"Where to, madam?" Ishmael asked as he walked, quickly. He had every appearance to a formal-looking, nice guy, wearing a tuxedo that he often wore as a disguise, a hat, and sunglasses.
"The convinience store. My mom and dad have worked there since I could say my ABC's." Mae replied. "Ooh, is this your car? What a beeeeaaautiful car." Skipping along beside him, she hummed and danced. She was wearing what looked like a school uniform, with a white T-shirt perfectly unstained, a formal-looking jacket, and a plaid skirt, and little, red velvety mary janes that went, "clickety click" when she skipped along.
Such a pity, wearing formal clothing to a dirty hideout. They will get soiled in no time. Ever heard of dirt? Hay? Rodent droppings?
When will she shut up? Ishmael thought, his hands gripping his gun now. All that noise is going to bring every villager down on us. Finally getting to his car, he opened it and got in.
Ishmael sat at the front seat, his eyes narrowed. The girl still sang behind him, and he groaned. "Girl, be quiet. I need to concentrate."
No more Mr. Nice Guy, no siree. Ishmael leered, tucking dark brown hair behind his hat. He could yell at her all he wanted. He had a lisence plate covered with a fake one. And the windows were shaded. She could scream and wail and kick, but no way. It was her own foolishness that had gotten her here.
Stupid little girl.
“Are you…mad at me, Sir?” Mae asked, instantly frightened.
What do you think? Without a word, Ishmael turned the motor on, hearing it sputter to life, then fall dead again. Swearing loudly, Ishmael turned the motor again, then after it failing, slammed his hand against the wheel. After a few more tries, he finally got it to work, and zoomed out and away, Mae in tow.
"The convinience store. My mom and dad have worked there since I could say my ABC's." Mae replied. "Ooh, is this your car? What a beeeeaaautiful car." Skipping along beside him, she hummed and danced. She was wearing what looked like a school uniform, with a white T-shirt perfectly unstained, a formal-looking jacket, and a plaid skirt, and little, red velvety mary janes that went, "clickety click" when she skipped along.
Such a pity, wearing formal clothing to a dirty hideout. They will get soiled in no time. Ever heard of dirt? Hay? Rodent droppings?
When will she shut up? Ishmael thought, his hands gripping his gun now. All that noise is going to bring every villager down on us. Finally getting to his car, he opened it and got in.
Ishmael sat at the front seat, his eyes narrowed. The girl still sang behind him, and he groaned. "Girl, be quiet. I need to concentrate."
No more Mr. Nice Guy, no siree. Ishmael leered, tucking dark brown hair behind his hat. He could yell at her all he wanted. He had a lisence plate covered with a fake one. And the windows were shaded. She could scream and wail and kick, but no way. It was her own foolishness that had gotten her here.
Stupid little girl.
“Are you…mad at me, Sir?” Mae asked, instantly frightened.
What do you think? Without a word, Ishmael turned the motor on, hearing it sputter to life, then fall dead again. Swearing loudly, Ishmael turned the motor again, then after it failing, slammed his hand against the wheel. After a few more tries, he finally got it to work, and zoomed out and away, Mae in tow.
