D: Take that, A! Here’s my side of the story.
A: Don’t think you’re getting the last word, D.
D: I’d never think that, A. I just know that mine is the *best* word.
A: Whatever, Druid. “Bloody lunatic,” indeed.
While this was originally hosted at “wePoets Show It,” that site has shut down. Below is Part 1 of the in-progress “My Name is D” saga in its entirety.
My Name is D – Part 1
My name is D. My parents gave me this funny pseudo-Irish name. According to the birth certificate, I’m Dubh an Súile mac Alasdair. New age hippies.
Yeah. Just call me D.
I have been living on the road for fifteen years and let me tell you, I’ve had some . . . . Excuse me; I’m trying not to swear. I know there are ladies present and I’d rather not, but gods’ breath, I’m in trouble. I’m on the run – and it isn’t even my fault. I could see if I had robbed that bank, or I had stolen that car, then maybe, but I didn’t.
I was just a chap in the wrong place at the wrong time. Believe me or no, it’s the gods’ honest truth.
Let’s just say that I was fingered. It might have been my past catching up with me, or it might have been simple bad luck. There’s a story there, and I’ll let you judge for yourself. In the end, though, I got away. I always get away.
I didn’t anticipate A, however. I don’t think anyone can anticipate A.
A – I think it stands for Amelia – is a bounty hunter, a madwoman. She kept me hostage for ten of those fifteen years. Apparently keeping me around was worth more to her than turning me in for the bounty. She is an odd duck. It took me those ten years just to find some of her weaknesses – give myself the opportunity to slip away. I don’t know if I’ll ever really get away. Ten years – gone. Bloody lunatic.
Oh, don’t look at me like that. I look young, there’s hardly any grey in my black hair and the wrinkles around my blue-blue eyes appear to be from laughing, don’t they? I know. I’m lucky. I’m older – a lot older – than anyone suspects. Luckily, with age – and torture – comes a certain wisdom.
Of course, I’m not sure wisdom was with me when I rolled into this town.
I only knew that I needed a way to put gas in my old jalopy. Well, not mine exactly. Old Johnson’s boat of a Buick wasn’t particularly what I was looking for in a getaway car, but it worked in a pinch. And, judging by the look of this place, the car fit in pretty well.
But, I digress. I needed gas, and for that, I needed cash. Banks weren’t an option. They still have my face on posters – never mind my protestations.
Then I spied the café. A cyber something. Fancy. I wondered . . .
I pulled my now-rattling boat up to the curb. It was making noises that would make my grandmother – gods rest her soul – blush. I had people, distant people, who might be able to put me in touch with someone – make a connection, you know?
I opened my door. Regretfully, I was not paying attention to my nearest blind spot, so worried was I about watching the road behind me. A – she was dangerous and she was pissed.
I smashed the unknown woman in the leg. I heard the crack. I heard her scream and my heart sank. Oh no, not again. . .
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