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Fall

Alex Draven

Published by Alex Draven at Smashwords

alexdraven.org.uk

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(Cover art: original photo from http://www.flickr.com/photos/chrn/480059474/ used under

creative commons, with thanks. Sculpture shown is Centauro by Igor Mitoraj, image used under

the UK public sculpture exception.)

Fall

By Alex Draven

"Fuck off!"

The second centaur didn’t budge.

For fuck's sake. It was too hot to move, the air heavy and about set to start pissing down with

rain, and he'd left his cigarettes inside.

Nigh on twenty minutes since the knock had rung through the warehouse and he still wasn't

quite self-destructive enough to turn his back on a strange stallion standing in his own front

drive.

"I said, fuck off. I'm not interested."

The little bastard just stood there, arms crossed, and one hind leg cocked, the very picture of

relaxed patience.

It was winding him up. Another few minutes of silence and nothing had changed except his

mood.

"Oh for fuck's sake. Stand there as long as you like. I've got things to do."

Pet backed up a couple of paces, shaking his head and whisking his tail, and then snagged the

door, pulling it closed.

Fuck.

He let out a kick that left the walls of the warehouse ringing.

Roll on thunder.

Roll on thunder and air conditioning and Cashman's Royals, and a bottle or six of beer.

Roll on forgetting and not having ghosts from your fucking past turn up on in the front yard and

look at you, like you owed it to them to live up to whatever fucked-up expectations they had.

The movements between the kitchen benches and the fridge - lighting up, grabbing a beer,

kicking the dented door shut again - were an easy ritual. Familiar. The beer and the smoke felt

good too. Pet raised an eyebrow and a mock-toast to the ceiling when a crash of thunder rattled

the walls again and the heavy drumming of rain started up.

Three out of four. Not bad.

*****

It hadn't been this bad in months. The beer wasn't stopping that prickly feeling at the base of his

skull that itched from being away from a herd.

A neck full of whisky didn't do anything either. His scars ached, his back pulled, and the skin

on his haunches - just out of reach, than you fucking gods - kept ticcing.

Twenty five minutes in he abandoned the attempt to code. Instead, he hit the magic pizza button

twice and went to fetch another brace of beers.

He was pissing himself off at this point. Fifteen minutes more of waiting didn't make that any

sweeter.

The warehouse buzzer went.

His ears flicked, and he caught the putputput of a moped before he reached the door.

He nodded to himself.

"Fucking predictable, colts," he growled to no one in particular before he opened it.

And there he was. The rain had darkened his haunches almost black, and that slick leather

jacket was doing nothing to help his white T to stay opaque. Skinny little drowned rat.

Give the lad credit - he didn't say anything, just hefted the pizza boxes.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Fuck it - come in."

This time he did turn his back - let a good clear view of his ass show the kid what a big scary

threat Pet rated him.

He heard the door slide closed, and hoof-falls on rubber following him.

Straight into the kitchen.

Fucking predictable.

"Stick them on the counter. And don't touch the beers, colt."

The kid did as he was told, and kept his rubbernecking to a discreet minimum to boot. Pet

shoved one box back towards him.

"And for fuck's sake eat something and stop shivering."

The kid nodded, and opened the box. The scent hit Pet - vegetarian, the works, extra cheese,

hold the fucking olives. The kid sniffed suspiciously. Pet ignored him in favour of his own

pizza and yet another fine beer.

Three slices in the colt had to go and interrupt him.

"I'm Matthias."

"You what?" Pet demanded.

"My name – I'm Matthias."

"Well hoo-fucking-ray for that."

Pet's tail was swinging and his ears were back, and if the colt couldn't figure out that that meant

'shut the fuck up', well - who the fuck had raised him anyway?

Another slice and a half. Another beer.

"Thank you," Matthias interrupted - again. "For the pizza and everything."

Pet stamped the hind leg he had been resting.

"You were pissing me off, skulking out there."

"I didn't know where else to go."

Just like that. Like he was meant to give a shit. What was he? Centaurs Anonymous?

"Kid - does it look like I give a fuck?"

The kid wisely decided to shut up and finish his second slice.

One thing was still bugging Pet.

"How the fuck did you find me anyway?"

"How many centaurs are there in Dimmity?

He emptied the bottle, and tapped out a cigarette while he considered that.

"Fuck that - why Dimmity? Why me?"

The colt kept his eyes looking down and away, but his voice was even. Points for balls, at least.

"I told you, I saw you go. Want to be like you more than I want to be like Taymore."

"You'd rather be a wreck than a megalomaniac murdering fuckhead - good for you, colt, good

for you!"

More like him. There's a fucking laugh. Yeah, the beer and whisky were certainly doing

something. So fucking what if his laughter had enough acid in it to etch glass.

Matthias looked down, side-stepping nervously, angling his hindquarters away.

"Or is this not quite what you had in mind? Yeah well, me fucking either. Get over it."

Alex Draven - fall.pdf

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