Thread: From different sides of the road (TinyThings & Adam)

'Is that bitch going to steal drugs from her own father?' Daniel wondered as he watched Sheila sneaking into the shed. Had he not been so focused on keeping himself out of sight and the phone steady he would have broken down in laughter. As if it was not ironic enough that the uptight posh girl that preached against drug with an almost religious fever hardly surpassed even by the old pilgrims had a father who was deeply involved in the drug trade, now she was apparently a user herself. This only confirmed a lesson he had learned a long time ago - all rich people are hypocrites. Daniel himself had never had much money. The few times he did make some real profit from his low level drug dealing he wasted it quickly on luxuries that did not last. His mother worked at a dry cleaner and his father, a Greek immigrant that had loved an American work permit more than his mother, had disappeared when he was just two years old and hadn't given him much more than his foreign sounding last name. And, Daniel had to admit, a light brown skin that looked like it had the perfect tan even in the winter. Plus his height he was over six feet tall and his quite skinny but somewhat athletic build made him look even taller. His dark, almost black, eyes that his first girlfriend had called mysterious and exotic as well as the black curly, unruly hair that looked like a wild jungle on his head and would not form a descend hairdo even when he cut it short were probably both gifts or curses, depending on the perspective, from his dad. But in terms of providing money or upbringing his father had fallen short, indeed. After a while Sheila exited the shed. Eagerly he zoomed in with the phone, impressed at how clear the image was, but when he saw the flame from her Molotov cocktail he almost dropped it. What the fuck was she doing? Was she crazy? He wanted to rush up to her and stop her - there were cocaine for more money than he had spend in his entire life in that tool shed - but before he had gathered his thoughts and picked up his dropped jaw she had committed the crime and roaring flames were rising up towards the sky. He stopped recording - he had more than he needed by now - and walked out from his hideout as casually as he could, trying to hide his chock at what he had just witnessed. He was wearing a pair of baggy, worn out jeans, a pair of sneakers that had been white five years ago when he bought them, and a grey sweat shirt. Clearing his throat to draw her attention to his presence, he said with faked calmness That smoke is pretty thick. In a minute or two someone from the Bunker will have seen it and called 911. The Bunker was a particularly ugly and infamous concrete apartment complex not far away. He raised a finger, signalling for her to wait before she ran away or spoke. But if you run back the way you came you will surely meet all the bored kids from the Bunker who will come here to check out what's happening. So, unless you want more eye witnesses I would recommend you to follow me. With those word he set off in the opposite direction, deeper into the forest, not bothering to look over his shoulder if she was following him or not.