Freewheelin'- Alternate Open

"Little soul, little stray, little drifter,
now where will you stay, all pale and all alone,

after the way you used to make fun of things."
- Hadrian (76-138 AD)


As he lifted the butt of the hand-rolled cigarette up to his lips for one last desperate drag, the cherry of the grit bit his fingertips.
"Ah, shit," Hank said as he flicked the butt to the steel floor of the boxcar.
As the pain in his fingertips subsided, a new pain emerged in his stomach. There was no more to deny- he couldn't suppress the rumble of his stomach any longer. And that last bruised apple in his pack just wouldn't suffice.
He hoisted himself off of the cold metal floors, walked to the mouth of the boxcar and peered out.
"Attica," he said to himself.
Yes, the train would be pulling into a station shortly. Long gone were the days when Hank would duck and roll out of a train running at full speed. Twice-broken feet were all it took to convince him that patience wasn't such a bad quality when it came to exiting a freight.
Hank used the few spare minutes until the freight slowed to finish off the flask of whiskey he had lifted from that diaphanous, drunk woman from two nights back.
When the outside wind turned from a howl to a whisper, Hank pounced out of the mouth of the boxcar, ensuring he landed on his heels. He brought his hand up to his brow to shade his eyes and surveyed the landscape. There was the fringes of a town to the north west. He trudged up a vivid green green hill, eventually arriving at a ranch.
There was a brown steed grazing at the wooden fence right near Hank. He bit his lower lip and grinned. He scanned the ranch, looking for a ranch hand. Quickly, he hopped over the fence and grabbed the apple from his pack and offered it to the horse. As the horse went for the fruit, Hank withdrew his hand and put the apple back in his pack. He wasn't about to give his last piece of food to a damned animal.
He hopped on horseback. The steed neighed. As Hank was about to ride off, a young man ran out the front door of the ranch house brandishing a baseball bat.
"Bullshit," Hank said and jumped the horse clean over the fence.
The bat boy jumped on the nearest horse and took chase after Hank.
"Hey! Get back here!" the boy yelled.
Yeah, I'll get right on that, Hank thought. He slapped the horse on the rear. He led the boy through a range of twists and turns, moving from graveled road to light forestry, in an attempt to lose him. Nevertheless, the rancher boy was able to keep up with Hank, all the while hollering insults and threats of injury. Hank's efforts to escape led the pair to the heart of a small town with just one main road and now-sparse homes scattered about the settlement. Hank ran the horse down the only formally paved road in the town and looked over his shoulder. He saw the boy steer his horse to a building and hop off.
A puzzled look arose on Hank's face until he saw where exactly the boy was going. The law.
As the horse whizzed down main street, Hank whipped his head from side to side desperatley looking for a place of salvation.
Ah hah. Hank stopped the horse.
He hopped off horseback, slapped the horse's ass to send him running and walked toward the only sanctuary that had ever given his heart salvation: the local tavern.

Hank rode for a while more until he reached the spot where the earth began to reclaim the road.

Runnin' with the Devil

"Run?" Jack asked.

"Unless you plan on buyin' us both dinner, we'll be workin' for our food, boy."

Jack gave a hesitant nod.
"You got them long scrawny legs, you'll be fine," Hank said.
"Well, look, see, I don't know exactly what you got in mind here, Hank, but I'm on a tight schedule to San Francisco here. I can't be stopping off to start a job somewhere."
"Good, I don't have any plans to begin a job either," Hank said. "Alls I want is a good meal. Help me out with that, and I'll gladly share the uh, the fruits of our efforts with you."
Jack had two distinct, but relatively similar feelings in his gut. One was a feeling of unease and nervousness. The second was the newly-constant feeling of hunger. Both had been Jack's companions on this trip since he started by himself four days prior. At this moment, the pair of feelings were battling in his stomach to assert the dominance of who would control Jack's actions.
"Alright," Jack said.
"Good, we'll get out next stop," Hank said. "Are you a gamblin' man...what's your name again?"
"Jack. Jack Cyrus. And yes, I've played once or twice before."
"Right. Well, what do you say to a few hands to pass the time?"
"Isn't it a little windy in here for that?"
"We'll make do. I'll close this here boxcar door," Hank said. He grunted as he hoisted himself up.
"Okay. Let's play."
After several hands, Jack had taken Hank's full arsenal of cigarettes, his only nudie magazine, and a bruised apple. Hank had won fifty cents.
"Bullshit," Hank said. "If I didn't know better, I'd call bullshit on the last five hands."
"What can I say? Beginner's luck I guess."
"Beginner my ass," Hank said. "Alright, gimme back my cards 'fore you take them too. Train's stoppin' anyhow."
The men gathered their old and new-won belongings, and made their way toward the boxcar door. Hank pulled it open. The chilled wind ran through the boxcar, then settled into a jog. Jack buttoned the top button of his deeply-black pea coat.
"Ready?" Hank asked.
"Yep."
The freight slowed to a near-halt and Hank lept out of the boxcar with a smooth grace unseen in few other of his actions.
Jack's eyes widened and he held his breath.
Go.
His limbs scrunched inward as he formed into a gangly cannonball clutching a suitcase. He landed on his rear and let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp.
"That's what you have feet for, boy," Hank said, chuckling.
Jack said nothing, stood, and grabbed the suitcase that had flown from his hands upon impact.
"Never hopped out a freight or what?" Hank asked.
"I have. I just slipped."
"Well next time don't slip. You look like a fool. Try landing on your heels, too. The world beats your ass enough- don't need to give it another shot at you."
"Yep."
"Aww hell, I'm just helpin' here. Don't need to get all sour." Hank slapped Jack's back. "C'mon, let's go get us a drink."



"They see me as an opportunity to be a good, givin' Christian. Which is why today, we'll be takin' advantage of that fact."
"That's not fair, why would they help you and not me?"
"Fair? Ho, boy. If you're goin' to get all hung up on fair, you might as well just stop right there 'cause you ain't getting far tryin' to make things fair 'round here," Hank said. "Best thing we can do is just work with what's there.