Post by Al Williamson on Feb 29, 2020 16:29:57 GMT -5
"Look, Clark, I've sewn the damn crotch in your jeans--what, four times now?" Al was laughing. "I am sure I or somebody else has a pair of pants your size, dude."
"No, no, Al. Until these things are torn to shreds, I ain't chuckin' them!" Clark was indignant, but also smiling--some what recognizing the absurdity of his stubbornness.
"It's not just your pride here, Clark," Al began. "It takes time for me to do this--this is the last time. I'll stitch these up one more time, come back tomorrow and I'll have 'em ready, okay?"
Clark nodded. "I can make due in these sweatpants until then, but I can't be doing my job without something thicker--denim. I'll be back tomorrow, Al. Oh, by the way, you got anything for my Luger?"
"Yeah, and most other guns you need. Even some explosives--don't tell anybody on the council..." Al smiled playfully and held a finger to his lips.
"Great," Clark began. "I'll bring the cash tomorrow when I pick up the pants--how much for the pan--"
"On the house, you cheap bastard," Al was still grinning as he tossed the pants onto his desk. "Just clear out some of my ammo tomorrow."
"Alright, see ya Al--thanks."
With that, Al Williamson turned to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a Jameson. He'd always been partial to whiskey, but with the loss of Samantha, the habit worsened considerably. He'd tried to quit many times, both before and after the apocalypse, but couldn't handle it. He'd kept the habit under wraps--the only person who knew was Padre. Al wasn't sure why he still went to confession when he didn't really believe it. Running on fumes from a faith he used to follow. Still, Tom was a good man and a good listener. Al would give him free whiskey--Tom insisted that it was just to freshen his breath in the morning when he was out of toothpaste, but Al didn't buy it. Even the holy men needed to take the edge off.
Al downed the Jameson, and poured himself another. A large man and a lifelong drinker, two Jamesons to start the day was hardly anything. Just enough to get by. Al had to repair Clark's pants--but he had all day to get to that. He'd recently reorganized his ammo inventory and hidden the explosives. Explosives used to be sold at-will by vendors until he decided that he should have a monopoly on certain goods. And the cowards on the council listened to him. The mayor listened to him. Clark grimaced, but shrugged it away, taking the last swig of his whiskey. As he did, the door to his shop once again opened.
"No, no, Al. Until these things are torn to shreds, I ain't chuckin' them!" Clark was indignant, but also smiling--some what recognizing the absurdity of his stubbornness.
"It's not just your pride here, Clark," Al began. "It takes time for me to do this--this is the last time. I'll stitch these up one more time, come back tomorrow and I'll have 'em ready, okay?"
Clark nodded. "I can make due in these sweatpants until then, but I can't be doing my job without something thicker--denim. I'll be back tomorrow, Al. Oh, by the way, you got anything for my Luger?"
"Yeah, and most other guns you need. Even some explosives--don't tell anybody on the council..." Al smiled playfully and held a finger to his lips.
"Great," Clark began. "I'll bring the cash tomorrow when I pick up the pants--how much for the pan--"
"On the house, you cheap bastard," Al was still grinning as he tossed the pants onto his desk. "Just clear out some of my ammo tomorrow."
"Alright, see ya Al--thanks."
With that, Al Williamson turned to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a Jameson. He'd always been partial to whiskey, but with the loss of Samantha, the habit worsened considerably. He'd tried to quit many times, both before and after the apocalypse, but couldn't handle it. He'd kept the habit under wraps--the only person who knew was Padre. Al wasn't sure why he still went to confession when he didn't really believe it. Running on fumes from a faith he used to follow. Still, Tom was a good man and a good listener. Al would give him free whiskey--Tom insisted that it was just to freshen his breath in the morning when he was out of toothpaste, but Al didn't buy it. Even the holy men needed to take the edge off.
Al downed the Jameson, and poured himself another. A large man and a lifelong drinker, two Jamesons to start the day was hardly anything. Just enough to get by. Al had to repair Clark's pants--but he had all day to get to that. He'd recently reorganized his ammo inventory and hidden the explosives. Explosives used to be sold at-will by vendors until he decided that he should have a monopoly on certain goods. And the cowards on the council listened to him. The mayor listened to him. Clark grimaced, but shrugged it away, taking the last swig of his whiskey. As he did, the door to his shop once again opened.