@poleaxed

[exorkismos]

The last dregs of the congregation are returning to the pews after taking Communion when the heavy chapel doors bang, so there's a little bustle to cover the noise, but not enough. Marcus freezes, winces. Oh. It's Sunday, is it? Yes. It's Sunday. No chance of grabbing the priest for a private chat about the minions of hell, then, not until this wraps up.

He shakes off his moment of surprise easily. The other church-goers don't. He doesn't take much notice, but he doesn't blame them either; he's lanky and a little stooped, dressed in slept-in and rained-on black and with his hat casting shadows over his bruised face — and there's blood trickling from his nose, though he's not really cognisant of it. He swears under his breath, leaves muddy bootprints on the floor as he stumbles to the back pew and drops his bag too loud. The distinct acidic tang of sweat pours off him.

Some lessons on behaviour in Church are so ingrained, through, as to be muscle memory: he genuflects hurriedly (though getting up sends a pang through his torso — that's a bruised rib, he notes to himself with a grimace) and takes his hat off. Wipes his face and is startled by the crimson streak along his knuckles. "Ah, God damn it."

Nudging the woman next to him, he says, not really quiet enough, "Sorry. Got a tissue?"

Comments

[poleaxed]

"You take house calls?" And then, "Christ. Should've come to my house when I was growing up. Would've paid to see that fight."

Daddy, can we move now that you've shoved a priest's head into a wall?

She shakes her head and, for once, doesn't show offence, if only because it gives her an opportunity to slide in another Neil Young reference. "It's sedan delivery." Anyway. "I bet yours runs worse."

[exorkismos]

"Yeah? You beat a woman with varicose veins?" Not a massive Neil Young fan, but music is Marcus' one area of popular culture competency. Expertise, in fact. He squints at the car.

"Mine don't run at all right now," he admits. "Left it stalled in the parking lot of the motel I'm in. Hopefully the tires ain't been nicked."

[poleaxed]

"If she's mouthing off..." Joan shrugs, finding herself reveling in telling black comedy jokes to a priest. Even if he's an ex-priest (and she can guess why, from the way he acts, Jesus). That's an ugly thing, to enjoy it that much just because of what he used to be. God damn, she's a fuckup.

Well, no fixing that; it's been that way since birth.

And then he says something that entirely distracts her-- it's been far too fucking long since she worked on a car that wasn't FrankenFord. She can feel her fingers itching for it.

"You need it looked at?" She opens the trunk of her dinky sedan, so he can clearly see the wealth of mechanic's tools, well-used but well taken care of, laid out and ready.

[exorkismos]

He grins at her lopsided. “Look at you. Proper good samaritan.” Not that she’s said she’ll do it for free, but Marcus is brazen and cash-poor enough to breeze through an interaction like this in the hopes of embarrassing Joan into a free service. He doesn’t really expect it to work — Joan doesn’t seem that easily bullied. Still, worth a shot.

“Yeah, if you’re offering.”

[poleaxed]

If she rolls her eyes much more, she's gonna get a headache. "Yeah, I hear faith without works is a dead motherfucker. Get in the car and tell me about the old lady who beat the shit out of you."

She shuts and locks the trunk before opening the driver's side door, getting in, and leeeaning across the divide to unlock the passenger's side. Automatic locks, what the fuck are those. As soon as the engine roars to life, the entire frame starts to shake, vibrating just slightly. There's also a half-second of blasted music; she turns down the volume quickly, before Harvest echoes through the entire parking lot.

[exorkismos]

The music makes Marcus raise his eyebrows and sway a few inches back like he's physically buffeted by the noise — theatrics. He gets in, has to wrangle with the seat lever in order to get legroom: impractically lanky, as ever.

As he closes the door, he says almost conversationally, "She wasn't that old." His voice is tinged with something not-quite-cautious. Careful, maybe. A delicate subject. "In her thirties. She's sick, doesn't know where she is sometimes or what's going on, makes her lash out. Not her fault. I offered to pray over her. Sort of what I do. She was doing okay when I left her. Nice lady, kicks like a fucking mule."

He's actually pretty pleased with that description. All of it's true. He'd come out with it and say exorcism actually — it's tempting — but he can't work out what type of bastard Joan is: the crusading type or the not my business type. Latter's fine, former's admirable but inconvenient.

[poleaxed]

And Joan can sense when she's being... not quite lied to, but something off. She keeps listening.

Joan moves the sedan out of the parking lot, and the rattling stops, smooths out, the car running without a bit of complaint. Well, as long as they stay under 60, and don't ever floor it, which they thankfully do.

She listens to Marcus' little story in the meanwhile, chewing it over. Something's off. Ex-priests don't go to pray for funzies. Don't get kicked around by sick old(er) women on the regular. Unless there's some embarrassment, something deeply wrong, something they don't want the real, actual priest poking around at, either out of shame or a lack of expertise. Or both.

Joan's voice is about as close as it ever gets to gentle when she says, "she was a junkie, you mean. And you let her hit you."

[exorkismos]

With a narrow-eyed grin, Marcus leans his head back. "Don't tell me you're getting soft on me now, Joan middle-name last-name," he says. "Stiff upper lip, please. Yeah, she got me a few times. Wasn't going to clock her back, was I?"

Speaking of. He rolls his neck, frowns, reaches up to try and wring a knot out of his shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he advises. "Small, sad story. No fun." He flashes a wider slice of teeth. "What about you, then? You just drive around in this thing looking for good works you can grumble about while you perform?"

[poleaxed]

"Agnes Dority," she supplies on habit alone. Used to be, she'd get paranoid about people figuring out who she was, but google searches don't turn up her name at all. You really have to dig, to find the missing person report filed after the double murder, almost ten years ago in the middle of shitsville, Delaware.

Also, she thinks he'll get a kick out of the middle name. Somebody always does.

"Maybe you didn't have to hit her, but fuck. Could've done something. You look like shit." Because it's her problem, now. She's too lonely not to worry, though she guards it with a gruff exterior. "I'm looking for a town with good racing. This ain't it. Lucky this car'd be shit for it."

Not strictly true-- she'd like a steady job as a mechanic, maybe finally settle down, but quick drag racing cash is always welcome.

[exorkismos]

"Joan Agnes Dority!" She's not wrong. "That's a good Irish Catholic name, cut that name down the middle there's a Hail Mary written inside." He adds, "I ain't ribbing you, this is solidarity, from Marcus sodding Dominic Keane." That's not actually his legal middle name: it's the name he was confirmed under. His middle name's is his dad's and he has a superstition against saying it aloud. Speak of the devil. Restless, he fidgets down in the seat, getting comfortable, and eyes her with interest.

Without even a few words to indicate the moment at which he glides over the question of could've done something, he says, "Racing, huh? Sounds exciting. Tell me about it."

[poleaxed]

She's ready to be annoyed until he throws himself in with her. Anyone that stupid deserves the crooked smile pulling at her scarred lip. Dammit, she thinks she likes him. It's been fucking ages since she talked to a priest for any amount of time, even if he isn't one anymore. That probably just makes him better to talk to.

So she tells him more jokes about her name, because some stupid and lonely part of herself likes making people laugh. Nobody ever laughs around her. It's novel and exciting.

"Gets worse. Three older brothers. Matthew, Mark, Luke." Her parents weren't even that religious, beyond a general observance of tradition; they just liked matching names.

As for racing-- "Drag racing. Need a better car for it, though. This one's got a fine motor--" she'd know, she put it in herself, "but the frame's shit. Get above seventy and it'd shoot out like a cannonball."

Not strictly true, but it's how she explained it, the one time she needed to when someone was dumb enough to leave her alone with their inquisitive five-year-old.

[exorkismos]

Marcus whistles happily at the news of her brothers' names, shakes his head like he doesn't believe it, but of course he believes it. Catholics, eh. Funny.

"So how does that even work, then? You just find someone likely-looking and bet they can't beat you?" Actually. He gives her a sideways look and grins and says, "Oh. Do you get underestimated? And then you show 'em how good you are? I think I saw that movie once. With that guy in it — Vin Diesel."

[poleaxed]

She shrugs, one-shouldered. "Sometimes that happens. Less impressive, though, more like being called a cunt and told to get lost. No, sometimes it's legal, and then you find the flyers and whatever and enter. Sometimes it's not, so you gotta find the places where it happens, but you get a pretty good eye for it. Long stretches of road nobody's on late at night, where the cops won't notice, or get paid not to. Just gotta make sure there's no gang money in it."

Joan frowns. That was a lot, and she's not used to people being interested in, well, her. "Why d'you care? There's money in it, but unless you've got a real strong, light frame and you can fit the bill for new parts, I can't do shit for you."