DeVil in the Details.

Chapter three: Groen Fingers

Humdrum neighborhoods down on the coast in the somewhat very last sweet drops of summer. Bring out a certain type of sunlight for the occasion and which stand out to some individuals who seek a specific asceticism in their lives, such as of beach palms and vast panoramic views of seemingly endless oceans.

Especially to one individual in particular, whose backdrop consists of all these perfect little things.

This individual is named Rowland.

And to further identify this amateur photographer, slash graffiti artist; who would spend most of his time defacing walls and billboards where ever he could get a chance as he walked the sandy streets on his own, being one of many of his favorite pass times. Being a young messy-haired, fair and yet dopey looking coconut *coloured kid from South Africa, he lived in a quaint apartment with novels and comic books and strange nit-picks that which he fancied, staked about him and plastered on walls.

Working for minimum wage at a café and carrying the burden of hope as he too, toils numbly along with the masses. Dreaming of a dream wanted by so many within the mass itself, floating like so many others within this typical rat race so to speak. Running around in a maze looking for the cheese but ultimately finding a dead end, with just a measly block of Cheddar backed neatly against it as reward.

That idea to him will never be satisfying...

And although, he was well aware of our dire circumstance as creatures on this planet, he still would probably admit that he simply just wanted to do what he loved for the passion. With the possibility of even being paid for it, maybe with even his photography being the reason for this 'better life' and using the happiness like a spoon to dig under the glass wall...

He did indeed feel that his graffiti was more freeing in motion and apart from the heart racing duty of doing it secretively, he enjoyed what little life it gave him. But he wasn't too sure if that would in any way make it artistically better or in some way more appealing to him, for now it was just his style really and truly made for himself. He couldn't quite comprehend what it was that he didn't like about his practical work which he felt was always a few dimensions short of something truly special, using that he has to watch his back, as an excuse. Oppose to his photography, which he admired for it's power within it's simplicity, and how he could simply add on to it if need be. He firmly believed that it wasn't him that made the picture look good, it was simply the subject and it's contents and the way they were, and he was just lucky enough to see and to capture the artistic prowess of the world and a few of his favorite things.

As the twilight sky grows, the shadows of objects and people across the streets stretch. As streetlights with their yellow tints flicker on as the day ends and the night begins, putting the beautiful sun set back in it's pocket.

Earning one last glare of admiration by the dark olive green eyes of the luxury-deprived student as he walked to his night classes at a community college slightly further in land, about walking distance from his humble abode.

Three blocks sounds short enough...

As cars pass Rowland by and their lights illuminate the road beside him along with the warm glow of lamplights that unknowingly switch on as the sun goes down, and as he walks, he noticed yet another light from behind him slow down as it approached him.

'Not today of all days.', he thought, hoping he wasn't just about to be stopped by the cops or worse.

He looked back, with his best "don't fuck with me" face, at the shaded vehicle as it came at a slow and steady pace. The mysterious black vehicle rolled towards the now nervous Rowland as he stuffed his hand in his front pocket for his switchblade, for this was definitely like no other police vehicle that he knew of. And he was aware that he was never to make the mistake of stopping in such instances. Wondering what a stranger with a car would want with him:

'I don't know, my kidneys, to lock me up in a basement... Directions..?', he was getting a bit a head of himself as the car finally slowed to a stop.

And as the car's window rolled down, a rather fair stranger wearing dark round rimmed shades spoke up; "Want a lift?"

Rowland scoffed,"No... Thanks.", and carried on walking. The man in the car said something else before he drove off, but Rowland didn't hear it, in the hopes that the stranger wasn't being rude about his decline. Feeling no need to care about that stranger, as Rowland made his way up the steps of the university and possibly moving on with his life.

Class was uneventful, and as always was informative as ever with it's supposed essential studies, yet dullard as hours seemed to crawl like days.

Doodling in between notes and staring into space, Rowland noticed the familiarly bored faces around him...

Except for one, and all he wore was black, with a black ribbed long sleeved vest that had holes in his collar here and there; his short black hair although untamed looked silky as the light of the auditorium bounced off of it. Rowland couldn't see this new stranger's face as he was in the first few rows but as he lifted his right hand (obviously paying attention in class); Rowland could see that he wore shamanic looking beads and wristbands than what looked comfortable accompanied by some shiny thin rings, bobbing his head as if listening to music and yet no one seemed to notice him or maybe rather, Rowland hadn't noticed him before but either way he was bothering him, who by this time was just waiting to be dismissed from class.

Twenty minutes go by and the class can finally go home, not a word of his lectures seemed to stick in his mind. Nachos and a bag of weed was all that sounded good to Rowland as he walked down the stairs lazily and into the parking lot; he decided to take his time by stopping for a moment to light a cigarette, when suddenly he heard a voice say;

"Want a lift... Stranger?"

Smooth, calm yet familiar and what he found when he turned around was the tattered-tee-wearing stranger, and what a fair stranger he was. With a stature of aestheticism one would rarely see in an everyday Joe as though he had invented fashion.

With the kind of face you'd find in a magazine advertisement for cologne (or rather a face they couldn't afford) leaning on a black '71 wolkswagen Beetle and possibly the same one that had tailed him earlier, it didn't make any sense to Rowland on how he could have missed someone like him before, he himself wished to take a few photos of him, the man had eyes that Rowland had never seen before, somewhat like a cosmic latté except using silvers and greys dimmed by the street light above them both and his deepened brow - which gave him an intense glare.

"Er...do I know you? 'Cause I think we met earlier...", Rowland asked quite cautiously as he half expected a rowdy confrontation for his rude dismissal. But instead, the stranger smiled ever so softly.

"Nick.", The newly named stranger stated as he pulled out a light for Rowland's cigarette which was now loosely clasped between his lips as he pats himself down for his own lighter, Nick gave a sly grin beaming with confidence.

"Yeah, that was me. Would have saved you the walk.", Nick continued with a deep throated chuckle, which was what he had also said earlier.

As Rowland thanks Nick and gets ready to part ways Nick stopped him as he said,

"You didn't really answer my previous question, though."

It seemed as though this newly acquainted stranger, Nick, had a way with expressing persuasion with a few words, having Rowland think twice about the offer. And although quite persuasive, he was still someone Rowland had just met, ergo, he responded;

"Er..nah, dude I'm cool. Thanks for the light, though."

Slightly raising the hand that held the now lit cigarette symbolically.

"No problem-", Nick held the 'm' in a manner that would indicate the need for a blank to be filled; which Rowland understood as he just remembered that he never told Nick his name.

"Rowland.", He said with a rushed and awkward grin as he felt that he needed to get home.

Now, home and alone, Rowland thought about the week ahead and it deflated him.

He put on a lo-fi podcast and gathered a more positive attitude before settling down by his night stand, taking out a bag of Marijuana and his crusher shaped like a sushi roll, along with his favorite pipe which looked like the property of an elderly gentleman and stuffed it to the brim, lied back and let his mind take him where it may.