Colors Act one scene one.

The sun shown ironically jovial that day.

However, it didn't last as long as it would've been willed.

Black clouds came about the bright, multicolored sky.

Hehe.

Not the best of omens.

Thought Chris tarantino as he trudged painfully on through the field.

"Trudge."

This was definitely the right word.

Trudge: verb (used with object)

To walk laboriously or wearily along or over.

Example: "He trudged the deserted path ways for hours."

And as he was "trudging" you couldn't help but ask "What the hell happened, man?"

Not many were still alive to say.

But, Mister Tarantino was still here.

Chris was still trucking, brother.

He moved slowly, his bloody, bruised, shoeless feet splintering with blisters at every step.

He hadn't seen the best of the recent events.

But who had seen the best of anything lately?

Chris was no exception.

He had lost everything.

Family, home, money, even his nice profession as a marriage counselor.

But he liked not to feel too sorry for himself.

After all, he still had his health, right?

Yeah.

As if.

One might even ask, "Yo! Chris! Where you going, bro?"

But who'd know the answer to that?

Chris certainly didn't.

With his torn dress shirt and tie he was just moving on.

His once clean golfing shorts covered in dirt and mud.

He was just getting away from the rest of the world as best he figured.

Get away from all this war business.

Bad for the health, you know.

When you're walking day in and day out however, you see things.

Many oddities.

He had seen the carcass of what appeared to be a cow/goat?

He had came across some kind of floating boat, or whatever.

And now, in the distance, he saw man climbing forth from a hole.

Well well.

What do we have here?

He slowed down cautiously as he came upon the mole man.

The hole was rather narrow.

Poor man must have fallen in during his own doomed march.

"Ey!

You need a little a help there, mister?"

Called Chris as he came to be standing over the pit fall.

"Um.

To be honest, yes.

Some help would be appreciated, brother."

Answered the rather pleasant voice.

Chris could tell he must've been young.

Early twenties maybe even?

He reached for the smooth, light skinned hand with his black, rough ones.

Within moments he had hauled the young man forth from his prison.

Bent over and breathing hard(he need a little more upper body work outs)Chris asked the young blond haired man, "Who might you be, and how'd you end up down there, man?"

"Oh, just making my way Topside, Chris."

Flabbergasted Chris stood straight up and backed away.

"How the-

Why?

Who are you?"

"Just call me Charlie.

Thank you Chris.

Couldn't have quite made it up from that little pit of hell without ya'."

The man Charlie "Topside" then offered his hand as a show of friendship.

Chris took the scene in slowly with a great caution.

This was too strange to just go about it all willy nilly

Obviously.

Seeing his concern Charlie comforted him stating, " Now now, friend. There's no reason to be afraid. I'm not a bad guy."

The concise words didn't seem to make Chris relax, so Charlie had a slight surge of impatience.

Chris slowly reached for Charlie's hand, as to not offend the stranger.

Their hands met and Chris felt something.

Something new.

New and horrible in the sort.

Charlie's hands were as ice.

Cold, dark, and baleful in their nature.

Chris Tarantino was afraid.

But who wouldn't be?

Some dude climbs out of a hole and knows your name would estrange anyone on the spot.

Chris began fumbling for the proper words.

"H-how da-do you, um, do?"

"I'm perfect.

Wonderful in fact.

All thanks to you, Chris."

Comment Charlie with a bright smile.

He seemed to have pretty good dental plan for a mole man.

Cmon', man.

Walk with me."

And before Chris Tarantino could object Charlie's cold hands were about his shoulders and they were walking.

"Um.

But... where are we... going?

"Oh, here and there."

We're- I mean I'm Topside now.

It's time to celebrate.

Get down, ya' know, man?

You smoke?"

Asked the odd little man.

"Eh, sometime ago.

No longer.

Hehe, not much left to smoke that ain't been pinched."

Replied Chris who wasn't becoming anymore comfortable with the conversation.

"I dig... I dig."

Said Charlie starring almost ruefully into the distance.

"I like you, Chris.

You got... whats the word?

Flair?

Personality?

Some s**t like that.

I'm not quite sure what the word may or may not be.

But you got it, Chris.

You really do."

Chris's eyes narrowed as he grew a little more weary.

"Thanks.

I.. guess?

I think I might, ya know, just go on back home now."

Tarantino tried to shrug away but he could not seem to break away from the foreign embrace of Topside.

In a way he didn't want to.

This man was different.

But how?

Maybe it was the blank, happy stare.

Charlie had the gaze like that of a snake.

Hypnotic by effect.

Deadly by the end.

"And... thanks.

You're not too bad?"

He said now trying to return the polite words.

He sensed angering this man was a foolish mistake.

The kind of mistake you didn't come back from.

"Why so quiet there, Chrissy?

You need to lighten up man!

And I think I need whiskey.

God, do I need whiskey.

Lets pinch some, dig?"

Charlie had an interesting way of talking.

Like he'd crawled out from under some 1970s concert venue that'd never been put away.

But over the next hour it was more frightening than jocular whenever Charlie said "far out" or "righteous".

In all reality it was freaking hilarious but Chris knew chuckling was not a good idea.

He could see it now like the scene from Goodfellas.

"Whats so funny about me?!"

He'd turn from the overly pleasant Charlie Topside into Joe Pesci and he'd be packing.

So, whatever you do, don't laugh at the way the odd little man talks.

Please.

And above it all he dressed to match his voice.

Flowery green button shirt.

Bell bottom jeans.

Some freaking flips flops.

The man looked like a friggin hippie.

It really made one wonder where exactly that hole went.

"Hey, Chris-O pal!

Come check this out!"

Called Topside from up ahead.

Chris jogged his old out of shape body moving lamely.

He was already out of breath when he jogged the forty feet.

"You really to lay off the bon bons, my man.

But anyway, we got business.

Tell me what you see down there?"

Topside asked as he pointed down into the darkening glen.

The sun would be down in half an hour or so.

Chris looked closely.

There was something.

But what?

Men.

One, two, three, four men.

Armed men.

"I betchu' anythin' they got whiskey or something with em they gardening.

Heck, I'd even kill for some ripple.

What ya say?"

Chris looked at him eyes wide with fear.

"You're kidding?

You can't be serious!"

"Sssssshhhh, my man.

Not too much noise.

They ain't aware of our presence quite yet.

You gonna' help me out here or I gotta' do all the work?"

Chris's mouth dropped open.

"No.

No.

Absolutely... no!

I ain't gettin' plugged so you can get wasted, Topside!"

And then it happened.

A look came over Charlie.

Chris had always felt it was there beneath all the good cheer and charisma.

Charlie Topside was becoming pissed.

His face almost seemed to distort into something different.

It was terrible.

And then it was gone.

It went as soon as it came and Charlie smiled a happy, confident smile.

"Fine.

I'll be the real deal here, my man.

Just sit back.

But I get most of the cut!"

He said sharply pointing his finger at Chris.

"I'll be back.

Stay down and don't get shot up on me."

And then, for better or worse, Charlie began making his way the hundred yards or so way to meet the small group.

And all the way there Topside sang as loud as he could "You ain't nothing but a hound dog!

Crying all the time.

You ain't nothing but a hound dog!

Crying all the time.

You ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine!"

Chris shoved his own palm against his face.

They'd know he was on his way by now.

Luckily they couldn't see the on top of the hill from down in the scarred glen.

Charlie might be dead but Tarantino was still gonna be trucking after this.

What shame a for Charlie thought Chris.

Ah, what a shame.

_ _ _ _ _

??

Charlie Topside made his way quickly down the hill side with the confidence of a God.

What did he have to fear?

Yeah.

What must I fear?

The weapons of these abject men?

They're but boys.

Heheh.

He began to jog slightly.

He wanted that booze.

He could smell it.

God, could he smell it drifting on the air.

More than likely Chris was too petrified to smell things anymore,

Ti's a shame.

The four men sat about a dwindling flame.

Their site was meager.

Two crates.

A couple packs of miscellaneous junk.

And the men themselves were worse.

Dressed in rags and crap not fit for peasants and faces covered in filth.

Like a bunch a beggars, man.

Carrying gun, mind you.

But, lord, still a bunch of beggars.

One was tan, two white, and the last black.

Each carrying some different gun of sorts.

A magnum here, a Galil there.

Just "baby stuff" in Charlie's sight.

"Greetings, fellow country-men!"

They all stared at him as they had for the past minute since they had heard him coming over the hill.

They stared back forth for a brief moment before all but three turned their weaponry upon Topside(it seemed they weren't Elvis fans).

One man(the tan) stood up from the ground and eyed Charlie with a grim amusement.

"Look at thees, guys.

Hehehe.

Wha brings you down here all alone, chum?

You stupid or somethin?"

Little Italian Jack.

Thought Charlie with a great contempt.

But, for the moment, he restrained himself.

"Just coming to see if I can maybe borrow, buy, or be given some you fine gentlemen's, eh, drink.

Any you can bare to part with, eh?"

For a second time all the men gave each other brief glance.

The urchins were thriving on every look at Charlie.

It's funny to them.

Hardy-har-har... pricks.

But still Charlie held back his rage.

"A drink?

A drink?

Booze?!

Jesus, you're killing me here, man!"

Answered the Italian laughing directly into Charlie's face.

"Yes... a drink.

May I purchase some, my man?

I'd really, really, really like to without the inconvenience of guns being shoved in my face, dig?"

"Dig?

Dig?"

For some reason this particular man seemed to repeat everything twice like this.

This was already beginning to seriously irritate Charlie.

"May... I... buy... booze... sir?"

Yep.

Topside's patience was certainly thinning.

Thinning oh so very fast.

There was as click as the Italian cocked his pistol.

"Wha are you?

A jokester?

A jokester?

Tryin to bust my balls, chum?

Well, I don't think that's funny, chum."

He then proceeded to push the gun against Topside's chest.

This man was definitely pushing it.

Charlie sighed the sigh of a disturbed man then chuckled slightly.

"Look.

Look.

Look.

I just don't think you get it, man.

I want to buy the hooch.

B-U-Y.

Can't you possible reconsider this?

Ya know... without any guns?"

The Italian gave his fellows the third glance.

The THIRD.

Not second.

This was the third look in which the four and smiled and chuckled merrily.

Charlie was done.

He'd taken enough of this abuse.

Charlie had tried to be fair.

He'd even used a few different phraseologies just make it apparent what he was after.

Booze(whiskey in particular).

But they just had to have it there way.

Sure.

Lets go with that.

In that last second that the Italian had been taking his THIRD look back Charlie made his move.

He pushed the man's wrist up and slammed his free hand against the unlucky fellow's elbow shattering it instantly.

Charlie then took the gun and shot the first man he saw; the white man with the galil.

With a loud bang skull, blood, and brains flew over onto the black man who'd been sitting next to him.

And now you see this man reacted in a very odd way.

He screamed,(as if he'd been the one to be shot), fell backwards and seemed to pass out or whatever.

He sure was the HE-man of the bunch.

And then the two stood(with a third writhing in pain on the ground) there.

The other short, chubby, white man and Charlie.

One with a magnum(the white man) and the other with his Beretta 92(Topside).

Charlie stared into the man's eyes.

Fear.

Heheh.

Took a black pleasure in the scent.

He was going to enjoy this little power trip.

"I can see thine soul... Jules Cabal.

And it shall be mine."

Laughed Charlie in a new, dark, monstrous voice.

"I-I-I-I-I... I."

Spluttered the man who shook uneasily back and forth.

"Lower the gun and you won't suffer.

Now, Jules."

When the man only wobbled his arms slightly Charlie had another surge of impatience.

"I have a limited amount of time here, Cabal!"

Jules lowered his gun slowly, expecting Topside to open fire at any moment.

Gleaming sweat rolled down his fat face.

He was terrified.

"There's a good boy.

Now, my man, bring me what drink you got.

Whiskey I smelled.

That sound bout right to you, Jules?"

Jules(who still shook like a small child)nodded.

"Then why don'tchu go and grab it for old Topside.

As your Italian friend here, Casey, might say, can ya fetch it for me, chum?"

Jules closed his eyes as small tear began to brim.

He didn't move an inch.

"Sometime today?"

At Charlie's word Jules limb came alive once more and he began to to move.

He walked toward a small sack where a little bit of blood covered skull still clung.

Jules seemed to be resisting the urge to threw up.

"Cmon.

I ain't got all the little long day here."

Scoffed Charlie.

Jules fought his nausea and pulled forth a plastic milk jug full of a dull, golden liquid.

"OK.

Good, good.

And will you knock that off?"

Said Charlie who whose eyes now fell on Casey the Italian who still wept like a child.

"That's just what happens when you acting like friggin big shot.

Never forget, Casey.

Never forget."

Jule's shaking, clammy palms handed forth the whiskey.

"Much obliged gentlemen.

I hope to do business again soon.

And Casey... you might wanna get that elbow looked at."

And with that Charlie left.

He strutted away leaving the four(now three)men in a state of despondent panic.

He had utterly shaken the three to their cores.

Topside always had that effect on people.

So it was with a triumphant smile that Topside rejoined Chris who was, at the moment, in utter shock.

They drank well from that gallon of whiskey(well enough anyway).

Charlie and Chris sat opposite each other the fire.

It was warm on that night.

But "comfortable enough" would've been Chris's description.

He had grown slightly used to Topside.

Sure, he was scary as hell but not too bad.

Just don't piss him off.

Casey would "never forget" that surely.

Still Chris couldn't help but keep his reservation towards Charlie.

The dude could read minds.

F*****g minds, bro.

And what you just read were Chris specific reservations.

No harm in that we all know.

Normal people don't just read other normal people's minds.

"Hey, Chris."

Chris's eyes snapped up from the fire and his "deep" thoughts.

"Oh.

Yeah, Charlie?"

"I was just thinkin bout something a goodfella once told me; and I don't just mean a goodfella I mean a real deal main man.

His name was Stephen.

Real deal.

Yeah.

That's it."

Topside's eyes seem to glaze over as he remembered something.

Some far off memory.

A memory of something so vast, beautiful, and almost holy.

Something he'd long forgotten.

"Yeah.

Now I recall."

(Thanks to Dictionary.com)

Writer: �"noun

1. a person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., especially as an occupation or profession; an author or journalist.

2. a clerk, scribe, or the like.

3. a person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc., to writing: an expert letter writer.

4. (in a piece of writing) the author (used as a circumlocution for "I," "me," "my," etc.): The writer wishes to state….

5. a person who writes or is able to write: a writer in script.

6. Stock Exchange . someone who sells options.

7. Scot. a lawyer or solicitor.

Perfect: �"adjective

1. conforming absolutely to the description or definition of an ideal type: a perfect sphere; a perfect gentleman.

2. excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical improvement: There is no perfect legal code. The proportions of this temple are almost perfect.

3. exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose: a perfect actor to play Mr. Micawber; a perfect saw for cutting out keyholes.

4. entirely without any flaws, defects, or shortcomings: a perfect apple; the perfect crime.

5. accurate, exact, or correct in every detail: a perfect copy.

6. thorough; complete; utter: perfect strangers.

7. pure or unmixed: perfect yellow.

"I want the truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!"

- Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in A few good men.

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