| Wither and Die By Wwolfe |
| Disclaimer: Characters and situations related to ANGEL are the property of others. No copyright infringement is intended or implied. But it won't matter if you sue, because Wwolfe isn't some kid that'll fold like a house of cards, he's the legal counsel for the DarkSide, the Devil's Mouthpiece, the real lawyer from Hell. So go ahead. Do your worst. If you dare. Bwa Ha Ha! Notes: This was inspired by a Fic Challenge posted by Kuzibah on the General Board. The three required words to use were: sapphire, language, and wither. Archive- Please email request. Feedback- Absolutely. ******************* Angel stood quietly in the shadows of the alley, watching the late night customers walking into Cantor's Deli. Instead of following them, he drifted slowly toward the back of the restaurant, arriving at the back exit. Taking his container of blood, he carried it with him as he walked east on Wilshire Boulevard toward Western Avenue, where he turned north a short distance before stopping at a storefront. He tapped on the plate glass window and the lower corner of the curtain was pulled back briefly. Nodding at the silhouette of the face on the other side of the glass, Angel then walked down the alley running alongside the store, where he took a seat on one of the wood-slat cartons resting on the concrete outside the back door. The metal of the screen door banged against its frame as Angel's acquaintance joined him outside. From inside the building, they could hear the taped station ID playing. "This is KFVD, Los Angeles, bringing you its nightly broadcast of 'Harlematinee,' hosted by the one and only Hunter Hancock." The two men sat and smoked on their makeshift chairs. "Haven't seen you in a while, man," the disc jockey said, flicking ash on the concrete and passing the hand-rolled butt to his companion. "No, it's been...," Angel began, and then paused, letting the thought pass unfinished. "Yeah, I heard about the business at the Hyperion." Taking another drag from the joint and then handing it back to Angel, he rose from the crate, saying, "Hang on, man - I need to cue up a record" as he walked back inside the studio. "Hello again, to all the late night cats and kitties out in the City of Angels. This is Hunter Hancock, sending out a dedication to a gent who's old enough to know better - but then aren't we all?" The soft sounds of a doo-wop record wafted out into the alley, as he continued, "This is the Satin-Aires on Sapphire Records, singing the language of love and the language of life." Angel stared at the red glow he held in the palm of his hand as a melody, rippling and forlorn, like a flag blown against a gray sky, carried the lyrics to him: "You said our love would wither and die Now I stand by the river and watch the water roll by And I hear it ask, 'Why, why, why?'" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The last notes faded to silence, echoing off the high stone ceiling of the hotel lobby. He reached over and removed the stylus from the ancient 78, with its crackles and pops acquired over more than four decades of use by a series of owners unknown to him. He'd managed to track down one of only three copies known to exist by calling in a few favors of the slightly supernatural type. But it was a recording possessed of more than a little of its own supernatural charge, so Angel didn't mind. Once or twice a year, when everyone else was out on business, he'd haul out his old record player with its setting for 78 RPM records, and let the sounds of the song echo through the empty hotel, as he sat in one of the old overstuffed armchairs in the lobby and let his mind drift back to his first stay at this establishment. It was the only way of paying his respects to those long gone that felt right to him. The record finished again and he lifted it off the turntable. Placing it with care inside its tan sleeve, faded and brittle with age, he then locked it inside the safe, where it would remain until he once again heard the stirrings of the Satin-Aires, forever singing from their place at the banks of a river - one that neither they, nor Angel, would ever quite cross over. In answer to questions asked on the Board: Yes, Hunter Hancock was (and still is) a real person. You can read his story in his own words here: http://www.electricearl.com/dws/hunter.html That's where I got the details of where he was working in early 1953, which is when the story is set. The location of the studio is also true, as is Cantor's Deli, still in business today, as it has been since the 1920s. The name of the song, its lyrics, the vocal group, and its record label, were all my inventions. Blame a lifetime of loving doo-wop. Main Menu ~ Return to "Other Worlds" Menu |