Road Trip

Driving down a highway to somewhere, possibly nowhere. I think a song could be made around that line. Maybe one already has.

I probably could have made the drive in a day, it's only fifteen hours from where I am to Indiana, but...well, I do have to make whatever detours I can to avoid authorities. New York was the worst, it's car accident central up there and traffic's horrible. Spent a few days there living around Central Park out of my car. Once I got out, though, it was nothing but me and the open air.

I have to say, though, I've really enjoyed this drive. Fresh air blowing through the open window, radio blaring, almost makes me feel like I was in college again. I even went and got a haircut yesterday on one of my pit stops. I'm not used to short hair, it's been a while since the last time I had hair short enough that I didn't have to slick it backwards, but I kinda like it. Definitely don't look like the guy in the wanted posters anymore.

Now debating if I should keep the beard or shave it. On the one hand, I got a good Johnny Messner look going, and on the other hand the beard can be awfully cumbersome. Decisions decisions.

Of course, it hasn't been all smooth all the time. In fact, at one point this little trip almost had an abrupt ending.

This one motel in...I think it was Cleveland, though honestly once I got out of New York all sense of what state I was in went right out the window. Just me and the map that I couldn't read for shit. For all I know I could have ended up in Timbuktu. Fucking maps...

I'm getting off topic. Just picture a really crappy motel that you take one glance at and know that it probably rented by the hour. Imagine going into a cheap dinky room that smelled like sex, tears and fifty dollar bills, and sleeping on what feels like a haunted mattress and thinking to yourself that the dirty hand prints above the headboard really pulled the room together, and a shower that no matter how hard you scrubbed in the back of your mind you doubted if even the soap could be clean in that place.

Now picture all that and an FBI agent in a very similar room two doors down.

He wasn't dressed like an agent, none of the good ones are. The good ones being the ones that are on your tail. This one's been following me since day two of New York when I stopped in a convenience store for some Reese's and a FastBreak bar. They wear casual clothes when they're tailing you, but they usually have the same build, same haircuts, same Rolex on the right wrist. You'd think by now they'd pick a different schtick. Apparently that's not in their guidelines.

Sucks for them, I pay attention.

This one here had been following me since then. A rookie, by the looks of him, but a rookie Fed is just as dangerous as a veteran Fed when he wants to be. On my last morning he was sitting on the bench pretending to read the paper while I got some candy out of the vending machines and as I was headed back to finish up my packing (not that there really was much left to pack, but you understand) and as I was opening my door out of the corner of my eye I see him folding his paper, standing up, and coming my way as I slide through the door.

Shame he couldn't see through walls and see me move against the wall, out of sight for when he decided to come in after me, which he did without even knocking, the jerk. Well, he was a jerk, so I repaid the favor and knocked him in the back of the head so hard he fell flat on his face.

I checked his wallet- “Agent Leo Mellish”, his ID read- and pocketed it. Lord knows I could use another identity, if need be. Then I grabbed his cuffs and cuffed one of his wrists, then dragged him to the closet, through his arms over the bar, cuffed the other wrist so that he was hanging from the bar and then closed the door. I then finished packing and left, paying at the front desk on my way out.

Ohhh, Zeke, Zeke, Zeke. Why did you not take him with you? You could have gotten some answers out of him. Probably, but things to consider:

I spent three months investigating into Fisk and what he was doing. The entire fall, that whole period where I wasn't posting, was more or less investigating his special unit. Pretty sure nothing he says is going to be new info for me.

Where was I going to keep him? In the trunk of my car? Pretty sure any noise he made back there would fuck me over on the off chance I got pulled over. Same goes for if I dragged him into any place I was staying, hotel or whatnot. They'd notice someone making a lot of noise.

Finally, he'd slow me down. This thing I'm chasing, whatever it is and wherever it leads me, is more important to me than some suit. Priorities, people, priorities.

So why leave him alive? Because it's no fun to humiliate Fisk just by killing off his guys. Killing them would let him know I knew his men were tailing me, but why not have fun with it? Let's be honest, he'll be a sight to see whenever housekeeping finds him.

Which they will. Eventually. No guarantees.

I'm in Indiana now, and I'm pretty sure I'm closing in on Damien's town. Once I do, I intend to talk to any of the survivors from his story. His boss, his ex, Rick, maybe the doctors from his mother's asylum, anything like that. Hopefully I find something out.

Hopefully.