The wind blew gently through the southern region of the state. It wound between the trees of the woods and out into the long, flat plains like a sigh from the icey sea from which it came. It lifted bits of snow from one place and moved it idley to the next, with no real purpose, save to move North. This silent wonder was unbeknownst to the crowd gathered within a mediocre wooden building. The people in this building knew of only three things at this time of night. Booze, Odds, and Fists.
The regulars -- and they were all regulars here. Who would seek this little shithole out if they weren't? -- of the Frozen Pick bar all knew one another as you might know a cousin. Nearly every night, they flocked in after whatever jobs they worked to drink, smoke, gamble, and fight.
Sitting towards the center of the bar, chatting with a couple friends, sat a young man who didn't look quite old enough -- and in fact, wasn't -- to be sitting where he sat, and drinking what he drank. Not that the barkeep cared. "If you're old enough to pay for it, you're old enough to drink it." That was his motto. The young man had a somewhat weathered look. Not wasted, by any means, but sort of worked over. He was slightly shorter than average for his age of 19, standing at 5'10, and built as a young working man who ate little and worked much was built; thin, but by no means scrawny. He laughed heartily at a comment the man to his left had told, transforming his face from 19 to 16 and back again.
He sweapt one hand across the mop of platinum hair that fell before his ice-blue eyes. You're full a' shit, Miguel. He chortled to the man who had made the comment.
The man named Miguel flushed a bit, but pressed on. I'm tellin' ya, Day! When that fucker came down, it wannit more'n 10 miles from here. The impact near rattled m'fuckin' teeth out of my head.
Day, as he was known to his friends, responded with the same laugh. Fine, he grinned at his friend, Put 50 bucks, and I'll hike all the way out to where you claim 'at hunk a' shit landed. Then I'll come back and laugh in your face about it.
To Day's suprise, Miguel agreed. Most people would have seen some odd points to this bet. For one, it could have been Miguel's way of sending him off on a wild goose chase. Miguel, however, knew perfectly well that Day often went for long walks through the forest, anyway, and laughed at him often enough for it, for he couldn't see any reason in Hell or Earth for freezing your ass off just for the sake of listening to rabbits and wolves and God knows what else fucking around.
For another, Day could easily lie even if he did find it, just for the 50 bucks, but Miguel also knew Day would love nothing more than to be able to stand in the weeks to come, one foot on his barstool and one atop the bar, proclaiming half-drunkenly about how he'd found the comet. Or suit. Or whatever the hell it was. And if that weren't enough, the two had worked on an old, decrepid oil rig since Day was 15, and Miguel 18. They were as close as the brothers neither had, and wouldn't do something so underhanded to the other.
So, 20 minutes later, Daedalus Lokindu, as he was more formally known, rose to his feet, a full bottle in one hand and the other digging in his pocket for the keys to his truck. Miguel had given him directions to whereabouts he'd seen it fall, which was really just a point on a tour brochure the bar sold, which indicated where he'd been on the road when he saw it come down. He'd claimed it to be due east of where he'd been, somewhere between 5 and 10 miles from the road, but wasn't positive. The latter extreme was a bit more than Daedalus usuaully ventured, but it wasn't unheard of for him, either.
He stepped out of the bar. He'd only had two beers, and had been drinking since 16. He had no worries about his driving, and had no worries of being pulled over -- cops never came out this way much. He placed the keys in the ignition, started the old, rusty truck up, and backed out into the road. The wind had been blowing, but nothing terrible. He didn't even bother to shift into four-wheel.
By tomorrow evening, he'd have an easy 50 and an even easier laugh.
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