The small bell at the top of the door rattled out its faint jingle as Kilgore stepped out of the cafe. He drew in a satisfied breath as he grasped his lapels with both hands, giving a slight downward tug to straighten the lines of his coat. The brisk chill of the winter air was invigorating today, the coffee having warmed his insides and delivered the caffeine to it's rightful place in his bloodstream.

High atop his own little world, he took to the streets with a rare childlike wonder, excited about what the day could bring. He crossed the boulevard, where bodies shuffled silently from one end to another among the mid-day traffic.

Huh.

He ducked through an alleyway, passing a few rough characters who had planted themselves against the wall, soaking in the passage of time. Kilgore then emerged on a side street, where local businesses stretched down both sides of the roadway, filling block after block. The lights were on, placards hung, but only a few straggling souls moving between them. The man turned and headed back to the main thoroughfare.

Again he encountered a scene that was becoming coldly familiar. Another street, crowded with living, breathing human beings, yet not a sign of life to be seen. Finding nothing inviting, he settled on the one place where people seemed to be gathering-- the bus stop. Kilgore sided up to the waiting crowd, propping himself against a gamewell, and tried to strike up a conversation.

Kinda depressing around these parts, don't ya think?

A few heads turned, offering sleepy stares of indifference. After a few moments with no response, he let out a 'tsk' and continued.

Mama told you never to talk to strangers, huh? Yeah, that's fine advice for a toddler.

Not keeping up his hopes for any sort of meaningful conversation, Kilgore decided that he was gonna talk, goddamn it, and carried on.

Man, the bus stop is a miserable place to be, ain't it? Stuck here with nothin' to do but sit and wait. Just an uneventful void in time. I mean, you gotta be here, and oftentimes you don't even know how long you're gonna be stuck.

He pushed back the cuff of his left sleeve and looked at his watch.

Huh, look at that.

He turned his arm, offering his watch before the bored eyes of his new neighbors.

One-eighteen! Already you've been here three minutes longer than you should have been. So what the hell do you do when you're stuck here? Twiddle your thumbs and stare at the ground? Shrink off into the corner when other people show up to subject themselves to the same hell you're trapped in? If you had the foresight to come prepared, maybe you pretend to read a newspaper so you can avoid the awkward shame of making eye contact with a stranger, don't ya?

Yeah, the bus stop... it's a sad and empty little intermission amid the events of your day. Problem is, a lot of folks around these parts seem to be living their whole lives like they're stuck at the bus stop. Like all the days and months and years they've got in this world are nothing more than useless time they've got to piss away until the Great Bus In The Sky stops at their curb and swallows 'em up. Every minute of life is just bothersome obligation.

I've been paying attention in the last few days since I came to town. Everywhere you look, there's nothin' going on. Nobody making company with one another. No street corner debates, no lively discussions under the lampposts. Hell, not even so much as a nod and "how d'ya do", like your mama taught you, as an act of common courtesy.

No sir, not around here. All these people out here, not paying each other no mind. Hundreds of people passing right by one another every minute, with hardly a single uttered word. Man, I tell ya friends, if you're jaded with life, bored with the world, or got a general sense of lonesomeness about ya... a little conversation can do you a whole lotta good. Just think about how many stories there are in this city. Must be millions, I'll bet. All these people, just full of ideas, points of view from every angle, and opinions about everything. All locked up in their skulls.

Kilgore shook his head, letting his eyes drift thoughtfully to the ground. He slid a hand into his coat pocket, and came out with a walnut. He tossed it playfully in the air a time or two, then held it out between his thumb and forefinger for everyone to see.

Black walnut-- Juglans nigra. You didn't know they were called that, did ya? Uh-huh. And you still wouldn't if I didn't just say so. See? You can learn all sorts of new stuff, just by talking to people... Boy, I love these things. Probably my favorite. Little bit sweet with that smoky kinda bitterness to it. And that rich, buttery sort of depth. Good for ya too. Protein and fiber and all that...

He turned the nut in his hand for a moment.

Kinda reminds you of this world of ours, don't it? Looks great from out here... the complexity of all the ridges and nooks, yet beautiful in it's simplicity. Plain in color, but inviting and comfortingly familiar.

He retrieved a small folding knife from his trouser pocket and carefully pushed the tip of the blade into the seam of the walnut shell. With a turn of his wrist, he gently pried the two halves apart. He slipped the knife back into his pocket and finished the job with his hands, separating the walnut completely into two halves. Holding the pieces, one in each hand, he inspected the rotten nutmeats, withered and black.

Damn... wouldn't you know it? You look below the enticing surface-- get to the heart of the thing, and ain't nothin' good. What there was, just left to sit too long. Was a time when a man could've eaten this nut and been satisfied. But those days have passed, this little treat forgotten for too long and given over to needless decay.

Well.

Kilgore tossed the rancid walnut halves into the street.

Just one outta the bunch. A man can't get himself down over a spoiled nut. He'll come across quite a few of 'em over the course of a lifetime. But... just gotta keep on crackin'.

The man released a deep sigh and checked his watch once more.

How long you folks think ya'll might be waitin' on this bus? You figure it's still headed your way? Probably so. But even then, how long do you sit here choking on your own dignity, squirming in this uneasy silence? A body could get all wound up just by sittin' here not doing nothing. Frustration building up on the inside, 'cause you're stuck and it's totally out of your hands. Might even ruin the rest of your day, and for what need? So you folks can get down to the next stop on the line and move on with comforting sterility of your well-worn routines?

No wonder you folks are all hemmed up.

Tell you what, if I was in your place, I'd forget about the bus. I'd forget it and get off this bench and go talk to somebody. Go tell your story, or hear one from the other guy. Go get embroiled in an endless argument over frivolous minutiae. Hell, go out and scream bloody rage at everybody you see for the rest of the day. Anything is better than nothin'.

And I'd wager a pretty penny that you'll be better for it.

Pickles stands at the bus stop watching Kilgore talk to himself, muttering about a walnut.  He walks over . . .

Perhaps you'd like a pistachio?  They're prety tasty.  By the way, if you're waiting on a bus, you've got a long wait.  I heard its last stop was in Las Vegas and it just up and disappeared!  Never to be heard from again.  How 'bout that!  I remember my great grandfather telling tall tales of taking a bus to St. Louis once, but that was a long time ago.

Pickles pops a few more pistachios in his mouth, then spits them out . . .

PTEW!  Yuck!  I gotta remember to take these things out of the shell first.

Walking towards the bus stop Vince noticed a man nearly choking on a Pistachio. He quickly hurried towards the man to check if he was alright and spotted Kilgore seated on bench nearby, so he walked passed the man instead of checking him over.

Kilgore I have been searching far and wide for you my friend, lets take a walk, the bus never stops here.

Vince raised his hand to Kilgores back patting it a few times and gently pushing him to follow along...

Let me tell you a story about an old tale my grandfather once told me. It was of a Don called Slartibartfast he once had two put-upon worker elves...

Vince and Kilgore walked in circles around the bus stop ranting and raving but there still stood a man close by choking on pistachio shells...

Kilgore, I love the smell of your Street presence in the morning.

Here's the thing.   We all love a bit of drama and intrigue on the Streets.  Some of us like it more than others.  Some elevate themselves to the ranks of the uber famous mostly on the Strenth of their Street presence.

But here's the thing.  We live in stable times.  People are earning, getting by and doing well.  There is opportunity.  In stable times, there is no Underground or rogues.  Without an Underground or Rogues, things on the Street can get a bit jaded.

There are wars, but they are clear cut.  There is killing, yes, but it is mainly done in private

There is a semi decent tabloid newspaper out at the moment.  Sure, it could be a lot better, but it's a start.

One of the most ballsy and interesting thing ever done on these Streets was Chuckle's summary of all existing CLs.  Man, was it fun.  And he didn't get clipped.

So, I would ask those assembled here - what do we want?  A return to the past or an interesting future?  Spell out what would make you happy.

But here's the thing. We live in stable times. People are earning, getting by and doing well. There is opportunity. In stable times, there is no Underground or rogues. Without an Underground or Rogues, things on the Street can get a bit jaded.

I believe you overlooked the events of last night there, Arnold.

Report them then, Lilac?

I don't do 'tabloid' news, Arnold. I just write a paper. And I don't see any reason to attract further attention to a rogue. Rogues seek attention; why indulge a dead one?

Good points, well made.

Stops munching on pistachios

Hey!  I run a Tabloid.  THE Tabloid News to be precise!  Whaddya mean in could be better?  People value my paper by the troy ounce!

Lilac steals Pickles' pistachios.

Quite right. And frankly, I'd have nobody else air my dirty laundry in public but Pickles here. He is a fine tale spinner. Plus, the more I compliment him, the more likely I am to uncover a couple of the skeletons lurking in his closet. Perhaps one or two garters. I have my suspicions.

Cracking a shell, Lilac chews thoughtfully on a salty nut.

Can you imagine if Mr. Pickles and Ms Delaney put their collective skills together. One masterpiece to squash all other papers would occur. Of this I am certain!

Yes, but only because of my wonderful journalistic skill and talent.  All she would bring to the table would be hopefully more pistachios.  And, I think it's pretty evident I have already squashed whatever remnants of The Chuckle Knuckle may be left around lining parakeet cages or baskets of fish and chips.

Lilac chokes on her salty nut.

Pardon me, Pickles. You're a tabloid journalist. I am the double cream to your watered down milk; the champagne to your fizzy vinegar.

And most importantly, I'm not the one who suffers from delusions of grandeur.

Greenthumb1 saunters over to where DPP and the lovely Lilac are verbally jousting and listens intently to what is said.

Actually I find the fact that both of you sport an ability that is only lacking by the fact that you don't have an educational page or section.

See you in the funny pages.

Greenthumbs1 saunters away munching happily on the pistachios that Neither Lilac nor Dread_Pirate_Pickels realise has been pinched from them.