Post by Deleted on Apr 17, 2015 2:08:32 GMT -5
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my haiiiir~
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
,
up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering liiight!
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night!
On the corner of a quiet Georgia street, the remnants of what used to be a halfway decent hotel stood in what was a dying and decaying neighborhood long before the apocalypse happened. She was old, but she was built solid as the very foundation she laid upon, left abandoned for whatever reason that the previous tenants saw fit. Most of the street was abandoned for that matter, most of what could be scavenged had been scavenged for the most part, and all was abandoned except for a few walkers ambling up and down the road, or standing stationary because they didn't even know what else was left to do. The brick walls of the outer building had weathered what came at it and still stood strong, still solid. Even though the paint was peeling off the walls, and there were moans and groans coming from the building's walls, the windows were still in tact and it seemed like that even the roof was still good. If nothing else, this little former hotel could serve as a place to stay the night.
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...
That 1955 Chevy Gasser was creeping along the road, careful not to rev the engine, careful not to attract attention as that old Eagles song drifted across the stereo in a slow, haunting, sort of way while he leaned back in the seat, casually checking his mirror, his blue eyes watching his six o'clock before looking back ahead. He noticed that a few of those undead bastards were starting to notice the Gasser, but he didn't cry too much about it, he just sped up, his left hand gripping the door and suddenly opening it as he hit the gas, using the edge of that door like a battering ram at just the right moment, smashing into the front of the zed and sending it down, putting it out of its misery like a bad dog before closing it and moving to pull the car up into the yard right next to the hotel before setting it into park, leaning back into the seat, and fumbling around for that pack of wood tipped black and milds he kept in his jacket pocket..
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year (Any time of year)
You can find it he--
He killed the radio, right along with the engine, before he struck a match to light the end of that cancer stick and opted to get on out of the car. Slingin' that bag of his over one shoulder, and the Savage M720 that he carried on a sling over the other, he closed his door and looked around the place as he pocketed his keys. The hotel seemed legit, and other than the one or two stragglers headed his way? It seemed okay, seemed fine even. He just gripped that wood an' steel shotgun by the forestock an' grip, strolling to the front before shifting his weight and slamming the buttstock into the temple of a nearby rotter, slamming it with enough force to cave in its temporal lobe before backing away, the other walker was a good twenty yards off and not even a problem. Tobi just curled his lip up in a sneer at it and turned about face, carryin' himself towards the door, towards the hotel..
Tobi walked with a slow kind of step, the kind of fuckin' swagger that James Dean strutted with back in the day, that slow rollin', devil-may-care walk that was damn near the bastard love child of old school westerns and those black and white noir flicks. The gritty, Rooster Cogburn styled cowboy, the Frank Miller homage of an anti hero. The faint, sickly sweet scent of tobacco rolled up in a woodtip cigarillo that he kept stuffed in the corner of his mouth announced his presence long before the click of his boots against the ground did. He wasn't hiding, why bother? It wasn't him, wasn't who he was. Nah, Jean Luc Tobias Landry had a chip on his shoulder a mile long, and he wasn't scared to hide it, not by any means. He tugged that wide brimmed hat of his downward, castin' a shadow across that high cheek bone havin' face of his, obscurin' those bluest of blue eyes from the light to shield him from a burst of pain an' irritation set on by the hangover he still had on his breath.
He wasn't exactly thrilled about being awake, but it was part of life, an evil necessity. Black jeans clung to his lower half, loose around his knees and calves but grippin' at his thighs just right, lynched to his waist by a thick, black, leather belt that had a pewter buck's skull for a clasp, crownin' his jeans right above the zipper, settled in nicely. His shirt? Black as his damn pants and tucked in tight, flanked by a beat up leather jacket that covered up those inked arms of his, coverin' that heavy, chrome barreled, Desert Eagle he carried in that leather cross draw holster beneath it, under his left arm.
Yeah, it was with that kind of walk he strolled into that hotel, closin' the door behind him as he went, adjusting the strap of that army duffle bag over his shoulder as he went. Gods, the world had gone to shit and it'd barely been just a few weeks.. The hell was he gonna do? Hide out here 'till it all blew over?
Eh, he'd had worse plans in the past.
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
,
up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering liiight!
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night!
On the corner of a quiet Georgia street, the remnants of what used to be a halfway decent hotel stood in what was a dying and decaying neighborhood long before the apocalypse happened. She was old, but she was built solid as the very foundation she laid upon, left abandoned for whatever reason that the previous tenants saw fit. Most of the street was abandoned for that matter, most of what could be scavenged had been scavenged for the most part, and all was abandoned except for a few walkers ambling up and down the road, or standing stationary because they didn't even know what else was left to do. The brick walls of the outer building had weathered what came at it and still stood strong, still solid. Even though the paint was peeling off the walls, and there were moans and groans coming from the building's walls, the windows were still in tact and it seemed like that even the roof was still good. If nothing else, this little former hotel could serve as a place to stay the night.
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...
That 1955 Chevy Gasser was creeping along the road, careful not to rev the engine, careful not to attract attention as that old Eagles song drifted across the stereo in a slow, haunting, sort of way while he leaned back in the seat, casually checking his mirror, his blue eyes watching his six o'clock before looking back ahead. He noticed that a few of those undead bastards were starting to notice the Gasser, but he didn't cry too much about it, he just sped up, his left hand gripping the door and suddenly opening it as he hit the gas, using the edge of that door like a battering ram at just the right moment, smashing into the front of the zed and sending it down, putting it out of its misery like a bad dog before closing it and moving to pull the car up into the yard right next to the hotel before setting it into park, leaning back into the seat, and fumbling around for that pack of wood tipped black and milds he kept in his jacket pocket..
Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place (Such a lovely place)
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the Hotel California
Any time of year (Any time of year)
You can find it he--
He killed the radio, right along with the engine, before he struck a match to light the end of that cancer stick and opted to get on out of the car. Slingin' that bag of his over one shoulder, and the Savage M720 that he carried on a sling over the other, he closed his door and looked around the place as he pocketed his keys. The hotel seemed legit, and other than the one or two stragglers headed his way? It seemed okay, seemed fine even. He just gripped that wood an' steel shotgun by the forestock an' grip, strolling to the front before shifting his weight and slamming the buttstock into the temple of a nearby rotter, slamming it with enough force to cave in its temporal lobe before backing away, the other walker was a good twenty yards off and not even a problem. Tobi just curled his lip up in a sneer at it and turned about face, carryin' himself towards the door, towards the hotel..
Tobi walked with a slow kind of step, the kind of fuckin' swagger that James Dean strutted with back in the day, that slow rollin', devil-may-care walk that was damn near the bastard love child of old school westerns and those black and white noir flicks. The gritty, Rooster Cogburn styled cowboy, the Frank Miller homage of an anti hero. The faint, sickly sweet scent of tobacco rolled up in a woodtip cigarillo that he kept stuffed in the corner of his mouth announced his presence long before the click of his boots against the ground did. He wasn't hiding, why bother? It wasn't him, wasn't who he was. Nah, Jean Luc Tobias Landry had a chip on his shoulder a mile long, and he wasn't scared to hide it, not by any means. He tugged that wide brimmed hat of his downward, castin' a shadow across that high cheek bone havin' face of his, obscurin' those bluest of blue eyes from the light to shield him from a burst of pain an' irritation set on by the hangover he still had on his breath.
He wasn't exactly thrilled about being awake, but it was part of life, an evil necessity. Black jeans clung to his lower half, loose around his knees and calves but grippin' at his thighs just right, lynched to his waist by a thick, black, leather belt that had a pewter buck's skull for a clasp, crownin' his jeans right above the zipper, settled in nicely. His shirt? Black as his damn pants and tucked in tight, flanked by a beat up leather jacket that covered up those inked arms of his, coverin' that heavy, chrome barreled, Desert Eagle he carried in that leather cross draw holster beneath it, under his left arm.
Yeah, it was with that kind of walk he strolled into that hotel, closin' the door behind him as he went, adjusting the strap of that army duffle bag over his shoulder as he went. Gods, the world had gone to shit and it'd barely been just a few weeks.. The hell was he gonna do? Hide out here 'till it all blew over?
Eh, he'd had worse plans in the past.