[His hands fly to his ears to shield from the bang, but there's nothing of the sort. The blasts are odd and the gun only buzzes like some radio tuner. Of course, Byerly probably lifted it off a dead Vulcan, nutty future child that he was. It doesn't matter. None of the shots penetrate the illusion. Wouldn't that be a scream? Phaser shots pulsing in from the future to slay a beast in 1959, the ultimate dues ex machina.
Baby Bill has the bike going now, but it's still not fast enough. His younger self is shrieking as he ducks the beast's swipes. His grip around Bill's belly is an iron manacle.
And the grown man can't look away. His life, thrown back to him like some VR exhibit, coming at ya in three-dee.]
What does it look like, Chief? [His voice is tight, smile odd and teeth gritted.] It's just the Teenage Werewolf. High School of Horror, brought to life by Michael Landon in his finest goddamn hour! [He laughs again, stepping loose of Byerly's sheltering form with shaky legs to keep a better eye on the kids. (Yourself. Bill. It.)] I caught the flick in theatres, fresh new double feature! Laughed my damn ass off, I did, had a real swell time. Then the next week it's busted loose from the big screen to chase me down Neibolt street! How do you like them apples— [His breath catches.] —Shit!
[There's a choking splutter and a scream from Bill. The werewolf has snatched the back of Richie's jacket, but the grip he has on Bill's middle is as strong as Bill's grip on the handle bars, and so the bike rears up like a horse on the back wheel. Bill pedals on thin air, mindless panic clear on his face as Richie suffocates on the collar biting his throat.]
no subject
No, stop!
[His hands fly to his ears to shield from the bang, but there's nothing of the sort. The blasts are odd and the gun only buzzes like some radio tuner. Of course, Byerly probably lifted it off a dead Vulcan, nutty future child that he was. It doesn't matter. None of the shots penetrate the illusion. Wouldn't that be a scream? Phaser shots pulsing in from the future to slay a beast in 1959, the ultimate dues ex machina.
Baby Bill has the bike going now, but it's still not fast enough. His younger self is shrieking as he ducks the beast's swipes. His grip around Bill's belly is an iron manacle.
And the grown man can't look away. His life, thrown back to him like some VR exhibit, coming at ya in three-dee.]
What does it look like, Chief? [His voice is tight, smile odd and teeth gritted.] It's just the Teenage Werewolf. High School of Horror, brought to life by Michael Landon in his finest goddamn hour! [He laughs again, stepping loose of Byerly's sheltering form with shaky legs to keep a better eye on the kids. (Yourself. Bill. It.)] I caught the flick in theatres, fresh new double feature! Laughed my damn ass off, I did, had a real swell time. Then the next week it's busted loose from the big screen to chase me down Neibolt street! How do you like them apples— [His breath catches.] —Shit!
[There's a choking splutter and a scream from Bill. The werewolf has snatched the back of Richie's jacket, but the grip he has on Bill's middle is as strong as Bill's grip on the handle bars, and so the bike rears up like a horse on the back wheel. Bill pedals on thin air, mindless panic clear on his face as Richie suffocates on the collar biting his throat.]