and creepers, and the guy, Francis 'Frank' Ryan, decked out in a pair of plaid pants with The Clash sneering out from his teeshirt and his bowling shoes drawn on. She smirked, and floored it as much as she could.
Fritz's, she thought. Finally. Thank God we got the slot. It's so damn hard for a band to get in there. Her band, The Stiletto Killers, were into the glamour of the morgue and staying up late in their small East Coast town in New Jersey. Thinking about their situation made her clench her fists even harder around the steering wheel.
"Watch out, Christy! You almost ran over that cat..."
A black cat had yowled at the oncoming car and scurried out of the way. "Bad sign, that black cat," Selena murmured. She was real superstitious, and crossed herself as the car raced on, trying to beat the neon clock in it that stated that they had one minute, maybe even less, to make it to Fritz's Place if they wanted to make it for set-up.
Finally, Christy saw the saving sign, the brick building with the odd assortment of kids outside. Slamming the car to a halt, she rounded the corner and found a parking spot outside the hangout and killed the motor. All three jumped out as if the car was about to explode. Frank handed her the guitar, Selena the bag and she ran for the front door and entered, Selena and Frank on her tail.
A tall youth with curly brown hair and a The Network teeshirt was glaring at Christy as she hurried past all the tables under the dim lights towards the makeshift stage in the middle of the joint. "You're late," he said, but flicked his head to tell her where to put her stuff. She nodded and hurried back there, muttering curses under her breath as she went.
She had no idea she was being watched.
Her best friends stood at the bottom of the stairs, their hands upon their hips, waiting. Always waiting.
Turning the music blaring from her room off and slipping on her sleeveless Adeline Records hoodie and grabbing a bag, she yelled back in her raspy voice, "Coming!" On her way out, she grabbed a pair of socks and her trusty all-black Chucks.
She sprinted down the upstairs hall, running a hand unconciously through her hair, which was blonde in the front and black in the back, pulled back into two small ponytails. Grabbing a guitar case perched on the top stair, she slung it over her shoulder, causing her semi-muscular arms to ripple a bit, and fished a ringing cell phone from out of her tight black jean pocket, the plastic screen making a slight sound as it rubbed over the bullet casings on her belt in her haste to answer it.
"Fuck it, I'll be there in a sec, Thom, hold your goddamn self for ten minutes!" Hanging up the phone, she sighed and threw the cell phone into her bag, then followed her friends, a girl with black dreads and a nose ring and a dude with platinum blonde hair. They all broke into a run out the front door, slamming it behind them and running for a Ford Fairlane the color of the sea that was parked on the street. Throwing her guitar case (not too roughly) into the backseat, Christy crawled into the driver seat and grabbed the keys from her pocket where her cell was, and started the car, barely taking off before the other two crawled into the car.
"God, Christoria, you didn't give us any time, and now Thom is gonna have a heart attack because we're gonna be late."
"Shut up," was all Christoria Elena Armstrong said. And she was pissed. Her knuckles formed over the steering wheel, the now-white tint to her skin accented her black-with-skulls nails. She glanced in the rear mirror to examine her two friends, the girl, Selena Estelle Hawthorne, wearing a black work shirt with a red star over her heart and a pair of worn out jeans and creepers, and the guy, Francis 'Frank' Ryan, decked out in a pair of plaid pants with The Clash sneering out from his teeshirt and his bowling shoes drawn on. She smirked, and floored it as much as she could.
Fritz's, she thought. Finally. Thank God we got the slot. It's so damn hard for a band to get in there. Her band, The Stiletto Killers, were into the glamour of the morgue and staying up late in their small East Coast town in New Jersey. Thinking about their situation made her clench her fists even harder around the steering wheel.
"Watch out, Christy! You almost ran over that cat..."
A black cat had yowled at the oncoming car and scurried out of the way. "Bad sign, that black cat," Selena murmured. She was real superstitious, and crossed herself as the car raced on, trying to beat the neon clock in it that stated that they had one minute, maybe even less, to make it to Fritz's Place if they wanted to make it for set-up.
Finally, Christy saw the saving sign, the brick building with the odd assortment of kids outside. Slamming the car to a halt, she rounded the corner and found a parking spot outside the hangout and killed the motor. All three jumped out as if the car was about to explode. Frank handed her the guitar, Selena the bag and she ran for the front door and entered, Selena and Frank on her tail.
A tall youth with curly brown hair and a The Network teeshirt was glaring at Christy as she hurried past all the tables under the dim lights towards the makeshift stage in the middle of the joint. "You're late," he said, but flicked his head to tell her where to put her stuff. She nodded and hurried back there, muttering curses under her breath as she went.
She had no idea she was being watched.
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