[img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjgwLmZmNjEwMS5WM2xoZEhRZ1FXNWtaWEp6YjI0LjA/fun-cartoon-2.regular.webp[/img] [hr] [hider=Thumbing it to Quintin][color=FF6101]“...And it’s a simple trick, the assistant goes into a box, abracadabra, some more nonsense words, spin the box ‘round, open it up, and poof, no more assistant. But this rehearsal I go to open that damn box, and out pops a clown with a hatchet. Every bit of air leaves my lungs with a scream that even made me think I was a six-year-old girl. Took a long while ‘for they quit callin’ me Wynona. Never start a prank war with a clown. Always a bad idea.”[/color] It was a time-honored tradition; drivers offering rides, and hitchhikers providing conversation and entertainment to keep long stretches of highway from growing dull and lonely. Wyatt held up his end of the bargain even as the stories he was willing to share began to dwindle. He was careful not to mention Eleanor, it only made him sound crazy, and crazy hitchhikers got left on the side of the road. Too much swampland inhabited by gators and mosquitos around here for that. So he kept the conversation light. He’d had gotten picked up, thumbing his way through Austin, by an older fella with a damn near immaculate old Cadillac. Unscathed black paint, an engine that purred something beautiful, and not a trace of dust on the interior; it was clear this car was loved. The only flaw, and it stood out even more against the caddy’s perfection, was the busted AC. Earl, the driver, seemed unbothered by the car’s singular flaw, the older man hadn't broken a sweat despite the unrelenting heat of the south. Earl was headed to New Orleans and Quintin, more or less, lay along the way. Wyatt, on the other hand, found his shirt clinging to his skin and the crisp leather seat with sweat acting as the adhesive. That hot swamp air that blew in through the rolled-down windows offered little relief. It felt more like the bayou was belching on them than anything close to refreshing. He didn’t complain about it, a free ride was a free ride, and everything else was close enough to perfect. Earl was good company, an easy-going Southerner who loved three things; his car, trading stories, and the blues. The conversation grew to a natural lull as the sounds of old-timey bluesmen flowed seamlessly into the humid air. One man howled out deep pain in a way that rattled bones. Another sang of heartache that spread out like a fog as that lonely feeling of the void a person can leave seeped out with every chord. The next song featured a harmonica that shrieked in agony, its cry cutting through the thick swamp air. As long as the stereo was singing, the oppressive heat and ominous views of swamplands just felt the right atmosphere for it all. A sign in the distance read ‘Welcome to Quintin’. Earl let out a disapproving grunt at the sign. [color=55799E]“Death don't have no mercy in this land,”[/color] a voice sang through the speakers. And then it just kept repeating that line, like the CD was skipping in a way that was just downright creepy. Earl frowned, turned the stereo off and on again and it played on. “You sure you wanna be here? This place doesn’t sit right.” Earl spoke up. [color=FF6101]“Nowhere else I need to be.”[/color] Wyatt shrugged, he’d gotten this far, and endless stretches of swamp and a worn old CD weren’t going to scare him off. “Plenty of other places to be. Why this one?” It would’ve been a fair point if Wyatt was just out looking for another fresh start. [color=FF6101]“Looking for answers and this place might have ‘em. Lost track of friend from down here.”[/color] “Must’ve been some friend,” Earl commented but he didn’t say anything further about Quintin. The car pulled to a stop, Wyatt tanked the driver, grabbed his duffle bag, and walked towards the Webb family coffee shop. He noticed that Earl didn’t keep driving through the town, but instead threw a quick U-turn and drove right back out of town. Quintin, it seemed, had spooked the man enough that even a short drive through a small town was out of the question. Strange, but so was everything that led to coming down to Quintin, so he shrugged that off too.[/hider] There was an unusual amount of crows lingering in front of the small coffee shop. Wyatt thought about the old rhyme, ‘one crow sorrow, two crows joy,’ and wondered what a few dozen of the birds brought as he passed them. He spotted the large group already seated within the otherwise uncrowded coffee house from the large windows. Was he late? A pair who looked out of place in a small swamp town, about as out of place as him, were on their way out as he was walking in. Definitely late, but Quintin wasn’t an easy place to get to. He headed over to the crowded table. [color=FF6101]“This the ‘I lost my Eleanor Black’ meet-up?”[/color] He asked, knowing damn well it was and took a moment to look around the group. [color=FF6101]“Huh, would ya look at that, someone’s already got clues, impressive.”[/color] He looked at the marked-up map in front of a blonde and nodded. Spending all day in a car didn’t leave him wanting to sit down again, but everyone else was so he pulled a free chair closer to the table. The chair legs screeched across the floor for a moment and he tossed his bag next to it and sat down. [color=FF6101]“It’s like a free sauna out there and in here.”[/color] He tugged at the front of his shirt as if any amount of airflow would help. [color=FF6101]“Anyway, I’m Wyatt, met an Eleanor Black working the circus, and like a magic trick gone wrong she disappeared without a trace.”[/color] He offered up the short version unprompted before quieting down.