7. Plays With Fire


Max’s older boy came back at one point. He stayed just to piss off dear old Dad. Or so they say. The kid’s name was Layne.

And he was everything his father hoped he wouldn’t be.

And what’s more? He had a girl to match.

Story goes that he ran away – hence why I never saw him. He was a young 18, just turned. He had all of his father’s charm to boot. He came back pierced, tattooed, smoking – you name it. My uncle let him drink because Max consented.

Daddy’s always right.

So the prodigal son returns, and he’s got some excess baggage with him. She’s another story. Man, is she ever.

I remember the day he came back – they almost had to pick me up off the floor. He left here as the boy next door, typical jerk – I could only converse with him if I could prove temporary insanity. It was the same now, just with different reasons.

First off, the blonde hair was jet black. All hints of his previous social status were gone, except his physical condition. His eyes were the same transparent gray-blue that they’d always been – they gave him away. He came in like he belonged, trailing smoke as he moved. He spoke little and moved less – but when he did, it was absolute poetry.

Layne wasn’t exactly his father’s shining image. But he was respected that much more for his unique character. He knew everybody for everything; connections up and down the streets. He reeked of power and influence; you could feel it flood through the place when he came in. The return was set up beautifully; a few weeks later, he had a partner in crime.

Serkis. Like I said, another story.

So the boy came and went, staying only when he had time to kill. Meaning? He only stayed when he had the girl with him…and if his father was there. He came and went as he pleased and he was the best guitar player I knew. That was his staple talent. He seldom ever played though. Only when the mood truly struck him.

Story was that he learned from his father.

That boy is nothing but stories.

The King of Fictions.

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