'Twas a love-r-ly day, weren't it?
The birds were-- uh...the cars were a hummin', the sidewalk was a-steamin', and everyone was just walkin' along with a...well, maybe not a smile, but uh--.
Um.
Well, everyone was walkin' along!

A tall man in blue jeans leaned against the corner of a candy shop, suckin' on a tiny lollipop; his denim jacket had been left unzipped, revealing a white shirt underneath, which read "GET PUNK'D" in bold, squiggly black letters set on a backdrop of blue flames.
Foggy teashades perched atop his long, pointed nose, black headphones streaked with neon rays pressed against his ears, and hair dyed in bright sunny colors flared wildly out from underneath the headphones, a short, sort of makeshift tail from the scruffy hair sticking awkwardly out from behind his head.

The man's head bobbed as he loitered outside the store, presumably to whatever tune the headphones were playing.

If not for the denim jacket, something alone that was not all too distinguishable, a marked posture of almost overexuberant laziness, and a distinct expression of calm knowledge over curved, almost obscenely friendly lips and keen, watchful eyes, he might not have been recognizable in the least.

That, and the instant the man in dreadlocks was spotted, the man began to wave his hand in wild abandon, his call of greeting unevenly loud as he attempted to hear himself over the music of his headphones.

"DUDE!" he shouted.
Somehow, despite remaining leaned against the candy store's corner, he managed to exude anything but subtletly.
One arm waggled furiously in the air, while another rose and fell as it pointed at the other man's backpack.
"IS THAT THE STASH?"

A few eyes turned on the pair from the crowd, though no one seemed overly caring or suspicious of a couple racketeers.
After all, they had things to do, places to go, people to see, and the man was hardly the most irritating stranger on the busy street, and far from anything very unnerving.

In fact, just across from him, some kid was busy popping bottles off an alley fence with a pellet gun.
Not long down the block from him, a band consisting of a guitar, a tuba, and a trumpet was rockin' out on the corner, cases opened up for tips that only the most pitying of sods would give for their awful noise.
And across from them, the other corner lay empty 'cause some smelly dude was stumblin' his way around, tuggin' on the clothes of anyone who got too close so that he could ask for change.

Clearly, there were more important things to worry about than some thirty-something who thought himself a hip, rebellious adolescent from the seventies.

The man's arms fell to his side only a few moments after the man with dreadlocks began to approach.
His foot kicked off from the wall, stepping up straight to further greet the other man.
If dreadlocks drew close enough, he would slam his hand against the other's back, just as he had done before.

"Daaamn, son; you fatten up since last I saw you?" he said with a grin, laughing at his own sentence; headphones still over his ears, his voice remained unnaturally loud.
How he managed to talk with such a big mouth and not lose his lolly was anyone's guess.
"Why don't-cha come in 'ere with me, I'll buy ya some sweets to loosen up that grit."

An arm would move as if to lean against the other man, seeking to push him into the candy store, not allowing much room for protest as he continued to chatter on about-- well, apparently nothing, really.

"Man, didja hear them fireworks the other night?
Shit was LOUD."

The candy shop wasn't all that big, but it sure was stocked full.
Colorful treats stuffed the small room in glass displays, cardboard cartons, even vases, the candies accompanied by a full display of a variety of bottled sodas to either side of the one counter where the only register sat, alongside a bundle of bigger, more expensive sweets in the only window the store had -- a large alcove display beside the front door.

The counter wasn't one to be empty in the least, and the man working registrar had to stretch to be seen from behind all the tall sweets and carbonated beverages.
As they entered through the glass door, the heat met with a rush of cool air from inside, a bell rang above them, and the man behind the counter looked over at them with a bored expression of "please god help me".

"Take yer pick, why don't ya?" the man in denim offered, sweeping his arm across to gesture at all the displays.
"It's all on me!"
Lowering his arm from the man with dreadlocks, he moved away from the other man and straight for the register, only to cut a sudden corner so that he could pick through a tall display of magazines, humming along to his headphones and suckin' on that lollypop.

They were the only three in the store at that moment.

The man in denim didn't seem to notice when the man with dreadlocks walked up to him, measly pickings in tow.
When the question was spoken, it took a moment before his eyes from the magazines, finally turning 'round to see the other man.

"That it?" he said, eyeing the candy in the other man's hand.
"Not even a sodapop?"

Lowering his headphones from his ears, the man offered up another smile, pulling a magazine from the rack and waving it in the other man's face, possibly slapping it against his eyelids and nose should he not step back.

"You liked that, did you?" he said.
His hand stopped flapping the magazine around, turning it to gaze down at the cover.
Unlike the one he'd given to the man with dreadlocks, this one's cover was full of advertisements for the advertisements that could be found inside.

"Nah, this one ain't got no air-oh-line-ar nudity, yannow?"
He laughed, and gave the guy a wink as he added in a teasing tone, "But it could...watch this--"
Holding the magazine low between the two with one hand, back arching as he leaned partially over, he lifted his other hand and waggled the fingers; whether this had any real effect on what happened next, well it was hard to say.
The big lettering spelling out the magazine's title began to bleed over the cover, turning it black, while a white spot began to spread out from the center; with the way both were spreading, it almost looked as though the magazine was being burned from the inside-out.

The man behind the counter saw everything, and appeared absolutely unfazed; in fact, he seemed more bored than ever, rolling his eyes at the man in denim's ostentatious display.

While the man in denim continued the show, the bell rang.
His waving hand fell as he looked up, watching as another man walked into the candy shop.
There wasn't much perusing as this stranger walked over to the display beside the back counter, snatching a handful of bottles as he stepped up behind the man with dreadlocks.

"Excuse me," the strange man said with some manner of irritation, eyeing the man with dreadlocks with lazy suspicion, and the man in denim with almost equal disdain.

The man in denim straightened his spine and took a step back, watching for the man with dreadlocks.
Should he remain within the store, the man in denim would approach him with the magazine, showing him the new front of the magazine: mostly black with a shiny white jet airliner on the front, plus a small coupon surrounded with a dotted red border, advertising half off for any brand of lotion at your local candy shoppe.
He would also flip the magazine's pages, revealing a sketchy page-to-page "animation" of a plane tooting along through a sky that was as white as concrete.

"I know how you like them airplanes," he whispered with a giggle and a wink.

The man in denim lifted his hands, obliging.
"Aight, aight."
Even he could hear the slight annoyance tinging the edges of the other man's voice.

One hand went into his pocket, headphones still blasting some sort of tune around his neck, while his gaze went to the other customer, watching as he paid for his sodas and then took his leave.
A glare was offered towards the man in denim, the two exchanging a brief glance before he left to the shop, bell ringing behind him.

With the other customer gone, he moved up to the register, thumbing in the black man's direction.
"I'll be payin' for his stuff."

"'Course you will," said the man working the register.
A glance was given down to the changed magazine.
"That too?"

"Hm?
Oh-- uh, naw...," the man said, mumbling to himself as he shook the magazine around.
In an instant -- much faster than the initial change when he'd been showing off to the other man -- the cover returned to normal, and he flipped the contents around for the worker to see before placing it back on the magazine rack.

Instead of bills and receipts, some other sort of paper was exchanged between the two, before the man in denim finally turned back to the man with dreadlocks with a friendly wave.

"All right; yer good to go!"

The man in denim waved his hand at the other's question, as though to dismiss it.
He clearly had too much fun in confusing and teasing others, but a moment of pause was given as he gave some thought to the question.

"Well, ya got some waitin' to do 'round here, but after that, I s'pose you'll be REALLY good to go, then.
This place'll"--he patted the counter where the register sat, trying to make his point that he was referring to the candy store itself--"take ya where ye need to go."

With something of a shrug, he began to move for the front door of the shop.
"I assume ya's got everythin' ya need with ya?"
He pointed to the man's backpack.
He'd had it with him before, but it seemed extra bulging this second time around.

"If not...."
There was an abrupt crunch, the man finally biting through the lollypop he'd been sucking on all this time.
His brow furrowed as he pulled out the white stick with a grumble of, "Aw, sunnuva a gun...."
With a disappointed shake of the head, he pocketed the saliva-strung stick, and continued, "As I were sayin'; if ya don't, then ya just might be SOL."
He paused.
"That means 'shit out of luck', by the by.
I know, I know -- it's missin' a letter, ain't it?"

On the other side of the front door from the display window, there was a long cushioned seat set up against a curtained wall, almost like a park bench one might see set against a stony building, with enough room for three average-sized persons; he gave the part of the seat closest to the door a brush and a pat before sitting down on it.

"Best let me know now if ya really need to get somethin', take it with ya.
'Cause let me tell ya, kid: ya ain't got much time.
Store closes when the sun's gone, and I'm sure'n them authorities are kickin' down doors fer ya right this minute.

"Oh--"
He reached into his jacket, where he'd deposited one of the exchanged papers, and held out a small edged rectangle for the man with dreadlocks to take.
"S'pose I should hand ya this...this here's yer ticket."
He leaned forward as if to hand it to the other man, although he seemed unwilling to get up from the seat, now that he was just getting comfortable.

"That guy--" he pointed to the perpetually unamused man behind the register "--will prolly be yer conductor for the evenin'.
An' maybe me too; I haven't decided yet.
Things been startin' to get trigger-happy 'round here, yannow?
Not really my style bein' on the shootin' range."

The pale man leaned back against the wall as the ticket was taken, the dark man collapsing into the bench beside him.
He gave what seemed a comparably halfhearted chuckle at the other's last statement, and then fell into silence.

Hands moved to return the headphones onto his ears, however, after a moment of eyes flickering in not-so-subtle glances the way of the man with dreadlocks, his hands paused, and he turned to ask the man with dreadlocks,
"Wouldja like to listen ta sum tunes?
Gon' be a long wait."

If accepted, he'd remove the headphones, the cord popping out of his pocket to reveal that it was connected to nothing at all, though still music continued to play out from the object.
Should the man with dreadlocks slip them onto his head, the headphones would begin to play whatever he wanted; or, if nothing came to mind, something of a random shuffle suited to his tastes would start instead.

The man in denim had helped many an individual through, and he knew the wait was where the nerves could begin to get to one; his hope that the music would help soothe, or at least distract him from, even if only for a little while, whatever anxieties the man with dreadlocks would surely be feeling.