aeyros

Note: Sorry for the gaps of time between each upload, life has just been messin’ with my schedule.

Part five: 

She takes some time to process his words, then: “My other contractor?”

She glares right at you as she inquires. The blue of her irises becomes as frosty as the arctic. And her eyebrows attempt to furrow, though her botox doesn’t allow it. Her jaw clenches enough to squeeze some ash from her cigarette out into her coffee.

Shit.

“What is he talkin’ about, number one?” she sternly asks. She takes a long drag of her cigarette, coughing a bit before spittin’ some phlegm into a napkin. You don’t watch long enough to see her do it. Instead you focus on the issue at hand.

You sigh at the unfavorable turn of events. 

Number one… Couldn’t have come up with anythin’ better, you hag?

Decidin’ to stick to your contractor’s code, you speak up, although hesitantly: “He’s gone. ‘Said he spent all the money he got.”

Though it might be a tad nervewrackin’, you’re not new to this. Maybe new to having someone like the man next to you as a partner—sort of, but not this. 

I’m just a contractor, didn’t mean nothin’ by it. ‘Not my fault you paid me for a job I’d already done.

A mantra you frequently tell yourself.

 It’s just business as usual to you. You really can’t be loyal to one handler; you aren’t that naive. After all your time doin’ what you do, you’ve learned that takin’ just about any job ensures you a stable income. You really can’t be selective if you wanted to. It’s like you’ve always believed, a picky dog is always the least fed…

Taking the frustrating news, Miss Abigail pinches the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t speak a word, ‘gives you some time to think.

You glance at the man. He’s as still as ever, the bloodshot in his eyes tells you that he hasn’t blinked in a while. They’re locked on her, just dead. You can feel a small hatred for him blossomin’ in your heart.

…Rat bastard. ‘Just had to go tellin’ my business.

Abruptly, his eyes shoot at yours. They force through the pools of your pupils and into your core. You shiver, though subtly. The threat of immediate death has passed, allowing you to stare back with a sort of bravery. There’s still a sliver of worry left in you though.

The diner lighting gives you a better look at him. His skin is pasty, pale. The light adds no warmth or friendliness to him at all. Only dimension. His features are strangely common—at least for a Texan, if that’s what he is. And he’s clean-shaven. 

The bastard shaves…?

Through the tunnel of your ear, you hear Miss Abigail sighin’. But you’re too focused on the man to care. 

His overgrown bowl-cut—or whatever it is—seems recently washed. It's shiny, smooth. But, there isn’t a distinct smell comin’ from it. Not really. You realize he doesn’t smell like anything actually. 

‘Reeks of dickhead, that’s for sure.

“Youse gettin’ my goddamn money back.” Miss Abigail scolds. She scowls—to the best of her ability at least. Your eyes are instantly on her. She just takes a drag of her cigarette, then continues:

“I gots a guy in Del Rio that owes me one. ‘Stays at some Cielito Lindo, Veterans Boulevard. Short, fat, bald older feller. Y'all gonna find him and press ‘em for a thousand. Tell him I sent you.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, still filled with some ash.

You can’t taste that?

“Del Rio’s far, Miss. Gone’ cost you, right fella?” you respond. Almost instinctively, you nudge the man with your elbow.

“Mm.” he grunts in…acknowledgement? You aren’t too sure.

She replies: “Yeah–yeah, I got it. Take your shit. ‘For the nights ‘head of you.”

She chucks a thick wad of cash at you. Usually this is the part you eagerly head to a motel with your partner, but your partner is…

Why lord, why?

You only nod and scoot off the booth, the man immediately follows. You don’t look back, too irritated at your predicament. As you head to the parking lot, the night looks darker than it did before. 

The things I do for money…

The crunchin’ of gravel and the familiar scent of asphalt remind you of the odd coin toss from earlier. You shake the thought and stop at the Caprice. You can see his reflection in the tinted window of the passenger’s seat, he looks back at you. 

Part five soon.

You pause, not knowing what to think—what to do. You're left only analyzing him. 

His eyes are just fixed onto you. It’s enough to send a small shiver down your spine.

I don’t want to…

“Tails,” you respond, swallowing any panic. 

You aren’t new to peculiar people—especially contractors. And you’re seasoned enough to know, when a man like that tells you to do somethin’, you don’t hesitate. 

You don’t want to find out what’ll happen if you do.

It takes everything in you not to fidget. The world feels like it’s slowly caving in as you anticipate his verdict. 

And if it’s heads?

You try to shake the thought.

…Whatever happens, happens.

He uncovers the coin. You take a quick breath before throwing your eyes at it. 

Sure enough, it’s tails up. 

You let out a small sigh of relief. A knot in your stomach undoes itself and you can suddenly blink. 

However, he doesn’t seem too impressed. He stays watching you with those same unblinkin’ eyes. 

The world around you falls back into place. Suddenly you can smell the asphalt again and feel the wind blow against your skin. 

The darkness of the parking lot is fully swallowing the two of you now. 

“Tails.” That’s all he says in that deep, flat colorless voice before handing the silver piece over to you. It glimmers sharply in the fresh moonlight.

You move to put it into your pocket but are stopped almost immediately.

“Don’t put it in your pocket,” the man asserts. The intensity of his speech leaks into your mind. He doesn't need to yell for his voice to echo throughout your body. For once, you cannot form any thought.

“Do not put it into your pocket.” he repeats.

“It will become just a coin mixed into all your change.” he continues.

“Which it is…” He finishes, his face melts back to his regular expression so seamlessly. The transition perturbs you. And his face becomes all the more disquieting.

“...‘Kay,” you respond, mildly shaken. You take off your hat and store the silver in an empty lining there, in front of a picture of jesus.

He makes his way back into the diner. You don’t follow right away. You just stand there, wonderin’ about what just happened.

After a while, you follow him back into the diner. He’s sittin’ across from Miss Abigail and she’s chewin’ on a cigarette, talkin’ his ear off.

You feel a little better hearing the familiar, low hum of the diner’s jukebox. And the pungent cigarette smoke brings you a sort of comfort. 

Stopping at the booth, you sit back down next to the man. You make sure to leave a much wider space between you than before.

He doesn’t even shift his weight. ‘Just sits there still as a tombstone, glarin’ right through her.

What in the hell is he?

Miss Abigail takes note of your reappearance and now includes you in the conversation:

“Y’know, I haven’t been touched like that in almost five years. ‘Said he was only twenty,” she takes a drag of her cigarette before continuing:

“Mm. ‘Has a fiance too—Nancy, ‘think he said her name was.”

Dear god… Just downright disgraceful.

She follows up: “Mhm. ‘Parently theys gettin’ married soo—” 

“He’s dead,” the man interrupts. 

A silence.

“What?” Miss Abigail asks in absolute befuddlement. ‘Doesn’t seem she can fathom being interrupted by one of her contractors. 

See, this is why you just let her keep ramblin’…

“The man with your money is dead.” he clarifies.

Your heart stills precipitously.

“...D-dead you say? How’d you know?” Miss Abigail asks, still recovering from the audacious interruption.

You’re silently praying he doesn’t mention you, but you have a feeling he will. The anxiety makes you turn to look at him. 

He’s starin’ dead at you, like just a pair of eyes. As if it’s all he can do.

“Your other contractor,” is all he says. 

Part four soon. The man continues: “Quit talk—in… Why? We’re having a conversation.”

Your hair… That’s why.

Just before you throw him another sloppy response, Miss Abigail reappears. You are so enveloped in the sheer bizarre nature of his haircut that you miss her approach completely.

“What we talkin’ about? Better be ‘bout my money," She nags, stirring her coffee, then takes a slow sip before makin’ a sour face. “My lord, this joe’s chillier than a cooler! How can they expect me to drink it like this?!” She exclaims as she waves down a waiter.

“Yes ma’am, how can I help you?” The young man offers her a charming smile and it instantly melts her attitude away.

“Oh, well I hate to be a bother but could you get me another cup of coffee? This one here’s a lil’ too cold for me, dear.” She responds, batting her false lashes.

The waiter nods with another smile and takes the cup away. 

She speaks again: “Anyhow, what was I fussin’ with y’all about…?  Oh yeah—my money. The bastard who ran off with it was a skinny one, medium height, shaggy hair. He used to hang ‘round some bar in El Paso. That’s where he did all his scoutin’ and such.”

Skinny bastard, medium height, shaggy hair… Seems like the sorry one I buried for some other handler this afternoon—funny.

She continues: “Drove one of them family cars, the fancy ones. ‘Think it was a Caprice, dunno, couldn’t really tell through my CCTV ‘course.”

Caprice? It is a popular car after all. What am I worryin’ for?

Her fresh coffee arrives. The waiter serves it to her with a wink, handing her a napkin with a number written on it—probably his landline.

“Your coffee, ma’am,” he subtly nods his head back, encouraging her to follow him.

 As he walks out back, Abigail smiles bashfully. She hurriedly pulls out a compact mirror and lipstick. You can’t help but watch as she reapplies the tacky, bright red shade and adjusts her lashes.

“Well, duty calls,” she excuses herself before following after him. 

Just shameless.

Once she’s gone, your mind falls back to the odd similarities between your previous target and this one. 

…Yeah, it’s a popular car and almost any Texan feller matches his description.

 A tension in your shoulder you hadn’t noticed before instantly eases. 

A long silence.

“A Caprice.” The man says in the same baritone, monotone voice.

“...H-huh?” You instinctively ask, voice wavering just slightly. Against your own better judgment, you decide to turn and face him. To your absolute misfortune, he’s not facing you.

He’s lookin’ out the window…

“A Caprice,” he repeats. His face remains the same, but his eyes are now full of something close to determination.

“...Yeah, it's a popular car,” you add almost instantly, dismissive of the odd coincidence.

“There’s only three of us here,” he responds, still lookin’ out the window.

Goddamit. Me and my mouth… 

He turns to you, waiting for you to scoot off the booth. 

You take a deep breath and ultimately scoot. You don’t want to get in the way of this impenetrable force. 

He immediately moves with you, sliding out from the booth with robotic efficiency. He stands horrifically still, beside you. You can’t hear his breathin’ and he brings no warmth to your side...

That’s honestly all you can focus on. 

Clearly he’s expectin’ you to exit with him.

Hesitantly, you exit the diner and walk into the parking lot. The smell of asphalt and the crunchin’ of gravel serves you some comfort. 

The man follows. He’s not watching you anymore, he's looking around—slowly. The noise of gravel crunchin’ under his feet is enough to take the comfort in the sound from you. And you’ve completely lost the asphalt’s smell. 

 You both stop at the Caprice. He just stands there, not saying a word. 

You have no reason to be nervous. But, that doesn’t stop your heart from poundin’ painfully in your chest. ‘Doesn't help you breathe easily either. You can feel your breath thinnin’ with each second of quiet.

…The silence is diggin’ into my ribs.

And the way he’s staring at the vehicle makes you feel defensive. You end up staring at it too.

…I didn't do anythin’ wrong by Abigail, after all. It’s this asshole who’s makin’ it feel that way.

To clear the air and your conscience, you just tell him a lie: “Friend’s car. ‘Let me borrow it.” 

Sounds plausible. ‘Doubt this fucker would give a monkey’s tail enough to pry.

Your heart slows down instantly and you’re breathing again.

A low, deep rumble exits the man. 

“Borrowed…”

You nod slowly to yourself, unsure of what to respond with. You drag your gaze from the car to the floor and follow up with:

“You got a bad habit of repeatin—”

“You didn’t borrow it,” he says with the same dead, baritone voice. ‘States it like a fact, which is all the more offputtin’. 

You immediately snap your gaze to him, fixin’ to defend yourself.

As soon as your eyes meet his face, they get stuck in the disturbing sight.

He’s staring full at the cuffs of your pants. Seems like he has been for a while.

Unblinkin’ and deathly still, he continues: “He wasn’t your friend.”

Your silence speaks volumes. It’s apparent by the way he’s fixated on your dirtied pant cuffs that he knows what you’ve done. 

“What’s it to you?” That’s all you can muster up. 

Your heart feels like it’s tryin’ to escape from you this time. The churnin’ of your stomach’s enough to make butter. And you can’t seem to find your breath.

The man stays silent but his face does all the speaking for him. His eyebrow twitches again, a little more noticeably this time. His eyes widen too. He seems to catch the slight tremor in your voice and realizes somethin’. 

However, what he does next is not what you’d expect him to.

Instead of tellin’ or pulling a weapon, he just stares. He lets out a quiet, gravelly grunt, a heavy exhale of what seems to be pure dissatisfaction passing through his nose. Then he speaks:

“He’s dead.” A statement of pure fact, not a question.

A pause.

“...Yes,” you respond.

The man lets out a low, tired sigh and reaches into his pocket. Before you can react, he pulls out a silver coin and rests it on his thumb. He flips it—you watch it turn, once, twice. Then as it lands on his palm, he covers it.

“Call it,” the man demands.

Decided to mix the Coen and McCarthy's portrayal of Chigurh but leaned a little more Coen with his expression (isn't much different from the book though).

[Third part soon.]

It's late evening now, and the heat has died down a bit. 

You make your way out of the wilderness, the ends of your pants now dirtied with desert and gravel. Thinkin’ about the man whose life you just took, you recall the look in his eyes when his life faded away. 

You find your way back to your Chevy C/10.  Its bright red paint glistens in the low sunlight, you just leave it there. 

…Surprised it ain’t that dark out yet. 

As you approach, the glowing white letters of a red “Shamrock” sign illuminate your path. You stop in front of the recently deceased man’s Sedan. The Caprice rests in the shade, enveloped in darkness, seemingly waiting for someone to drive it.

‘Wish I could keep it.

You turn your gaze back to the Chevy and walk toward it. Grabbing the gas pump, you douse the truck with fuel. You reach into the back pocket of your jeans and pull out a lighter. It has an engraving that reads “Jones." Not yours though, you looted it a while back.

Tossing a spark onto the puddle of gas beneath the Chevy, the truck immediately bursts into flames. You waste no time. You hop into the sedan, reach into your jacket for the keys, and drive off.

‘Couple miles into the drive, past a sign welcoming you to the town of Farwell, you spot your next destination—“Luanne’s Diner.” It doesn’t seem too busy. There’s only ‘bout two cars in the parkin’ lot. 

You pull into the driveway and park two spaces away from the rest of the vehicles. As you make your way into the diner it's apparent who those two cars belong to, there’s only two people there. 

Here we go again…

You approach the table occupied by a familiar face—an older woman with a pale complexion, flashy makeup, blue eyes, and permed, dirty blonde hair.

She’s drinking coffee? At this hour…jesus. Guess evil really doesn’t sleep.

Getting closer, you slow down, realizing she’s not alone. You slide your hands into the inner pockets of your jacket, posing as a casual patron just in case things go south. Just as you stop at the table, you’re met with a strange sight.

An average looking man is seated across from her. You stare for a moment, unsure of what to make of the scene.

“You just gon’ stand there or you gon’ get’yir ass on this damn seat?!” she exclaims with the typical contempt she usually reserves for you.

“I’m comin’, I'm comin’, Miss Abigail,” you respond.

You loud ole’ thing, quit hissin’ at me. 

You sit next to the unfamiliar man, leaving a respectable space between you.

Miss Abigail takes a sip of her coffee, then speaks: “ ‘Nother job for you...” She takes another slow sip before continuing. “Concernin’ another handler… That’s why he’s here.”

She nods toward the man beside you, then grabs some creamer and pours it into her mug.

“Handler’s missin’. He stole some money from my hostel and I want it back. This gentleman witnessed it happen and offered to help. A contractor—the fellow.” She continues.

Her face twists abruptly.

…Seems like her IBS is hittin’. 

“Excuse me, I need the ladies' room. Be back in a moment,” she says, speeding off toward the restroom.

Now it’s just you and him. 

No bettin’ he’s a killer, you think. Just some ass who managed to find himself a delusional old lady to screw over for a few hundred bucks.

You turn to face him, hoping to make some small talk and confirm your suspicion. But as you get a closer look, the casual thoughts die in your throat.

The air stills around you. Though his outfit isn’t anything unusual nor his face particularly strange, the pairing of his normality with a completely deadpan stare…that makes your skin crawl. He is entirely too still.

He breaks his gaze from the empty air and turns his eyes directly onto you.

“...Is there something on my face?” he asks. His voice is a deep, flat monotone, carrying an unplaceable, faint accent that isn't quite Texan yet isn't quite foreign either.

He looks at you with a quiet, scornful derision.

Before you can respond, his haircut catches your attention.

What in the Lord’s holy name is that?

 An overgrown bowl cut? The entire population of West Texas left that look behind a decade ago. It is so bizarre that you can’t even find the humor in it.

“No, just…lookin’ to make some talk is all,” you respond.

“Some… talk?” The man repeats the words slowly, as if analyzing a foreign language.

He continues: “What does that mean—some talk? You don’t know what you’re saying.”

His tone never rises, but the weight in the booth doubles. He stares right through you, peering straight into your soul.

“Well—I meant that I wanted to get to know a bit about you,” you respond.

He continues peering but with a subtle shift in his face. His brow furrows—a twitch. His eyes widen slightly. They stay that way while they continue invading yours. 

“...For what? Of what interest of yours is my business?” He then slowly turned to face you.

You want to keep focus—he’s unsettling enough unprovoked, but…

Sweet jesus, what has he done to his hair? That’s all you could think about.

To preface: Kinda wrote this for myself but noticed the lack of ncfom fics and decided to share. I found some inspo in a post from @silverjewluvr864.

Decided to use a mixture of the Coens and McCarthy's portrayal of West Texas in 1980 and go from there. This is part one (and don't worry, Chigurh will come soon). This is to establish who the reader is/ what they do.

[This is my first jab at writing fanfiction and first time using Tumblr, please give me some grace lmao.]

It’s the late summer of 1980’s West Texas, hot as a motherfucker this particular day. 

You’re loitering in the shade outside a Shamrock gas station, one near an empty highway, waiting for someone. It seems like its twelve in the afternoon, you don’t really know and do not care to check the time. 

Chewin’ on a piece of jerky and leaning on your red Chevy C/10, you watch as a brown full sized sedan pulls into the driveway and stops for gas. The windows are tinted so it's hard to make out who’s driving.

‘Looks to be a Chevy, probably a ‘78 Caprice… You think to yourself. Experience from this line of work made you know your cars over time.

Just by the pretentious car alone you have a hunch that this is the person you’d been waiting for. But, you decide to stay put and wait for the driver to exit the vehicle to make sure. 

The driver exits, tall—about 5’9—tanned and lanky with glasses. His hair’s dark brown and shaggy, a regular cut that stops right at his ear lobes. His outfit’s simple: A plaid button up with two buttons undone, boot cut pants with boots to match. He begins to pump gas. Your body moves toward him instinctively as it knows that’s your guy.

You approach at a normal pace, hands in the pockets of your denim jacket. He notices you immediately, his face neutral yet eyes full of surprise as he watches you approach.

“How long you been waitin’ for me?” He says with an airy chuckle, though it doesn’t seem like it’s any pleasure of his to see you.

You stop about a foot away from him and respond. “Long ‘nuff.” A long pause. “...You know what I’m here for.” You say in a tone considerably cold.

The man stares at you, his face still straight. But, you see through it, noticing the dread and despair in his eyes. You’d almost feel bad, if only you weren’t used to seeing faces like that often.

“I spent it.” The man says back, seeming to lament the fact.

“You know what’s comin’ next, right?” You swallow your jerky and reach into your jacket.

The man just stares at you, his eyes so dark you could almost see your reflection in them.

“...Will you bury me?” He asks with a now sullen face.

A short pause.

“...Somewhere in the desert here? I don’t got no other requests, just do me this one.” He finishes.

“Alright then.” You agree, slightly pitying the man before you.