Matchsticks & Boxcars : Fateful Encounter

The stars twinkled innocently for once on the fine Summer night. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and it illuminated the streets and alleys quite well. One would say there wasn't a need for any street-lights, but for a Carapacian in the Midnight City, that's never a request. A lot of the Carapace-Folk scurried through the night streets in fear, if they did at all. It was only the very brave, or very stupid, that went out at night. And with good reason.

 

A tall fellow, clad all in green with a square jaw and a serious look in his eye, pulled his hat low about his eyes, attempting to look inconspicuous through his radically different skin color. Most people paid him no mind, out of fear rather than indifference. He was a member of the Felt, Member #11, Matchsticks. A very famous pop band wrote a song about him, and called it Firestarter. They still live today because Matchsticks really liked it. Sometimes he sang it a bit to himself, when no one was around. Now wasn't the time for such nonsense, though. He was on an important mission.

 

He ducked inside an alleyway, and headed down to a dimly-lit door on the left. The lettering had all but faded away, but the name was still legible. "DARWIN'S BOOK EMPORIUM" it read. Matchsticks grunted as he pushed his way through the door, letting the ring of a bell announce his arrival into the light-bathed library.

 

The store-owner greeted Matchsticks fondly. Though they didn't get many customers, the owner was happy to be receiving two anonymous donators to his store. One such donator was from Matchsticks' own pile of wealth, that he earned as a member of the Felt. He had no idea who the other funder was, though, as if he cared to find out. The store continued to run, and that's what mattered to him. He placed his hat on the Owner's desk, as the small, elderly clerk smiled broadly at him. Matchsticks was, of course, a regular at the store, and though he was a gang-member, he was eager to show hospitality to one of his favorite customers.

 

"Yes, yes, good night, my tall, green-skinned friend!" he said, his arms gesturing to the store around him. "You'll be pleased to know we got a recent cache of books from a few authors that I'm sure you'll recognize."

 

Matchsticks grunted, not wanting to speak too loudly, though the place was as dead as a door-nail. No one shopped at this time, save for Matchsticks, but it didn't feel secretive enough if he busied himself as loudly as the clerk.

 

"You mean 'her' newest book is in?" he asked quietly.

 

"Indeed, yes, you'll find it in the new arrivals for Fantasy Romance!" he chuckled gleefully. "You are quite the purveyor of such literature, sir, I would not expect it looking at you!"

 

"Yeah well let's keep it that way." he turned from the small insectoid and shuffled, still as quiet as he could manage, to the Fantasy section. Columns and Rows of such titles as, "The Wizards Menagerie", and "Romance of the Two Circles", could be seen on display: some of the more popular titles. As he scanned the shelves, the faint sound of a bell was heard. He paid it no mind. Finally, there, smack-dab in the centre, under L for "Lalonde", was the newest installment of the "Complacency of the Learned". The third one, to be exact. It was a fantastic story revolving around a gender-neutral character and his dealings with a circle of wizards run by an old sorcerer named Zazzerpan, and it was so delightfully written and romantically complex that he couldn't help but be mesmerized. Matchsticks could not get enough of the series so far, though he had to admit the previous one was a bit slow-paced. He plucked it from the shelf, and with a hungry, devilish look in his eyes, he read the back of the book. He didn't want to delve straight into it, no, not yet. That was for back at the mansion.

 

He heard footsteps come right up next to him. With a dirty look, he glanced at the stranger and froze in place. A large, black-carapaced man stood there, staring at the shelves, just as he did. He wore a black trenchcoat, with a Heart emblazoned on the chest, where his real one would reside. His small face was further dwarfed by his huge head, and his huge, though roundish body, hid many, limb-tearing muscles. It was Hearts Boxcars, the strongest members of the Midnight Crew. It took Cans, Quarters, or Eggs & Biscuits to take him down, and Matchsticks simply did not have enough manpower to take him on. He wasn't particularly adept at fighting mano-a-mano anyhow. He gritted his teeth and bore the humiliation. He wouldn't dare start a fight in the bookstore, of all places. He didn't want to burn the place down, after all.

 

Hearts Boxcars merely scanned the shelves, seeming to pay him no mind. He reached up and grabbed the exact same book that Matchsticks had taken. He, as well, read the back of the book. The store was dead quiet. Matchsticks could hear the uncomfortable breathing of the store clerk from here. Hearts Boxcars breathed loudly, clearing his throat every now and then as his nose imitated a jet engine in Matchsticks' mind. Matchsticks licked his lips, his fingers curling tightly around the spine of his book as he looked down.

 

Boxcars finally eased up, stopping his foray into the novel, and looked at Matchsticks' copy. "You readin' it too, huh?" he said, evenly and calmly.

 

Matchsticks looked up, a bit uneasy. "Huh? U-Uh, yeah." He coughed. "Yeah. Yeah I've uh, been reading since the store started getting them." Boxcars nodded in agreement.

 

"Yeah, me too. It's been pretty good, gotta say." he scratched his chin. "Last one wasn't too hot, though. Lil' weak, even."

 

Matchsticks, a little more awkwardly, finally responded after nodding his head a bit. "Yep. Hope this one's better."

 

Boxcars walked off to the Clerk, waving behind him. "Agreed."

 

Matchsticks stood stock-still a little while longer, waiting for the familiar ring of the bell. He hurried over to the Clerk, the book in hand, and paid the fifteen dollars. The Clerk silently packed it into a bag, and Matchsticks snatched it up, tucking it into his inner coat-pocket.

 

He left as quickly as he had come, remembering to purge that certain meeting from his mind.