Chapter III: Pick Bandit

He flicked the last ash off his cigarette, squinting at the sun as it pierced through the grimy garage windows. His old man's toolbox lay scattered across the rusty hood of his '67 Mustang, a jigsaw puzzle of chrome and grease. The guitar resting against his knee, its strings still humming from the melody he was strumming moments ago, was a gift from his pa. His dad said music made him a wimp. But it was his release and he wasn't going to let anyone take that away from him. A song keeps on playing in his head. He didn't know where he'd heard it. Maybe at the supermarket? Maybe at a concert? No, he hadn't been to those in a while. This was different. It didn't make any sense but every time he played that recurring melody, there was a picture in his head he couldn't get rid of.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, feeling the grit and grime of city life. Girls said he was hot. Honestly, he wasn't going to disagree with them, maybe they had a thing for guys with stubble and a scar across their face. If you asked him though, he'd tell you he thought he looked like a goddamn pirate every time he looked into his mirror. But looking intimidating, was the only way he'd survived in this game this far. In his world, looks were just as deadly as a loaded gun.

Suddenly, her familiar presence flashed before his eyes— ghost-white hair and an icy stare that could freeze hell over. The same face that haunted his dreams every night since... since that night. 'It's just a nightmare,' He told himself, shaking off the chill running down his spine.

The screeching sound of tires on asphalt snapped him out of his thoughts. A yellow school bus pulled up outside the garage. I looked back at the house. Dad wasn't back yet and neither were the boys. The irony wasn't lost on him—a gangster like him, big strong bad boy, being shipped off to summer camp like some spoilt suburban kid. But they didn't know that— his boys, his dad. They thought he was off to make another 'drop-off' somewhere across town. 'Drop off my ass,' he thought to himself. By the time they realized where he was going, there'd be nothing they could do about it.

The bus honked impatiently, breaking through the silence of the garage. He glanced back at the Mustang one last time before grabbing his duffel bag and guitar case.

As he boarded the bus, he looked back at the life he was leaving behind for a while— escaping not from bullets or rival gangs but from nightmares and scorned ex-lovers. He rubbed the side of his head. He was still a bit sore from Patricia hurling her stiletto at him. Yeah, camp would be good. He'd never gone as a kid. But the application said this one was a different camp. No age restrictions, at least they didn't specify that but he was too bored to read the fine print. Camp. Check. Three months? Check. An escape from everything familiar yet was suffocating him, worse than his pa's cigars? Check. Nothing else he needed to know. He'd face the consequences of playing hooky later.

It was going to be one hell of a summer.

Famous last words. Before he got off that bus, he was already sure he was heading to a dump, but this was just ridiculous. The only highlight of the bus ride was seeing the two girls on board, sure cotton candy crazy wasn't his type. But the other one was pretty much up his alley. She was cute. He had to admit that but she also looked like she'd either murdered someone or fought with a bear before she signed up for camp. He let Cotton say hello to her, to which she simply eyed her hand and walked away, and he thought that if she was that cold already, he wasn't going to cross her or cross paths with her at all.

He held his guitar case close and walked towards one of the cabins, but was intercepted by someone.

He made a safe assumption that she was a camp counsellor, a woman who stood out from the rest with her jet black hair and her thick-rimmed glasses. She was all jolly and jumpy like a worm in a can or a jack in a box. It was...unsettling to say the least. She looked like a plastic doll. Her skin was flawless. Not a single speck on her face. And her hair was perfectly intact, despite the humidity. Honestly, the fact that anyone could smile in this kind of environment, was the most astounding thing yet.

Despite her somewhat eerie appearance, she was unusually friendly. She had this unique way of making everyone around her feel comfortable. Her voice was warm and chirpy. Like a sing-song voice but like grandma calling you in for fresh baked cookies.

"Welcome, to camp!" she linked her thick arm in his. "You look just about as old as my son!"

"I'm twenty-three." he said.

"That's perfect! So you'll be in the cabin up ahead then, with the rest of your peers." she pointed it out. "You know this camp is very old..."

And then she dove into a story about how her great great great great something built the camp from the ground up with his bare hands. And how he and his friends put up a totem pole they carved together from a pine tree...He wasn't very invested in the tale, what he was invested in was the girl who Cotton was clearly trying to butter up. Why did she look so familiar?