Being Sociable

[Anthony Saint]

Jesus fuck, Anthony thought viciously to himself as he passed the sixth or seventh sweet little old lady with white hair, who had stopped to reassure him--on no uncertain terms--that young men with his lifestyle were welcomed in Hazleton. Did everybody and their literal grandmother stop to gossip about every new tourist in town? Or was he special?

How the hell did they even find out?

It wasn't like he ran naked through the streets, blasting out his life story with a goddamn bullhorn. The point of being believable was to be discreet and damnit, they still all knew, to a person, about him and his "husband" and their "one-year anniversary" tour through Washington and Oregon.

A little savagely, Anthony bit off the top of the corn dog that he'd just bought, chewing with a little more vigor than was strictly necessary. He glanced around as he walked at the people, seemingly innocent, polite, humble. They lived in small rancher-style houses with neat front yards. Everybody had the same little garden, trimmed and watered, with petunias and dahlias and roses. Off in the outskirts, where the less affluent lived, were trailers and slightly less presentable yards. Yellowing grass, heaps of junk metal ready to be salvaged and sold off, piles of misshapen wood for the fireplace... Typical small town scenery, as far as Anthony was concerned.

And yet, something wasn't right. It was the weird prickle at the base of his skull, every time he passed by that kid who worked at the theater--the one who bared white teeth at him in a smile that resembled a grimace. It was the shiver down his spine whenever he passed by the cemetary, exchanging glances with the woman who tended the plots. It was something in the air, something in the water--something in the sinister whisper of the wind and the silky rustle of leaves.

Hell, Anthony was no shivering little bitch but when that creepy crawly feeling came over him some nights, even he wanted to take a swan dive into his partner's bed and shut his eyes tight. He never did, of course--that was just way, way out of line. They were professionals, here on a job, not scared little punks.

Moodily, he inspected the bitten-off corn dog. Pretty good, actually, for festival fare. Or... what did they call it? A Watermelon Social? Little triangular pink and green banners were strung up all along the street, running from tent to tent--watermelon slices. Cute. The food here wasn't bad and the entertainment was a little hokey but it was amusing. Some kind of band was playing up on a narrow music stage and couples were slowly revolving around on the polished cedar planks that they'd set down for a dance floor. Anthony might've enjoyed an event such as this--he wasn't nearly as jaded as his appearance suggested--had he not been disturbed by all the grandmas in town stopping him to congratulate him on his anniversary.

That son of a bitch Rhodes... If not for him, Anthony wouldn't have come here with such a bizarre, far-fetched story. It was the incident in Seattle, he was pretty sure, that catapulted him face-first onto Rhodes' shit list. Why else would he be assigned some random partner, and sent out here to the middle of nowhere? Anthony gritted his teeth around the stick of the corn dog, after another bite. "Son of a bitch," he muttered vindictively and then tore off the next bite.

Wandering along the block, Anthony stopped at various tents and booths. There were games--ring toss, water guns and balloons, bobbing for watermelon-shaped balls and a dunk tank with an uncomfortable, wet-looking teenager desperately wiping dark hair from his eyes. Nothing suspicious, though Anthony didn't really expect anything to happen in broad daylight. It was at night that all the creeps seemed to come out and it was typically at night that he and his partner prowled the streets, taking discreet pokes around. But daytime was useful for reconnaissance, to case out their next target of investigation.

"Hey fella! Care to give this game a try?" A man in a dark tank top waved to him and then gestured to the pyramid of bottles behind him. "Win a big ole' plush toy for your... partner," he continued with something close to a smirk. Anthony leveled an Unamused Look at him but wandered closer. Up above the man was a string of plush animals. He reached up and flicked the tail of a lion with a fluffy mane.

Great. One more person who knew his life story.

"He can win a big ole' plush toy for himself," Anthony deadpanned, but pulled out two bucks and handed it to the man behind the booth. If he was winning a plush toy, he was going to win it for himself, thank-you-very-much. It would come in handy when he talked to the kids, and needed something to gain their trust. Given three baseballs, Anthony lined up his first shot. It missed by a hair; he cursed softly under his breath. The second shot went wide but he focused and aimed the third with all the concentration he had and it looked like the ball was going to smack into the pyramid dead center...

"Awww, that's too bad!" The man bent to pick up the baseball. "So close!"

Anthony scratched his head, puzzled. How the hell...? He swore it was going to hit. Why did it swerve and miss?