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LordRaijin

The Unofficial I Love Karen Daniels Thread

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Smokewood
On 7/31/2015 at 7:08 AM, Ämpäri said:

Soooo... you like to whack it to vidya game characters?

who doesn't - weirdo! 

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Ryhan'ZFX

I'm planning to make an SFM p0rn model of Karen, since i'm still a rookie, it'll take time, wish me luck boys

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Agent 14

Nah Karen ain't for me she seems to be into the bdsm. Now give me the office assistant.. That sexy snarky woman is all I need.

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DPRK

nah, never liked her after what she did to Niko

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el carlitos
2 hours ago, DPRK said:

nah, never liked her after what she did to Niko

What did she do? I don´t remember.

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Urban Legends

She made him buy drugs or something and sent the cops in.. I think it was that little warehouse around... Shoot that little island.. I gotta get into gta4 some.. Anyway.

 

Mmm MMM when she bends over.. And just from the waist mind you.. To slide you that briefcase.. Only reason I love her because she is such a condescending bitch..she has this smart boyish.. Kinda. Intelligent look that really gets me sometimes..over the "tits are out" Cheetah girl.. Or even what.. Nikki? 

 

Damn all that natural beauty.. And she got those hips HAH. f*ckin bitch lol

 

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Lance Mayhem
Posted (edited)
3 hours ago, el carlitos said:

What did she do? I don´t remember.

 

She beat him at bowling. 

 

That little wiggle of hers can be pretty distracting. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, yeah, and she pretended to be his girlfriend so she could keep an eye on him for United Paper. She really got into the part, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[hidden]

Or rather, it got into her.

[/hidden]

 

 

 

 

 

EDIT:

 

Dang it! Can someone please tell me how to hide text when posting from a phone?

Edited by Lance Mayhem
I fail at hiding text. Lah-hoo, Ah-zer.

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Arnold Stallone
Posted (edited)

fb2bb8-Karen.png

 

https://www.gta5-mods.com/player/classic-karen-daniels

 

theNGclan released a new mod dedicated to Karen this week.

Perfect for anyone who wants to bring Karen's stylish east coast look to the sunny west coast.

 

 

Edited by Arnold Stallone

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Maxxi

Damn how is this old piece of sh*t thread still alive? I coulda swore it died 2 years ago

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Coleco

When your funny friend Karen Daniels makes a joke

 

22 minutes ago, Arnold Stallone said:

fb2bb8-Karen.png

 

 

 

 

Also hooray this thread is back

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Pete4000uk

Wow I haven't mas...thought of her, I mean this thread for ages!

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mute!

someone from R* has to be aware of this thread by now, right?

 

Hopefully, this character returns in a future GTA update.

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DarkReign27

Someone definetly has something for her at the company after that Bikini they put her in ha wowsers.

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Agent 14
10 hours ago, Urban Legends said:

She made him buy drugs or something and sent the cops in.. I think it was that little warehouse around... Shoot that little island.. I gotta get into gta4 some.. Anyway.

 

Mmm MMM when she bends over.. And just from the waist mind you.. To slide you that briefcase.. Only reason I love her because she is such a condescending bitch..she has this smart boyish.. Kinda. Intelligent look that really gets me sometimes..over the "tits are out" Cheetah girl.. Or even what.. Nikki? 

 

Damn all that natural beauty.. And she got those hips HAH. f*ckin bitch lol

 

No. She was assigned to watch elizabeta torrez because she was originally assigned to watch over roman bellic and the illegal things he was getting into as a cab driver. Once niko moved to lc and started making his moves with vlad and lil jacob she was assigned to watch him.

 

 

Anyways the story goes that liz sent jacob to sell some product bur it was a trap from a gang liz upon hearing the news was very infuriated with jacob for losing her product and threatened to have him and his brother badman killed sparking a war betweeen the jamaican and liz gang. Niko being the loyal friend to him went to get liz product back only to find himself into a police raid orchestrated by UL paper whom assigned Karen to watch niko. That's how karen end up leaving with the coke after revealing her true identity and intentions to niko.

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Arnold Stallone
4 hours ago, mute! said:

someone from R* has to be aware of this thread by now, right?

 

Hopefully, this character returns in a future GTA update.

Come on Rockstar, if not for us do it for her.

How can you say no to a face like this?

rk0gaq.jpg

 

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saintsrow
On 3/29/2019 at 6:31 AM, Arnold Stallone said:

fb2bb8-Karen.png

 

https://www.gta5-mods.com/player/classic-karen-daniels

 

theNGclan released a new mod dedicated to Karen this week.

Perfect for anyone who wants to bring Karen's stylish east coast look to the sunny west coast.

 

 

 

Ohhhhh, my heart goes pitter-pat!!! 😍 Karen is more badass than ever!  👍👍 Swooon!!  

 

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saintsrow

 

Here’s a new chapter.  It’s been a long time, Karen fans!  Waaaay too long.  I blame Twitter – biggest waste of time on the planet. 

 

The Karen saga isn’t over, and now it’s finally continuing.  Two more talky chapters, and then maybe there will be some action. 

 

Check out  Chapter 28, to get sync’d back into the story. 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 29:  Pain from the Past (Part 19):  Brazilian Getaway Special / Long Talks on the Beach

Brazilian Getaway Special / The Second Secondhand Store

 

 

Though I had resumed my pier-rail listening stance, internally I was still recovering from my euphoric rush of love and emotional resolution, with Karen.  The revelations of these moments, where Karen told me how I fit into her life, were already vindicating my feelings for her, and transforming my outlook for the future.  But Karen had moved on, now.  She was back to her story, not skipping another beat. 

 

Karen continued, “The overnight Leito sleeper express trip to Recife went completely without incident.  Wonderful.  I slept almost the whole way, in privacy and peace, not in fear.  Now this is the way the fugitive life *should* be.  😜  

 

“I woke up as the bus was slowing for intersections, getting into the urban grid of Recife.  I sat up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and opened the privacy curtain a bit, peeking down the aisle, to see if it looked like any of the other passengers were rising, to get off the bus at these intersections. 

 

“As I moved, I felt my neck was getting even stiffer.  It hurt, just to lean forward, or to try to turn my head, and the ache was going down into my shoulders, too.  Time for more pain pills.  I got one of the bottles of water out of my bag, and downed the first pills of the day.  They would help, but probably not enough. 

 

“There was almost no activity in the aisle; just a mother helping her kid change his clothes, near the front of the bus, and one sleepy-looking local guy shuffling past my bunk, to the toilet in the back.  It looked like we’d have to take the bus all the way to the Recife station.  I didn’t want to stand out, and be remembered, by being the only one to ask the bus driver for a special stop, or by hopping off at a traffic light. 

 

“I cracked open the blind on the bus window, to see outside.  There was early morning light now, but it was subdued, overcast this morning.  The streets were wet, apparently, from a light rain, which had also left a mist of virgin droplets on the glass. 

 

“Based on the commercial business diversity we were driving through, and the approaching city skyline, I could see that Recife was dense, urban, large – ideal for getting lost, hiding from the cops.  I was feeling a minor wave of additional relief, and hope.  Hope is dangerous, though.  It leads to wishful thinking, which leads to laziness, and mistakes.  I again reminded myself to continue to take every opsec precaution. 
 

“I closed the blind and got dressed, wiggling back into my clothes, so I’d be ready to get out of the bunk.  Once again, I piled up my tangled hair under my fashionable hat, and fitted it on, ready to dodge the security cameras. 

 

                                                                                                 ---

 

“At the Recife central ônibus terminal, the buses disembark in a big, outdoor shelter, longer than the Aracaju facility, but with a similar, high metal roof.  I looked out the window as we pulled in.  The morning sun momentarily peeked through clouds, coming in low, through the large, shadowed metal space, and then it was gone again.  Through the tinted, misted windows of the bus, I looked for cameras up on the steel pillars, and didn’t see any.  I shut the blind again; time to get off. 

 

“I gathered up my bag and slid out of my bunk, ready to go down the aisle.  Max was also awake.  He stood up in the aisle and hoisted his duffel bag up on his shoulder.  I let him go first, so he could see where the cameras were.  We were the last ones off the bus, again.  The driver was already out and gone, apparently headed for the station, for breakfast or sleep. 

 

“I kept my head looking down, my colorful hat doing its job, hiding my face, while Max looked for a route with no low-angle cameras, so we could make our way out of the large, covered disembark area.  That all went well, too, and soon we were out in the street, greeted by the familiar urban background, alive with the morning’s vehicle and pedestrian traffic.  A new day, a new city.  We were already blending in. 

 

“There was still a slight drizzle, threatening to get worse.  We walked half a block east, away from the bus terminal, and stopped under a veranda, covering the entrances of several adjoining shops that hadn’t opened yet.  I suggested that we should try to find a couple of those plastic rain ponchos as soon as we can, so we could keep walking, if we were caught out here in heavier rain. 

 

“Max sort of shrugged, subtly, and said that he didn’t like the feel, the sound, or the monomer smell of those plastic poncho hoods, around his head.  I replied that at least they could keep his duffel bag dry, but he said the bag was water resistant, with a seal around the zipper, so he wasn’t concerned.  I was actually thinking more about keeping my shopping bag dry, anyway, when I had suggested the ponchos. 

 

“He asked, ‘So, what’s the plan?’

 

“’A bus to the beach,’ I replied.  ‘Get ourselves lost in the tourist crowd; hide in plain sight.’

 

“I got out the Pernambuco tour book, opened it to the Recife map pages, and flipped back to the metro bus page, showing a small, simplified map of the routes, and the bus stops.  Since the metro buses branched out from the same intercity terminal where we had just arrived, Max said he’d go back in, and get metro day passes for us. 

 

“I wanted to walk a fair number of blocks away from this central station, and then get on the metro bus line going to the beach, starting from some random bus stop further away, to break up the continuity of our path.  While Max was gone, I chose suitable bus stops, and I again verified the beach area hotels to check out, and noted the other businesses shown on the beach area close-up map in the book. 

 

“There were touristy convenience stores in the beach area, where we could get a few groceries.  I looked for clothing stores where I might go to get the elements of another outfit, but no clothing-specific stores were advertised or listed; only the tourist-related businesses were in the book. 

 

“Then I had an idea.  I’d had good luck with the secondhand store, getting the hoodie disguise, the pullover cargo pants, and other things I needed, in advance of my revenge run, a few days ago.  Plus, the thrift shops typically didn’t have video cameras, being relatively downscale places, or generally not so concerned about protecting their donated, recycled merchandise. 

 

“I thought, I’ll try the secondhand approach again, here in Recife.  So, before we got on the bus, I wanted to find a phone book and check the yellow pages, for thrift stores or goodwill shops. 

 

“Max came back with the bus passes, and some other things he was carrying in a plastic bag.  He opened the bag to show me, saying, ‘There was a newsstand in the lobby of the bus station., selling the typical mix of impulse-buy necessities, in addition to a hundred different celebrity gossip rags.  They had your ponchos.’ 

 

“I took a look.  The ponchos were just about what I expected – thin, colored plastic, hooded, packed in small pouches of the same material and color.  They were meant to be semi-disposable; I expected they would last us about as long as this rain would probably be around, today and maybe tomorrow.  I had no idea, at that moment, what hell this rain really portended for us. 

 

I told Max my plan, starting with finding a phone book.  I showed him the bus stops, the first of which was about 10 blocks east.  I thought we should walk at least that far, maybe go even further, before randomly getting on a city bus.  We also noted the two or three suitable bus stops to get off near the pousadas and hotels, along the beach road. 

 

“We started walking generally east, along the bus route, and soon found a cluster of three phone kiosks, one with a phone book.  With a little work, checking addresses of a few thrift shops and church charity outlets against the map in the tour book, I found a thrift shop, a brechó – named ‘Flea,’ as in ‘flea market,’ I guess – that was only a little bit out of our way, about six blocks off the bus route.  I thought we could walk there first, then head on to the next bus stop on the route toward the beach.  Max was agreeable. 

 

“As we walked further away from the central business district, the nature of the city turned more downscale pretty quickly – narrower streets, and not so much attention to urban infrastructure like road surfaces, sidewalks, or curbs.  At the same time, the distribution of businesses and interspersed apartments got smaller, more diverse, and not so well maintained.  Aracaju had been the same way. 

 

“We arrived at the thrift store in about 25 minutes, and it was open.  The building itself was narrow and deep, like the second-tier places of business in Aracaju.  Sidewalk footage is apparently a premium resource. 

 

“This brechó shop was packed full of used and trade-in clothing, but no other type of merchandise.  Everything was neatly grouped and laid out.  It turned out to be a gold mine of women’s clothes; it had every kind of garment, including kid’s clothes, all kinds of colors and styles, and the prices were right.  There were no video cameras, inside or out.  Excellent. 

 

“When we came in, I had noticed that the front of the shop even had a bit of pride in decoration; painted nicely, carefully, with decorative wooden shutters, and cute, colorful wooden flower sculptures along the bottom of the store window. 

 

“This wasn’t just a lonely, dark, tired secondhand place where clothes came to die, where no one cared.  I had the impression that someone with some good local taste curated this used apparel selection.  It probably attracted a regular clientele of locals, looking for unique or retro items. 

 

“I told Max I was going to look around a bit, and I suggested that he take a look at the smaller selection of miscellaneous men’s clothes, which happened to be at the far corner in the back of the shop. 

 

“I didn’t mean to necessarily imply to Max that he should get some new clothes, but it appeared that he took it that way.  He just gave me a quick, slightly smirky Max smile, and I knew a retort was coming. 

 

“’What?  You don’t approve of my fine fashion sense?’ he asked, looking down at his generic plaid shirt, and cargo shorts.  ‘Doesn’t meet your rich standards?’
 

“’Max, you know I didn’t mean it like that,’ I replied.  ‘I’m just going take a few minutes to look around.  Didn’t want you to get bored.’  He got the idea, cocked his head briefly in a gesture of snarky acknowledgement, and headed in the right direction.  I turned around to start my search.  In fact, it *is* easier to think about clothes selection when I don’t have the obligation of maintaining a shared social space with someone, so I was glad Max took the hint, and didn’t hover over me. 

 

“I had so many choices, I decided to get enough for two outfits, two disguises, so I could try to confuse the trail even more.  This tiny bit of retail therapy was actually making me feel better, forgetting temporarily that I was a murderer on the run.  I was just lost in looking at the colors, prints, and styles. 

 

“Many of the clothes would have worked fine.  I instinctively looked for girly clothes, to create a different impression than I made, while beating up and killing people – it seemed naturally like the right opsec approach.  After 10 minutes or so, I picked out some things to try on.  I found a slightly floofy, floral-print, strapless sun dress, as I had envisioned, and for the second outfit, a separate tank top and pedal pushers, for a totally different look. 

 

“There was a little curtained changing booth against the wall, between a rack of dresses and the shoe shelves.  I quickly tried on the clothes, and they looked and fit well enough.  In the booth, looking in the mirror, in these different clothes, my first reflex was normal, to think about how I looked in them, to imagine wearing these clothes out in the world, like a normal girl with no cares, concerns or worries. 

 

“But then I remembered the situation of that girl in the reflection, standing there, a Karen with no future, and I shook my head.  The reason I was here, in this little store, trying on these bright outfits, was because I had thrown my life away. 

 

“‘Jesus F*cking Christ,’ I thought, mouthing the words, while exhaling a long, sad sigh, ‘You did it again.’  But in that moment, an impulse rose in me, to take control of my situation, to change perspective, to consider this problem as something that I could contain, manipulate, mitigate. 

 

“Looking myself in the eyes, in the mirror, I resolved, without even thinking the literal words, that I would somehow get back to the U.S., and I would live under the radar there, building up an alias identity from an old, usurped credential of a person no longer living.  This is the way of some of the old 1960’s activist hippies, who had committed federal crimes, like bombings or endangering people, becoming lifelong fugitives, going underground with a false identity, for the rest of their lives. 

 

“It was still possible to steal the identity from, and obtain, an old birth certificate, in some states; it was easy enough, at least, until some future time, when they start hashcoding DNA maps into birth certificates. 

 

“Kind of amazing, really, that a brand new human comes into the world, and the only thing that shows who they are, are a few lines of handwriting scratched on a postcard form by a doctor or nurse, in a hurry to get to their next patient.  Such a fragile system, for something so important.  Well, that’s the way it used to be, before computers, which ironically, probably makes the information even more vulnerable. 

 

“The change in perspective gave me new momentum, the drive to go more active, in planning and executing my escape from Brazil.  The clothes were good.  I was ready.  Well, except that I realized, glancing in the mirror again, that the outfits weren’t quite complete – they were too plain, too unnatural. 

 

“I came out of the booth with the clothes I planned to buy, and headed for a counter I had seen, on the other side of the shoes, displaying a variety of costume jewelry, necklaces and bracelets.  Just what I needed to make the outfits more generic, more girly, and in so doing, less noticeable. 

 

“I found a couple of necklaces, one a dainty chain with colored glass gems, the other a colorful set of plastic multi-strand beads, plus a pair of dangly earrings, and three bracelets that sort of matched the necklaces.  Now, I was really ready, hoping to look like a generic female tourist, rather than the vicious, crazed hoodie killer, that witnesses to my crimes could recognize. 

 

“I went to the clearing in the middle of the store, where there was a checkout desk, staffed by a middle-teens local girl, who looked up from a textbook she was reading.  Beside her, on the desk, was a last-generation iFruit MP3 player, with a set of earbuds attached via a long white wire, but she wasn’t using them. 

 

“I paid for the clothes, and folded and carefully stuffed them in my shopping bag, which was getting full, now, with the straw hat, water bottles, my phone, and tour books in the bottom.  The girl who was clerking noticed the bag, recognizing the fancy name. 

 

“‘Você tem o seu chapéu lá? [You got your hat there?]’ she asked.  She was able to discern fashion from casual. 

 

“’Si,’ I replied, and smiled.  ‘Muito dinheiro [Too much money],’ I added, with a pout. 

 

“I had a tiny flash of a concern that she would remember me because of this little extra interaction, but I dismissed it – it was so unlikely that the police would just happen to come across this little shop, many random blocks away from downtown.  She’d remember the American couple who came in, regardless, so my extra conversational exchange probably didn’t matter.  And obviously, now, she’d remember the hat; another good reason for using the straw hat with the sun dress outfit, when the time came. 

 

“Then I thought, I probably should get a tote bag, too, so that in my new outfits, I won’t be visibly carrying anything the same as I had in the last city, like this shopping bag.  But I hadn’t seen the right sort of thing in this store; they had a nice selection of purses, but I needed a larger, more utilitarian bag.  I’d keep looking for that, elsewhere, maybe in the tourist shops near the beach. 

 

“It was time to rustle Max, and get back on the road.  I glanced around and saw him, over top of the racks, in the men’s section, where I had sent him.  His back was to me, and he was standing still, apparently deep in that special state of clothes selection catalepsy.  Or so I thought. 

 

“I came back the aisle toward him, and even though my sneakers weren’t making audible footsteps, I figured that he would easily sense my presence in his peripheral vision.  But he didn’t turn to me.  Max’s gaze was locked on a colorful parrot print shirt, hanging on the rack.  He was just standing there, dead still, almost trancelike. 

 

“I assumed that he liked the shirt, and was trying to decide whether to buy it.  Actually, I liked it, too, so I hoped he would get it.  I playfully walked up beside him, where I could look and point at the shirt, and I said, ‘You should get it, Max.  You need some color.  The parrots’ll look great on you!’ 

 

“Max startled, his eyes going wide for a second, and his shoulders jumped, like happens when you’re sort of falling asleep and your body jerks you awake.  His eyes suddenly refocused on the shirt and then he immediately, instantly, looked at me.  His expression was — god, it was … like, the most profound, abject sadness I think I’ve ever seen. 

 

“In the space of a few seconds, his face went from that look of sadness, transforming, for a fraction of a second, into a glare of fury in his eyes, like pure fighting adrenaline, followed by his gaze looking away, down, dejected, signaling a deep sense of failure or shame, closing his eyes tight shut, and then just as fast, his expression turning into that familiar, twisted look you see, on the face of a person who’s about to burst out crying.  He was going to do it again, like he did on the street in Aracaju, when he remembered his wife. 

 

“’Max!’ I hissed, whispering.  ‘Not here!  Max!’   But the process had already started.  

 

“He kept it quiet, but went into full anguish mode again, his face screwed tight with emotional pain, that I couldn’t imagine.  I hoped that the girl at the desk wasn’t seeing this.  We didn’t need to be remembered for making a scene, like this. 

 

“This time, Max managed to overcome it.  It wasn’t the same as last time.  His hands clenched, and he suddenly froze, head facing downward, and I saw him willfully relax, his inrush of breathing stopping at the same moment.  His expression returned to something kind of like normal, as he opened his eyes, and then he exhaled, a sigh, a release, a return to this world.  He stood there, looking down, for another five seconds or so, and unclenched his fists. 

 

“’Max?’ I said.  ‘Let’s go.  OK?’

 

“He looked up at me, met my gaze, but it seemed like he was still a little mentally distant.  He replied, ‘Yeah … let’s.’  He reached up with one hand, to wipe away the tears that were clinging to his eyelashes. 

 

“As I turned to lead Max out of the shop, I glanced over to see if the girl was watching us, over the racks.  But she apparently was sitting down at the desk, so I couldn’t see her, and she couldn’t see us.  In the narrow aisle, Max’s duffel bag was brushing along the clothes hanging on the racks, as we walked. 

 

“As we got to the front door of the shop, I was able to glance back again, to see the checkout desk, about halfway down the center aisle.  The girl was sitting there, earbuds in place, now, apparently absorbed again in her book.  She might have heard us, and was just pretending she hadn’t; I couldn’t tell.  She didn’t look up as we left. 

 

                                                                                                    ---

 

“As we got back out on the street, the midmorning sun was obscured by clouds again, and the sky looked dark gray, stormy, out over the ocean, to the northeast.  I could see that Max was looking sullen, or sulky, apparently emotionally equalizing, coming back from some terrible memory. 

 

 

“Because he saw that shirt?  Why?  He probably wouldn’t want to talk about it.  But I thought, this is the time to start down the path, to help him, to find and hopefully fix whatever has messed him up so badly.  Strike while the memory is fresh, I decided. 

 

“’Max,’ I started, ‘what was that all about?  What triggered you?  Tell me.’ 

 

“He shook his head, looking down, and he sighed.  Meanwhile, I had started walking in the direction of the next bus stop, as we had planned, and Max was keeping up, beside me.  I was glad he hadn’t shut down, altogether. 

 

“’Max,’ I tried again.  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.  What did you see?  What did you remember?  Something shook you up, plenty.’ 

 

“Max replied, ‘It’s pointless.  It… doesn’t matter…’  But the tone of his voice wasn’t final.  I could tell that, subconsciously, he did need to talk about it, to unburden his mind of something.  He needed someone to tell it to.  I could feel it.  Now was the time; here was the place; I was the one.  It would still be rough going. 

 

“’It *does* matter, Max!’ I replied. 

 

“’Let’s start out easy,’ I said.  As we walked, I asked him again, ‘What was it about that parrot-print shirt?  What did you see in it?  Where did it take you?’ 

 

“Max seemed to be coming back to reality, now.  I could sense, just by his movement and his posture, as he walked beside me, that his fog and confusion had dissipated.  He let out a long breath, and it was clear that he had something to say, in reply. 

 

“’We’ve got to split up,’ Max said, flatly. 

 

“’What???’ I said, surprised.  What did that have to do with a parrot-print shirt?  It made no sense.  Reflexively, I stopped walking, and turned to him.  I was shocked.  Max stopped, also.  We looked at each other.  I was trying to read his face; it seemed sad, tentative.  Then his lips pursed, like there was something he didn’t want to say, but he was going to force himself to say it. 

 

‘Max looked downward, momentarily, the same way as he did, when he was in the aisle in the store, a couple of minutes ago.  Then he looked back up at me, making eye contact, with a seriously serious expression. 

 

“’If you stay with me, you’re going to die.’

 

                                                                                                   ---

Edited by saintsrow

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Voodoo-Hendrix

The thread that keeps on giving.

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CanadianMuscle

hit or miss, karen took the kids

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