Chapter Text
“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
Dr. Johnson
They were somewhere along the road leaving Paris when the drugs began to take hold. The sun beat down on them relentlessly, scorching their skin to be the same bright red as the metallic paint of the car. Distantly, Francis wondered if they should have rented a car more suitable for the summer heat. One with a roof and no music system.
His focus on the road had been slowly dwindling away for the past hour or so, being much more preoccupied with trying to hold a cigarette in his mouth just with the strength of his lips. At this point, he was gnawing at the thing more than smoking, passively trying to drone out the shitty rock station Alfred insisted they put on.
Francis could recall turning to Alfred after what seemed like hours and saying something along the lines of, “I feel lightheaded, maybe you should drive…” though, he didn't get much of a response from the American, only a small grunt as the other yet again spilt beer all over himself, adding to the horrific number of stains on his shirt.
Francis gripped the steering wheel, narrowing his eyes. Something began to feel off. The rumble of the engine was too loud, the sun was too hot, the wind was too strong. So many inconveniences spoiled his mind and put him on edge, making him severely anxious over what seemed to be nothing at all.
He blinked after another minute or so, a terrible roar starting to grow and grow in the sky before it was suddenly filled with what looked like to be huge bats, all screeching, and howling, and swooping around the car. “Holy Jesus, what are these goddamned animals?” He yelled, ducking down as he flailed one of his hands in the air, trying to hit one of the creatures.
“You say somethin’?” Alfred said as the car swerved violently to the left, yet again causing him to spill beer all over himself. He cursed loudly, trying to wipe off the alcohol with his hand as the car eased back into its rightful lane.
“Never mind,” Francis echoed back, eyeing the sky with uncertainty. “It’s your turn to drive,” he said, quickly coming to the conclusion that there was no point in mentioning the bats, as the poor bastard would see them soon enough.
Francis slammed on the brakes and aimed the car to the shoulder of the highway, kicking up sand as it screeched to a halt. “Damnit, so we’re still at the coast,” he thought, holding on to the car as he stepped out of it, dodging and weaving through the flying animals as he made his way around the car.
They were out there for a reason, a reason that Francis could not sort out to be good or bad. Nevertheless, the consequence of their road trip made itself incredibly clear. It was almost noon, and they had more than a hundred kilometers to go before they reached their destination: La Rochelle. A good-for-nothing heap of a city trying its hardest to imitate the culture of America, for better or for worse. It was imperative that they checked into the hotel La Sirena on time or else they’d be down about five hundred Francs each.
Francis eventually got to the trunk, eyeing the red metal for a moment before deciding to wrestle it open, his faint state causing his movements to be more lethargic than usual. He paused, staring at the contents for a moment before he felt a bat smack into the side of his head, awakening him and promptly reminding him to actually start looking through the items haphazardly stuffed together.
He turned over object after object, hands flitting over the goods and finally landing upon an umbrella. Picking it up, he started to loosely wave it around in the air, the action proving to be very effective in keeping away the ravenous beasts. Francis, satisfied with his meager defense, went back to rummaging in the trunk to make sure that everything was still in order.
Eyeing the trunk again, it looked like a mobile police narcotics lab more than anything. They had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescalin, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers.
Accompanying that was a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a half pack of beer (which Alfred had already worked his way through), a pint of raw ether, about a dozen amyls, and more—most of which was piled in the front of the car. All this was picked up the night before in a frenzy of high-speed driving all over, through, and around Paris. It wasn't that they needed all that for the trip, but once you got locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency was to push it as far as you could.
Francis closed the trunk, deeming everything was still present and not tampered with, before making his way back to the passenger seat with his weapon, setting it beside him as he got in. Alfred, getting the memo, had already crawled over into the driver’s seat, and moments later, they were on the road again.
The only thing that really worried Francis was the ether. There was nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible than a man in the depths of an ether binge, and he knew they’d be getting to that rotten stuff pretty soon.
The radio switched off from the music to some kind of news report, starting to talk about the very predicament they saw themselves in. “A house subcommittee report,” the French broadcast started with a buzz, “says illegal drugs killed one hundred sixty American G.Is last year. Forty of them in Vietnam.”
Francis couldn’t bear to listen to the news; information like that was too negative to think about while high. So he started to tune the radio with a furrowed brow, gaining a strange look from Alfred in the process. The boy had no idea of the recent pitfalls of the world right now, as there were no English news sources for him to read. Francis eventually ended up on a similarly horrific channel after some time, going back to smoking, in his case, chewing, the cigarette after he was done.
He distantly heard Alfred’s voice explode into a loud celebratory, “haha!” as the new song came on, and the boy started to obnoxiously sing along, not paying attention to the key, rhythm, or tempo of the music. Francis was half convinced that he was singing an entirely different song altogether.
“Want a smoke, you poor fool,” he muttered, leaning his head back as he closed his eyes. He was dutifully ignored by the American, who was still jovially singing. “Then you’ll see those goddamned bats,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.
The trip thus far had given him nothing but a headache and even more aggravating guilt about the current state of the world and the current state of his health–whether that be mental or physical. Perhaps if they turned back now, he could finally gain the courage to go back to his family. He sighed, slowly opening his eyes. The bats were still there. They had not left.
Francis craned his neck up just in time to see a figure speed past the car. He blinked, writing it off as another hallucination before the car violently crunched to a stop. “You bloody animal, what are you doing?!” The Frenchman howled, bolting up in his seat to swivel around in his seat. He bit down on the cigarette, watching the man behind them skeptically, “We can’t stop here, this is bat country.”
“Leave it, old man, let’s give him a lift,” Alfred yelled—he always seemed to be yelling— before he changed gears and slammed on the gas pedal. Francis, in response to the sudden movement, careened into the dashboard as the car sped backwards; it was a miracle that the airbag didn’t go off. The car stopped just feet away from the man, giving the other an opportunity to approach the car at his own pace, for the last thing they wanted was to scare the poor fellow.
It took a few moments of thorough contemplation before he actually started to move. One leg after another, step after step, he precariously moved toward the car, an unsure look perched across his face. The man stood unreadily beside the car for a moment, shuffling on his feet, the only thing breaking the silence being the quiet rumble of the engine.
“Relaxe, man, we’re your friends,” Francis heard Alfred say behind him, reaching out to the cupholder to grab his beer, successfully being able to take a sip this time.
“No more of that fucking talk or I’ll put the leeches on you,” Francis snapped back idly, not moving his gaze away from the hitchhiker. Behind him, Alfred responded with a sharp laugh.
Francis sighed after another moment of stillness from the group, suddenly motioning for the man to get in, saying, “Bouge-toi, entre.” The man complied almost immediately this time, throwing in his two backpacks and following suit after them. Seconds later, the car was on the road again, countryside zipping past them as it had moments ago.
How long can we maintain? Francis wondered after a couple of minutes of silence, squinting his eyes as he continued to gnaw on the cigarette. How long would it take before one of us was raving and jabbering at this man… What will he think then?
He frowned, adjusting the rear-view mirror so he could see himself in its reflection, jolting backwards as he caught sight of the newcomer. Will he make a connection to our background when my attorneys start screaming about bats and huge manta rays? He frowned, adjusting the mirror to further look his way, completely cutting Alfred and the other man out of the frame, only leaving himself in the picture.
If that was the case, we’ll just have to lob his head off and bury him somewhere else. He huffed, his train of thought continuing to spin the ludicrous scenario out of proportion, “cuz it goes without saying that we can’t turn him loose, he’ll repost us to some kind of Nazi outback law enforcement agency and have us gunned down like dogs,” Francic concluded, watching himself in the mirror give a firm nod of agreement to the statement.
He paused, mulling his words over. “Jesus, did I just say that?” he echoed himself, or was I thinking it?
“Did he hear me?” He whispered, watching as Alfred fixed the mirror back in his own direction, bringing the man in the back of the car into full view. Francis, now very disgruntled with the panic the man was inducing on him, frowned further.
“Don’t worry,” Alfred said awkwardly to the left of him, remembering mid-sentence they were in rural France, the chance of someone speaking English here was near zero, “Uhh, simplamente j’admire… la forme de ta… de ta crâne!” He grinded out, dutifully happy with his attempt at conversation, raising a can of beer in a sort of strange attempt at a salute, yet again trying to take a sip.
Francis watched him with mild disgust for one, butchering the language, and for two, even attempting to try and drink the beer again. He pensively watched the drink flow down his face, missing his mouth completely, and ending up soaking further into his shirt. Maybe I better have a chat with this man. Francis continued his inner dialogue after a few moments of watching Alfred. Perhaps if I explain things to him, he’ll rest easy.
He suddenly turned around in his seat, eyeing the man before shouting, “Tu m’entends?” At the top of his lungs. The man looked at him, dumbfounded. Was he gritting his teeth?
Francis grimaced, concluding that the wind whipping around them was simply too deafening for the other man to hear him, so he started to climb over the seat, placing himself beside the other with a small grunt. “Écoute, y'a un truc à comprendre,” he started, chewing on the cigarette as he talked, “C'est une mission très inquiétante-“
“What?”
Francis stared at the man. Very surprised to hear any amount of English that wasn’t coming from Alfred. Rather, English wasn’t the best word to describe his speech. It was cockney. The type of cockney that oosed pompous annoyingness and self-righteousness. Francis himself never particularly enjoyed this language, not having the best experience with English folk in his lifetime.
Francis sighed, his rhythm and explanation was completely interrupted. But no matter, he recovered relatively quickly from the hitch and carried on with his tangent after a small cough.
“As I was saying, this is a very ominous assignment with overtones of extreme personal danger,” he started, nodding to himself as he let himself drape a hand over the back of the man. Now that he was closer, he could see his surprisingly disheveled appearance quite clearly, completely contrasting his uptight manner of speaking. He had grime smudged on his face, and some of his blond bangs were sticking to his forehead through a mix of grease and sweat; he looked corned. Francis furrowed his brows slightly, naturally curious as to what had caused this mishap.
“My name is Francis; I am a doctor and connoisseur of journalism,” he said, watching as the man’s head turned away from him, lips pulling back in a sort of scowl. In response, Francis felt anger start to boil in the pit of his stomach, all previous sympathy and curiosity buried under his newfound annoyance. Was this man too good for him?
“Listen to me, this is important, god damnit!” Francis suddenly yelled, slamming his hand down on the car-seat headrest in front of them. The car swerved sickeningly, then straightened out as fast as it faltered. “Get your hands off me!” Alfred yelled in response, frantically feeling the nape of his neck with his hand.
Francis looked on with a sort of pity in his eyes; the unhealthy combination of heat, alcohol, and drugs were finally getting to him. No doubt, he himself would very soon fall into the same unforgiving abyss of the acid trip soon enough.
“Calm down, please,” he murmured, “I’m not in the mood to die right now. Plus, I didn't even touch you,” he sighed, watching as Alfred shook himself. Francis then turned to face the newcomer once more, eyeing his now fear-stricken face again.
Our vibrations were getting nasty, but why? Was there no communication in this car? Francis thought to himself, eyes straying away from the man, instead focusing on the countryside running by them. He bit down on his cigarette, thinking as he gripped the other’s shoulders with one hand, not allowing him to leave his embrace. Have we finally deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts? If this goes on any longer, will we resort to some horrid ailment to ease our insanity?
He sighed, trying not to dwell on the grim subject of cannibalism. It had no place here with the rolling meadows and distant scent of the sea.
And so he went on.
“I want you to understand that this man at the wheel, Alfred Jones, is my attorney,” Francis said, turning his face to look forward, “He’s not just some dingbat I found on the strip, he’s American, one of the most American people you’ll ever meet,” he nodded in satisfaction, gently scratching at the stubble on his face, perhaps it was getting too long.
“We’re out here for a definitive reason, which I will tell you in a moment,” he added after a moment, scrunching his nose as he finally took a drag of his cigarette, “but first, might I inquire your business and your name?” The man stayed silent for a second, mulling the words over, no doubt debating whether or not he should trust these deranged lunatics.
“Arthur,” he muttered under his breath after a moment of deliberation, adding nothing more, nothing less. Francis nodded once more, noting that he was on the quieter side.
The silence that followed their informal introduction was heavy and uncomfortable as Francis was trying to figure out how to begin explaining the beginning of their daring tale. Arthur kept trying to weasel himself out of Francis’ grip, and failing quite miserably, too shy to speak out against his proprietor, and too scared to take action against him. The only other noise padding the break in conversation was the rush of wind and low rumble of a slowly crumbling engine. There might have been no chemistry in the car, which was a downer to the overall mood of the trio, but there was certainly no sense of conflict, which was good as there were very few things worse than three men trying to kill each other as violently and horribly as possible in the middle of no where with no no god, law, or sense of agency to dictate their actions.
Francis allowed himself a groan after what seemed like another hour of quiet nothingness passing between them. Not being able to handle the awkwardness and finally being able to recall all events in chronological order, he spoke.
“I’ll tell you why we’re here in the first place. Twenty-four hours, we were sitting in the courtyard of the Hôtel Ritz–in the patio section, of course–drinking Singapore slings with mescalin on the side, finding salvation from the brutal realities of 1971.”
The patio was green, perhaps too green, Francis thought with a shudder, looking around. This number of rich people, in any setting, really, was guaranteed to make him uncomfortable; his blood was simply too thick to fully adapt to how they talked or the mannerisms they held. He looked up at Alfred after he finished his moment of thought, watching as the man feigned interest in trying to decipher the French written on that day’s morning paper. Francis sighed, taking a drag out of his cigarette, letting the smoke momentarily pool around his face before it disappeared completely.
His head perked up in interest at the motion of one of the waiters coming by, holding a rotary phone precariously placed atop a silver platter. Francis sat up in response and turned his body to face the oncomer, giving a curt nod as a greeting.
“Perhaps this is the call you’ve been waiting for, monsieur,” he uttered, French, rolling off his tongue in a pleasant purr.
“Perhaps,” Francis echoed back, picking up the handset and bringing it to his ear, instantly being assaulted by a weird mix of German and French. “Yeah, hmm-hmm,” Francis nodded along to the voice whispering into his ear, gaining a curious look from Alfred—this type of communication wasn’t exactly the hardest to understand. “Yeah, yeah, ok,” he said, uncrossing his legs, “right, Gil, see you ‘round, tell Antonio I say hi,” he finished, placing the handset back in its place.
He leaned toward Alfred, opening his mouth to begin to repeat what he had heard before he realized that the waiter was, in fact, still there. Francis scowled, side-eyeing him for a moment, before he started to rummage in his pocket, counting off a couple of Francs and earnestly throwing the change at him. The coins bounced off the man, some landing on the metal tray, and some missing completely to find themselves lying miserably scattered across the cobblestone ground. The waiter muttered a sarcastic “thank you,” before leaving, not bothering to pick up the extra tip.
Francis shot the man a crooked smile as he walked off before turning his attention back to Alfred. “They want me to go to La Rochelle at once and make contact with some Portuguese photographer called Lacerda,” Francis took a long drag of the cigarette, feeling the nicotine seep deeper into his body, “all I have to do is check into a suit, and he’ll seek me out.” Francis paused, eyes unfocusing as he let his thoughts momentarily wander unattended. He shook himself, turning his attention back to Alfred. “What do you think?
Alfred said nothing, looking at Francis dead in the eyes before he came alive in his chair, the metal scraping against the ground as he stood. “Good hell!” He exclaimed, gaining some strange looks from the people around him. “Sounds like real trouble,” he continued, receiving a placid sigh from Francis, “you’re gonna need plenty of legal advice before this thing’s over.”
“Oh yeah,” Francis said glumly, adding a meek nod.
“As your attorney, I advise you to rent a very fast car with no top,” he continued, a smile pricking against his teeth, “and you’ll need cocaine,” he added as a small afterthought, receiving a hum of agreement from Francis, “tape recorder for music, probably, expensive clothing. Just get the hell out of Paris for at least a couple days. Blows my weekend,” he said with a sigh, stretching his arms from sitting still too long. He started to roll up the newspaper after a moment of standing there, all interest in the paper now lost.
“Why?” Francis inquired, watching as the other dropped it on the table with a small clatter.
“Cuz naturally, you’ll need me to come with,” he said, raising his eyebrows in a quizzical manner, downing the last of his drink, “no respectable Frenchman can survive La Rochelle, you’ll need my America brain,” he nodded adamantly at his own compliment, tapping his temple as a show of his supposed superior intellect.
“Well, why not,” Francis exhaled, mirroring his movements as he got up, “if something’s worth doing right, it might as well be this.”
He looked down at the bill, then back up at Alfred with a small smile, “Shall we?” he asked, beginning to gather his things.
“Of course!” replied Alfred as they started to walk off, leaving the bill dutifully unattended.
They burst from the entrance of the building, casually walking out to the rotunda where the cars would pick and drop people off, like a never-ending chain of bugs waiting to get their fill of French extravagance.
They nodded to the security as they descended the steps, watching as Francis’s shit box of a car rolled to a stop. It looked like a dumpster next to all the others. They got in without a word to the valet, leaving the premises as fast as they came.
“What kind of story is it this time?” he heard Alfred yell over the deafening sound of the engine.
“Mint Four-Hundred,” he replied, nodding at the question as he began to make his way through the city; they’d have to leave the center to get anything done. “The highest paying off-road race of motorcycles and dune buggies in the whole of Europe. A fantastic spectacle made in honor of some big shot politician who died not too long ago. Quincidentally, he owned the largest hotel there, so we’re set for a room,” Francis took a second to finish mulling over the short debrief he was given, “at least, that’s what Gilbert said to me,” he finished with a shrug.
“Then, as your attorney, I advise you to buy a motorcycle,” Alfred replied thoughtfully, “how else are you supposed to cover this spectacle properly?”
“Believe me, boy, I would, but I don’t think either of us are capable of staying on it for more than a second,” he said with a grumble, sinking back into his seat.
Getting hold of the drugs and clothes had been no problem, but the car and tape recorder were not easy things to round up at six-thirty on a Friday afternoon. So Francis found himself now dismally sat at a Polynesian bar, listening to Alfred make seventeen separate telephone calls before locating a dealership that was willing enough to sell them a car they could use. Francis was surprised that his language impairment could let him communicate in the first place, but he was assured that the American would find the “meanest, leanest car around.”
He watched as the bartender came up to him with two tequila sunrises, one for each of them. Francis pointedly sighed after a moment, standing up with one of them and heading over to the general area of Alfred’s voice. He came up behind him, placing the drink in the boy’s hand and standing there for a moment as he listened to Alfred argue about the reliability of his credit card.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” Alfred said, getting more and more aggravated. “No, for the last time, I don't speak French!” He grinded out, pausing to listen before he barked back, “I heard that, you bastard, I may be American, but I'm not fucking stupid.”
Francis frowned, watching Alfred for another moment as he slammed the phone on the receiver with a loud clang and started to flip through the phone book once more, muttering all sorts of different curses under his breath. Francis finally sighed as he started to trudge back to where he was sitting before, taking a small sip of his drink. It was too sweet for his taste.
Francis was in charge of negotiating the purchase of the tape recorder, a notably easier and much simpler task. He had made only three calls before someone had confirmed their purchase. The store itself was five miles away, with the clerk offering to keep the shop open until their arrival. But when they got there, the store was locked, with people mulling and idling about inside, less than eager to talk or even approach the two of them.
Alfred kicked the ground as he fished out a wad of cash, brandishing it in the air for a good five minutes, making faces, yelling, whooping, and doing anything to get the attention of the people inside. Which had worked in the end because a man, clad in a shabby work uniform, came out to greet them after Alfred’s show of anger had ended and was deemed safe to approach.
The exchange was stiff and quiet, but they had got what they came for, and they were not about to complain.
They had trouble, again, at the car rental agency when they had arrived much later than anticipated, leaving the salesperson more agitated than either of them would have liked.
Francis sniffed as he twirled his cigarette around his teeth, gently running his hands over the white leather of the open-top car. Even in his hazed state, he could admit it was beautiful.
He jerked his head up as he saw the dealer walking towards him, nose held a little too high as he walked. “Well, uhh, Mr. Bonnfoy, we’re all settled here if I could just get your signature down there,” the man said cheerfully, the unmistakable stain of narcissism lingering in his voice. Francis didn’t even bother to look up as he signed, scribbling some kind of illegible scrawl on the paper as he turned his full attention back on the car.
“You’re gonna be real careful with this beauty, yeah?” the man asked, only given seconds to jump out of the way before Francis slammed on the reverse, not bothering to look back as he maneuvered the car to pull up beside Alfred, tires screeching to a halt.
Francis simply laughed, waving his hand in front of his face as he tried to not to breathe in the burnt rubber, watching as the man ran to catch up with him while Alfred was starting to load the car with all the goods they had gathered throughout the day.
The man huffed to a halt beside the car, letting himself lean on the side of it to catch his breath. He shot Francis a muffled smile and exclaimed, “My god, you just backed over a thirty centimeter curb and didn’t even slow down!” he took out a white handkerchief to dab at the sweat on his forehead, watching Alfred load another pack of beer into the car, “You were going around, I dunno,” he stiffened, “fifty kilometers an hour?”
“Relaxe! There’s no harm done,” Francis replied, taking the cigarette out of his mouth to jab it in his general direction, “besides, it wasn’t thirty centimeters, it was ten, and I most certainly was not going fifty,” he replied with a cheery smile, placing the cigarette back in his mouth as he motioned for Alfred to get in.
“You fellas haven’t been drinking, have you?” he gave them a quizzical look as Alfred pushed past him, beer in hand. “Of course not, we’re responsible citizens, are we not?” Francis said, directing his attention to Alfred, who just lamely looked back at him. He shrugged, letting out a hesitant “Oui,” before Francis floored it.
Screeching, the car burst forward, drowning out the incessant yelling of the man behind them. Distantly, Francis had a small feeling that he would never again see his dingy car ever again.
They had spent the rest of the night wandering the outskirts of Paris, rounding up materials and packing the rest of the car. The two most notable and important things they had gotten their hands on was a great big American flag, a little larger than Alfred in length, and a .357 magnum.
Alfred had taken a particular fondness to the flag.
“This trip is supposed to be the optimum of a man’s life, surrounded by hostile and affluent forces, a gross physical exploration of what the body and mind can or can not do! It's for those with true grit, and we got plenty of that,” Francis finished his story, tightening his grip on Arthur’s neck, fingers gently caressing the skin, toying with the longer strands of his hair.
“Damn right,” he heard Alfred stupidly bellow from the front.
“My attorney understands this concept despite his hereditary handicap; being an American is hard work, you know. But do you agree?” Arthur gave a crude, dismissive sort of laugh, but nodded, looking away from Francis’s face and to the rolling countryside. He had agreed, but his eyes said otherwise.
He held a sort of fear in his face, a sort of fear that was only in the eyes of a person who was not yet exposed to the true horrors of the world. Francis sniffed, finding this conclusion to be very bothersome. He did not want to nanny a man so fresh from a secluded life.
His head perked up as he heard Alfred’s scream from the front of the car. He twisted and whirled his head like a puppet, limbs acting on their own accord. What was possibly making him behave at the same cognitive level as a chimpanzee?
Alfred leered, head flying backwards as he pulled to the side of the road, groaning as the car slid to a halt in the gravel. “Medicine, god damnit, give me the medicine!” he cried out, gritting his teeth.
“Medicine? What medicine- oh, the medicine!” Francis called back, removing his hand from Arthur as he leaned forward, reaching over the seat to rummage in the many bags he had lumped in the front seat. His hands flitted through the goods, searching until he finally found two amyls. He grabbed Alfred’s shoulder, shoving his head near his hands as he cracked one under his nose. “Big wiff, big wiff, sonny boy!” Francis said enthusiastically, watching Alfred’s body go still.
“And now, one for the doctor!” he mumbled, following the same trajectory of movement. A weird mix of bliss and dejection started to sink into his body, knocking him back and making him almost melt into the car itself. He had half a thought to narrow his eyes, the sun now being even brighter than before. Distantly, he heard Arthur curse under his breath, something about calling them animals; Francis didn’t particularly care.
“What the fuck,” he heard Alfred gasp after what seemed like hours, “what the fuck are we doing out here,” he repeated, turning his head to look at the two of them. “Somebody call the police, we need help,” he guttered out, trying to right himself and struggling immensely.
“How do you plan to call the police if you can’t even speak French?” Francis muttered, not daring to open his eyes to face the outside world. He heard the horn of the car briefly go off as Alfred started to further his panic. Fearing things may go south, Francis was sadly obliged to open his eyes and extract the umbrella from the passenger's seat; he’d resort to beating Alfred over the head with it if the situation called for it. It wouldn't be the first time he had to resort to violence, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Calm down, for the love of god,” spat Francis as Alfred began to rummage through the bags scattered under the front seat, “if anything, you should be back here, far away from the wheel. I doubt your mind could even operate a bike with training wheels at the moment.”
“Shut up,” Alfred growled out in return as he grabbed a brown paper bag, righting himself with a loud groan. He drew in a breath, bringing the paper bag into view like it was some kind of shiny, new toy.
“You know exactly what’s in here and what I'm gonna do,” he said with a distant laugh, wiping sweat off his forehead with a spare hand. His eyes were distant. He was anything but in his right mind.
“This is the exact reason Las Vegas went so south,” Francis said with a roll of his eyes, more annoyed than fearful of the man. He slumped back in the seat, gripping the umbrella’s handle tighter. No, this isn't fear. He thought to himself. It just can’t be. Or perhaps my body is ruined so much that it can’t look fear in the face… God, what am I even saying? I’m sane, I know I’m sane… So why do I feel like this?
Francis gapped, mouth slightly unhinging before he started to speak, “Put it down before you hurt yourself, or worse, us,” he said coldly, giving a half-assed attempt to de-escalate the situation.
“No, I'm not doing that,” Alfred replied with a growl, brandishing the paper bag in front of himself, almost rising out of his seat with how elated he had become. He was almost begging for a fight. Things were looking to get physical.
Am I prepared to die? Francis wondered, eyes flitting to the hand gripping the umbrella, which was tentatively still, almost unnaturally so. Do I even understand what death is anymore?
“I didn’t ask for you to come with me,” Francis said, raising his head, the anger in his voice getting louder as he sat up once more, wordlessly challenging the American to a game he himself knew he’d lose. Perhaps it was the smell of the sea, the heat of the sun, or maybe even some other factor, like the drugs he’d taken earlier or the newcomer, but something made Francis’ insides squirm more than usual. He felt strange, like a balloon on the verge of popping.
“I’m not saying I shouldn't have come with you, I'm asking where the hell are we?!” Alfred yelled back, gritting his teeth.
Exasperated and tired, Francis just wanted the whole argument to be over so they could be well back on the road again. He groaned, bringing a hand up to his temple as he replied, “We’re driving down the coast, I told you the rout-“
Francis couldn’t get the last of his words out before he watched Alfred rip off the paper, clock the handgun, and fire it straight up into the air.
The silence that followed afterwards was even more deafening than before. The birds chirping in the trees, which Francis hadn’t noticed until their absence, had gone completely silent; even the rumble of the engine seemed to be trying to quiet itself. Francis let himself draw a sharp breath, trying to collect his thoughts. He slowly, slowly leaned back into his seat.
What the hell is wrong with this guy? He thought distantly, looking at Alfred as he lowered the gun, his hand shaking as he clasped the metal. Then, Afred swallowed, watching the other with blank eyes. Was he that far gone? Francis looked down at his lap, breath rolling in and out as he tried to come to terms with the possible prospect of succumbing to such an early death. It oddly felt somewhat tranquil.
“What the fuck are you doing,” Francis heard a voice echo. He glanced up at Alfred, perplexed. It wasn’t his English, it wasn’t the crude or short-quipped American, it was that damn mollifying cockney. He turned his eyes to face Arthur, jaw dropping a small amount as he stared. His jawline looked more set, perhaps more confident? His hair was still sticking to his forehead, but it somehow fit his figure now, no longer looking gangly or unsure. How the man wasn’t wetting himself at the moment was completely beyond Francis’ understanding.
“Out here in the middle of fucking nowhere tripping on god knows what,” he managed to groan out, standing up from his seat as he looked down at Alfred, nodding his head for him to get the hell out of the driver’s seat and holding out a hand for him to forfeit the gun.
Alfred, the most stubborn, adamant, and irritating person that Francis had ever met, had for some odd reason, paused and actually complied with the demands after a moment's hesitation. He silently placed the gun in Arthur’s hand and moved to the passenger’s seat, as quiet as a mouse.
Francis watched with curiosity as Arthur disarmed the gun and threw it in the back seat, careful as to not put it too close to the French man, and got in the driver’s seat, taking extra precaution to do up his seatbelt, eyes briefly flitting to the American flag he was sitting on and internally praying that the white dust covering the fabric wasn’t some kind of drug.
“Listen,” he started, voice coming out in a steady tone, “if the sodden story you told me earlier wasn’t a sham, you need to get to La Rochelle,” he said, adjusting the mirror to his standards, slapping Alfred’s hand away as he tried to reach for it.
“Yeah,” Francis replied, a sort of pleasantness pooling in his chest. Perhaps coming from the company of the strange man, or the fact that they were finally having some sort of competent authority to govern their actions. He leaned forward, arm slinking over the seat to rummage for his sunglasses, finding them after a moment of deliberate searching and sighing as he put them on, eyes meeting Alfred as he shook his head. The other seemed to have learned his lesson and was now cowering in his seat, trying to make himself seem as small and sorry as possible.
“Listen, mon cher,” Francis said as he leaned back in his seat, “now that we’ve gotten that bump in the road out of the way, it is absolutely incredibly important that we get to the hotel La Sirena before tonight’s deadline of the press registration,” Francis started to dictate as Arthur started to pull away from the shoulder, putting on a surprising amount of speed relatively quickly, “otherwise, we might have to pay for our suit, and I don’t think any of us have the money for that,” he added with a small laugh before he got a facefull of cocaine.
Francis coughed as he heard Arthur and Alfred start to curse at the top of their lungs, both of them lamenting about different things. Francis watched the powder spill onto the highway in a very expensive duststorm, glad he had put on the glasses for the extra protection of his eyes. For a moment, it was very melancholic, watching the two men in the front argue back and forth as if they had known each other for their whole lives. The problem was that this emotion lasted only a minute before the realization dawned on Francis, subsequently opening the floodgates to his anger.
“That was the last of our cocaine!” Francis yelled after realizing what had happened. He lunged at Alfred, holding him by the neck as he started to strangle him, reaching out for what was left of the powdered goods. He hastily closed the salt shaker and stuffed it into its rightful place inside the bag, throwing it back down on the ground as he began to shake Alfred to and fro, fro and to, all the while Alfred laughed away, both of them completely disregarding their previous mishap.
“What the hell?!,” he heard Arthur react beside him, eyes flitting to the other, a mortified look on the man’s face. Throughout all the commotion, he had somehow managed to keep the car perfectly straight.
“Listen, listen,” Alfred said through his grin, making Francis look back at him and lower his hands. The American started to rummage through some of the stray bags on the ground, taking a second before getting to the LSD. He broke a small strip off of it, tearing it in three, handing one to Francis, taking one himself, and holding out the last one out for Arthur, “how ‘bout we all get our share of sunshine acid and call it a day?” he said with a big shrug, the grin staying placid on his face the whole time.
“Right after you almost kill us… twice?” Francis said skeptically as he placed it on his tongue.
“No, simply no,” Arthur said with a shudder, a look of mild repulsion settling on his face. Francis sighed, knowing he had to do something to stop Alfred from pressuring him. The atmosphere had finally shifted to something lighter now, and Francis was determined to save it.
“How much time do we have?” Francis said offhandedly, putting in great effort to keep the conversation rolling. Humming to himself as he leaned back in his seat, eyes wandering to the sky, not being able to find anymore bats.
“About forty minutes. As your attorney, I advise us to drive at top speed and pray that none of us turn into animals before we get there.”
“Promising,” Arthur said curtly, applying a little more gas to the car. No doubt fearful of another, similar altercation happening.
Thirty minutes. It was going to be very close. Their objective was the big tower of the hotel La Sirena, and if they couldn’t get there, they always had some kind of mangy prison waiting for them with open arms.