"Guys. Guys!" the bearded blonde shouts and they all shut up. He does have a pretty commanding voice. "Look," he says, pointing at Frank. He takes a couple of steps closer, reaching out a hand all slow and careful like he's trying to catch a rabid dog. Frank doesn't move, just lets the guy put his hand on Frank's hoodie, tugging the neckline down on one side. "Where's your scorpion?" he asks, and all the others crane their heads to look at Frank's neck. Frank's bare, and totally normal neck, what the fuck?
"What scorpion?" Frank asks, wondering if this is some kind of code or something. When he looks around they're all staring at him, shocked. "What?" Frank yells, because for fuck's sake he just wants to know already.
"You're not our Frank," the black-haired one says, looking like he's about to cry.
Frank looks at each of them, trying to find any clues but all he gets is more shock and sadness. This is the weirdest most confusing thing ever and he's had fucking enough, thanks. Time to count out. "You know what? Fuck this. This is not as advertised. I'm out." He turns and heads for the door. He saw a bus stop not far back, it shouldn't be too hard to get back to town. There's still enough time for him to get an actual paying client tonight if he gets back to his corner soon enough.
The tiny angry guy with the sideburns grabs him by the arm. Frank shakes him off more out of habit than anything, "Hey, no money, no touching. You obviously don't want to party and I got fucking bills to pay. Leave me alone."
"Wait," the guy says, and something in his voice makes Frank pause, and listen. "How much for the night?"
Frank huffs out a breath. Fuck this fucking Twilight Zone bullshit. He should just go. He knows he's got a shitty chance of catching another job tonight, though. He bites his lip, and asks, "For more of this weirdo bullshit?"
The guy just shrugs, which is confirmation enough.
"Fine," Frank says, "Five hundred, half up front." He's bluffing a little, and if he gets pushback he'll drop it down, but the guy just nods and reaches for his wallet.
*
They've got photos. Lots of them. With a guy who could be Frank's fucking twin. The fro guy scrolls through them on a laptop, image after image. The Frank lookalike - with twinky makeup and emo hair - glowers at the camera, surrounded by the other weirdos. All of them except the tiny angry guy - who must be their pimp, or manager or whatever. Some of the pictures are from magazine spreads and Frank's trying to figure out if he's heard any of these guys songs on the radio. He used to be really into the music scene, but that was a long time ago now. He only tends to hear what's piped into the stores or what's on people's car stereo's these days.
Fro guy clicks through pictures, and Frank tries to keep his reactions calm, to blink and nod vacantly even as his brain starts to spiral. Who is this guy. Why does he look exactly like Frank? How do they have the same name?
No. No. He can't let this crazy get to him. It's just a job. He just needs to get through the night and he can go the fuck back to normal already, with a nice fat wallet he didn't even have to put out to earn.
He thinks maybe fucking would be easier than this bullshit though. The black haired guy keeps asking him questions, then comparing notes with the skinny blond, that mostly seem to consist of "he's just wrong". The angry dude is on the phone to who the fuck knows, talking about travel plans or cancellations or something. The heavier dude with the beard hasn't spoken again, he just sits on the couch watching it all go down with a frown on his face. It's a little unsettling.
"Where did you go to school?" Black-haired Guy asks,
Frank sighs and scratches a hand through his hair, "I went to private school. Pencey Prep."
no subject
"What scorpion?" Frank asks, wondering if this is some kind of code or something. When he looks around they're all staring at him, shocked. "What?" Frank yells, because for fuck's sake he just wants to know already.
"You're not our Frank," the black-haired one says, looking like he's about to cry.
Frank looks at each of them, trying to find any clues but all he gets is more shock and sadness. This is the weirdest most confusing thing ever and he's had fucking enough, thanks. Time to count out. "You know what? Fuck this. This is not as advertised. I'm out." He turns and heads for the door. He saw a bus stop not far back, it shouldn't be too hard to get back to town. There's still enough time for him to get an actual paying client tonight if he gets back to his corner soon enough.
The tiny angry guy with the sideburns grabs him by the arm. Frank shakes him off more out of habit than anything, "Hey, no money, no touching. You obviously don't want to party and I got fucking bills to pay. Leave me alone."
"Wait," the guy says, and something in his voice makes Frank pause, and listen. "How much for the night?"
Frank huffs out a breath. Fuck this fucking Twilight Zone bullshit. He should just go. He knows he's got a shitty chance of catching another job tonight, though. He bites his lip, and asks, "For more of this weirdo bullshit?"
The guy just shrugs, which is confirmation enough.
"Fine," Frank says, "Five hundred, half up front." He's bluffing a little, and if he gets pushback he'll drop it down, but the guy just nods and reaches for his wallet.
*
They've got photos. Lots of them. With a guy who could be Frank's fucking twin. The fro guy scrolls through them on a laptop, image after image. The Frank lookalike - with twinky makeup and emo hair - glowers at the camera, surrounded by the other weirdos. All of them except the tiny angry guy - who must be their pimp, or manager or whatever. Some of the pictures are from magazine spreads and Frank's trying to figure out if he's heard any of these guys songs on the radio. He used to be really into the music scene, but that was a long time ago now. He only tends to hear what's piped into the stores or what's on people's car stereo's these days.
Fro guy clicks through pictures, and Frank tries to keep his reactions calm, to blink and nod vacantly even as his brain starts to spiral. Who is this guy. Why does he look exactly like Frank? How do they have the same name?
No. No. He can't let this crazy get to him. It's just a job. He just needs to get through the night and he can go the fuck back to normal already, with a nice fat wallet he didn't even have to put out to earn.
He thinks maybe fucking would be easier than this bullshit though. The black haired guy keeps asking him questions, then comparing notes with the skinny blond, that mostly seem to consist of "he's just wrong". The angry dude is on the phone to who the fuck knows, talking about travel plans or cancellations or something. The heavier dude with the beard hasn't spoken again, he just sits on the couch watching it all go down with a frown on his face. It's a little unsettling.
"Where did you go to school?" Black-haired Guy asks,
Frank sighs and scratches a hand through his hair, "I went to private school. Pencey Prep."
(CONT)