Snippet #1887620

At the mention of giving a way his Les Paul--let alone a Les Paul with three signatures of influential English-rock band mates that swayed the music of the 1980's. He thought he might have to reach across the table and slap the dumb ass expression off her face. She looked like she was having a stroke mentally, like her brain had exploded in her skull. He inhaled his cigarette letting out the smoke in short, jagged breaths. Mostly from pain. He ground the cigarette into the table, leaving only a philter left while he took another drink of Bacardi before he even heard a word more from Izzy.

"Enough questions," She rather bluntly said. Of course Damien was more than used to her crude way of speaking. He rather enjoyed picking on her for it. God knew she needed to learn humility. "What do you want?" She questioned him, she was probably still stuck on the Gibson. Damien put one finger up to silence her, as he polished off the bottle and screwed the cap on like it was simply a water bottle. He sat the bottle down, nodding his head as his taste buds enjoyed the flavor of the Bacradi rolling inside of his mouth like rolling tides on the beach.

"You're probably wondering, where the hell does this guy get off claiming he's poor when he's got such a big, shiny knife--much less a Les Paul?" He feigned excitement and smiled at her. He would appear very tired, not just physically but emotionally--he was a speeding train about to derail. "I won bets." He put it simply before he stood up again, this time lifting his shirt slightly to reveal the elongated incision that covered a larger scar. "You don't go to prison and not learn a thing or two. You kind of have to." He let his shirt fall back down as he reseated himself. " I love my mother, I do. But to her--her boyfriend or husband or whatever she has, is more to her than her children. Fucking food-stamps don't buy diapers and I barely make enough in my 9 to 5--just enough to survive with my baby girl. So, I dabble in gambling and betting on the side. The guitar and signatures just happen to be in the same damn jackpot. I got the guitar, my friend gave me the concert tickets cause--well, he doesn't care much for Motörhead. " He frowned\ somewhat fumbling with the bottle. "The knife I took off someone. I literally--took it off someone. I stole it. I was younger then, more stupid I guess?" He laughed before mildly adjusting himself and sighing. " It was before I found out I had cancer. Just thought I had bad kidney stones."

Damien stood up and propped his foot on the edge of the picnic table and re-sheathed his knife in its leather holster. Pulling his pant leg back down, he stepped casually to the side of the table still somewhat smiling as he took her hand and shook it. "You caught me. I'm being nice. Somebody's got to, right? Besides, can't take it when I'm gone." He released her hand and patted her on the back as he walked away. He headed back to the cabin, he needed to shower. He could also interact with the rest of the crew that was inside. He pulled the door open, seeing that everyone had transitioned elsewhere, that the kitchen was empty once again--he began to cook for himself. His eyes staring vacantly as he thought about Kate and frowned deeply. His face being a bit lit up by the flush to his cheeks, but it belied his condition. Sweat poured from his pores down his face. He kept trying to dry his face, but his fever was burning a hole through him.