117/Hitchhiking

Hitchhiking
Date of Scene:	23 April 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed.
Cast of Characters:	133, Jack Burton

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Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
The outstretched thumb. A universal symbol of one thing -- hitch-hiking. A symbol that the person to which the thumb is attached would like to go 'thattaway', wherever 'thattaway' is. Sometimes it's somewhere specific. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's just 'away'.

In Mitch's case... it's the latter. Away. He just wants AWAY. From where? Crucible, mainly. He wants to put as much space between himself and that ass-crack of a city. But it's something else. Something that he can't remember. Something that nonetheless haunts his sleep, when he manages to close his eyes.

And if it's not that vague sense of foreboding, it's those images. That woman. 'Don't forget, Mitch, you're due in court at 1:30. And can you sign these before you go?' The picture of the Soder Cola snowglobe from Viceroy. And then the explosion.

None of it makes sense in his head. But he's gotta keep moving, no matter what. And it's this that leads the homeless Mitch to walking the roadway here, close enough to see the cars but far enough away to move if one swerves at him, with his thumb stuck out in that universal gesture.

He's a pretty scruffy-looking thing overall. Long and messy straw-blond hair, a hat that's seen better days mashed down over it, t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, and a long coat over the lot. It's not quite warm enough for him to consider removing it just yet.

Jack Burton has posed:
Before too long, a long-haul truck appears on the horizon. As it approaches, the driver tugs his horn.

*HONK* *HOOONKKK*

resounds through the area, followed by the pneumatic HISSSSSS of brakes that herald the truck's slowing to a stop a short distance ahead of the hitchhiker. As it passes, the cab's decoration--a slightly faded image of a running pig with the words 'THE PORK-CHOP EXPRESS'--can be seen on its side.

As the truck idles, the driver leans over to open the passenger door. He looks out to the hiker. "Hey, buddy! You want to keep tannin' that thumb, or do you want to ride the sweetest cab in Uncle Sam's heartland?"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
The sound of the truck's horn actually startles Mitch, and he jumps a little. But it definitely gets his attention. Looking up in the direction of the truck's horn, he pauses. Blinks. When the truck gets close enough, he can see the logo on the side. He raises an eyebrow; 'Pork Chop Express'? He doesn't question, though. A ride is a ride. Unless the driver wants to kill him. But then again... that's not really an issue anymore, is it?

The door opens, and Mitch removes his hat, tilting his head to look in. The question makes him chuckle a little. "Wouldn't mind a ride," he confirms. "I'm headin' the same way. Not quite sure where I'm goin' yet, though." His southern accent is audible, but it's not particularly thick. Just enough to notice. "I got a little money with me for gas. I know these babies ain't cheap to fill up."

Jack Burton has posed:
"Ha!" the trucker replies, slapping his steering wheel with a palm. "Well, shit, that's good, pal. I guess you've heard the rules of the road, and--to be honest--I'm always happiest with the gas money offer."

He offers a toothy grin and sets the truck back into motion, the brakes hissing again as they're released. "Sometimes it's alright just to wander. I'd do that myself, you understand, if I weren't on the job. It's like what Jack Burton always says: 'Meet yer haulin' quota, and you can go wherever you want.'"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Once the trucker seems fine with him boarding the truck, Mitch does just that. Thankfully he doesn't smell too bad; his clothes might be tattered, but they're at least clean. That would be awful, to have to drive God knows how far with a smelly hobo in the truck! Also yes, he buckles his seat belt! He is a safe hobo!

He leaves his hat off when he gets into the truck, and this leaves his expression seeable. He seems a bit confused, maybe a little shellshocked. When the driver mentions a hauling quota, Mitch also notices a name. "Jack Burton?" he asks. "Your name?" He assumes so, so he offers, "Name's Mitch. Dunno any more than that, I'm afraid."

Jack Burton has posed:
"Yeah, that's my name!" the trucker replies. "Jack Burton, at yer service." He looks back and forth between the road and his passenger. "So, Mitch, is it? Goin' with just the one name, like 'Cher' or 'Madonna' or, uh, 'Superman'?"

Jack shifts gears to pick up speed, bouncing slightly as the truck hits uneven pavement. "I don't know about you, Mitch, but my ex-wives all found it /real/ useful to be a 'Mrs. Burton.' So, maybe you're better off not havin' any of that concern, since I'm guessin'--no offense--there ain't much interest in bein' a 'Mrs. Mitch.' You know?"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Mitch shakes his head. "I'm sure there's another name. Just can't remember it. Pretty sure I'm not a hero, or anybody famous, though." With an amused tone in his voice, he notes, "And I don't think I got the legs for a skirt." He's kidding, yes. The thought of wearing a skirt never entered his mind.

As for the ex-wives? He snickers a little. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure if I had one, her lawyer'd have been on me like a pack 'a dogs on a three-legged cat, so prob'ly not," he agrees. "It don't ring a bell, no. The 'wife' thing, I mean."

Jack Burton has posed:
Jack nods, chuckling. "I hear that--although sometimes it feels like a pack o' feral cats on a three-legged dog!" At that, he laughs heartily and slaps the steering wheel again.

"So, Mitch, you eaten recently? I got some pork rinds in the glove box there, if you want 'em." Jack points to the box with a snap of his fingers. "Prob'ly a fortune cookie or two, too. But I can't remember if they're cursed, though. That's on you, brother. Ol' Jack, he don't truck with those mystic after-dinner treats, no sir."

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Mitch's brows raise at this point, and he tilts his head, first one way and then the other. "True, true," he observes. "Tends to be the way of things. That's why ya get a prenuptial agreement. Though that doesn't completely protect ya, just gives ya a bit of a... an airbag, so t'speak. They're stupidly easy to overturn, depending on where, when, and under what circumstances they were signed. Varies from state to state though."

Pause. Blink. Then he raises a hand to rub at the back of his head. "Sorry," he offers. "No idea what happened there. Things are still gettin' settled up there, I s'pose." Whatever it was that happened to him to make him lose his memories must have been fairly recent. Probably has something to do with that explosion...

And then food's getting mentioned! Pork rinds? Totally. Though he raises an eyebrow at the mention of cursed fortune cookies. "...How does that work?" he asks. Nonetheless he does open the glove compartment, to look for the pork rinds. And yes, he does come out with a fortune cookie. Because of course he does.

He takes a look at the cookie. "...I think I know this brand," he notes. "Definitely seen the logo before, I'm sure of it. Can't remember where, though." Big surprise there, right?

Jack Burton has posed:
"Hey, now, Mitch, don't be gettin' all loopy on me," Jack replies, frowning for a moment. "The one thing Ma Burton taught her favorite son was 'make sure your hitch-hikin' passengers aren't bonkers.' You ain't bonkers, are ya, Mitch?"

As the conversation turns back to the food, "How does what work? Oh, the curse thing? Ahh, it's prob'ly better not to ask. Just--promise me this one thing--if anyone ever asks you to drive a truck cab down a narrow Chinatown alley so that you can chase the guys who kidnapped their fiancee...buddy, drive on past. Tasty as hell, though."

Jack chortles quietly and shakes his head. "Pre-nups," he mutters.

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Is he bonkers? Mitch blinks. "...Actually I don't know. A lot of weird stuff's happened in the last week or so." He tilts his head. "I s'pose if you doubt your sanity, then you must still have it, right? It's when the weird stuff starts to seem normal that you're in trouble. I'll admit I got amnesia. Don't remember much. But an explosion figures in, so I'm guessin' it wasn't pleasant."

The description of the start of Jack's particular strange adventure gets a raised brow. "Yeah, that sounds like all kinda trouble waitin' t'happen. Turning the truck around must have been a huge pain in the butt." Because he's totally not thinking anything supernatural happened. What's he thinking happened? ('Probably had to have the whole truck repainted, ended up lost down alleys forever...')

And it's a shame he's not thinking anything supernatural. Because that's precisely what happens next. Mitch has deemed the fortune cookie safe. So he opens it. But when he breaks it? Sparkles. And they're red and black. Mitch blinks. "What the...?"

It's about all he has time to say, before a dark hand rises from the shadows in the floorboards... and grabs him around the throat. << YOU! FOOL THAT YOU ARE, RELEASING ME NOW AFTER IMPRISONING ME! DID YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE MERCY?! >>

Mitch has no idea what's going on. He just flails at the hand around his throat; its iron grip is cutting of his air supply, and he can't talk without air. He kind of needs air to not-die, too, and he'd rather not have to go through that.

Jack Burton has posed:
"Holy--!" Jack shouts, instinctively swerving the wheel, despite the fact that the hand's inside the cab. The truck veers across multiple lanes; it's a lucky thing that there's barely any other traffic out this time of night.

"Open the damn window, Mitch! Whatever it is, after ten thousand years, it's free!"

The trucker reaches blindly under his seat for something for a few moments before he retrieves a Bowie knife. "Here, here!" he says excitedly, offering the blade to his passenger just as blindly, his eyes still on the road ahead. "Stab it back to whatever hell it came from!"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Mitch can still hear, and when Jack instructs him to open the window, he reaches to the door to do that. His right hand fumbles around on the inside of the door to roll the window down. As he does, the creature begins to draw itself up out of the floorboard more completely, still clinging to Mitch's throat. The creature looks like... well, a blobby, vaguely humanoid thing with open holes for eyes and a terrifying grin that doesn't quite separate the top 'lip' from the bottom 'lip'. It's dark red, like coagulated blood.

And it also doesn't want to let go of Mitch, from the sound of it, despite the window being open. << I DID NOT THINK YOU WOULD MAKE MY REVENGE SO EASY! PITY I DO NOT HAVE TIME TO WATCH YOU SUFFER! >>

Though it's about then that Jack offers the knife. Just in time, too; Mitch's vision is starting to blur, and the world's voice gray for him. Jack's voice sounds muffled, but Mitch hears, and reaches out for the knife. Miraculously he manages not to stab himself, but instead turns the knife on the bloppy thing strangling him. The thing roars in pain at the stab, probably not expecting Mitch to still have any fight in him. And Mitch just keeps stabbing until the thing releases his throat. And eventually it slips out of the open window, into the night, but not without a parting comment.

<< I WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL YET, PRIEST! >>

Mitch just... concentrates on getting air back into him.

Jack Burton has posed:
"Sweet ghost o' John /Wayne/, that thing is gnarly!" Jack cries, trying to whip his head back and forth between staring at the road and watching the fight taking place feet away from him.

As the demon-and-cookie goes soaring out the windo, Jack shakes his head, his eyes wide. "I tell you somethin'...I always heard it was the MSG that'd kill you. Never thought it'd be the demons trapped inside it."

The trucker exhales deeply. "No wonder we got vegans and whatnot these days. Gluten-free steaks, Mitch! What's the world comin' to?"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Mitch coughs, his throat still screaming in protest at having been gripped with such crushing force. He can't immediately respond to Jack's words, since he's still trying to convince his throat that the ordeal is over. For now, anyway. Mitch has a feeling that's going to come back to haunt him.

"Just... like bad Chinese food..." he finally speaks up. His voice is quiet and raspy. "That one's... gonna come back." He pauses, trying to get his voice under control. "I have no idea... what that was about," he says. "But either way... I'm sorry. That was... my fault."

Jack Burton has posed:
"Took your breath away, did it?" Jack asks. "Yeah, I get it. Really screwed me up the first time I tussled with a demon, too," he continues, not paying much attention to Mitch's strangulation woes. "Still, managed to win the day with some red-blooded American know-how. Looks like you had the power of Uncle Sam flowin' through you, brother. Well done."

Jack reaches over to pat Mitch on the shoulder. "God bless the U.S.A., am I right?"

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
"Amen," Mitch offers, quite ironically. Then he remembers he's still holding Jack's knife. Which uh. Is covered in ichor. "Oh, right..." Mitch looks at the blade... and makes a face. He wipes off the ichor on the outside of his coat, and then hands it back to Jack. "Here ya go. Thanks, man."

Then what Jack said registers. "You've fought demons before?" he asks. Then... a blink. "I don't... think that was the first time I have. Something familiar about that thing..." He trails off, confused, trying to remember just what it was. "I can't remember it... but it's familiar somehow.

Jack Burton has posed:
Taking back the knife--and making a bit of a face when he feels whatever goopy ichor is still on it--Jack tosses the blade back under his seat, where it immediately gets coated in lint and hair.

"Hey, Mitch, don't worry. I'm sure it'll all come back to ya," he says. "Ride that wave of familiarity, though. It's all in the reflexes." Jack taps his forehead. "At least, it sure ain't in here--hey," he adds, glancing out the driver-side window. "Looks like's gonna be dark soon. You need some shut-eye, you go right on ahead. Ol' Jack'll get us a few miles down the road."

Mitchell Shelley (133) has posed:
Mitch nods. "Amnesia usually does right itself, if it's ever gonna," he admits. "Though I almost don't want it to. Maybe I'm just scared 'cause I dunno what's there, who knows?" A look out the window. "Though if there's more of that? I might be right to be scared."

Jack's mention of Mitch getting some sleep gets a nod. "Prob'ly a good idea," he agrees. "Thanks. Sorry to cause so much trouble." He'll doze a bit, yeah. And yes, he's definitely going to be giving Jack what money he has! Not only for the ride, but for the trouble.