A couple of minutes trickled past, and still, there was no sign of pedestrians or even the distant, comforting rev of an engine.
The only thing available was the sun, which kept growing hotter and harsher, bearing down as if it were trying to mock Fedora personally.
"What in the Sahara is this kind of sun?... Oh, God of heaven, help me," he hissed, sucking his teeth in a sharp rhythmic click of annoyance.
His eyes scanned his stretched-out hands; they were damp and slicked with a thin film of sweat that shimmered under the glare.
He twisted his wrists subtly, rotating his hands in different directions as if they might just come apart from the sheer heat of the atmosphere.
I should have just read my whole mood this morning, he thought bitterly.
"My precious body was warning me all this while, but guess who was so deep into his 'boy with family and personal issues era'... Now I have to suffer," he scolded himself.
His head turned instinctively toward the kiosk, and what met his gaze was the concerning, suspicious stare of the aged lady who had sold him water earlier.
The woman looked tensed.....vigilant and alert at the same time. You wouldn't blame her; it was obvious many unsafe things transpired within these blocks.
The isolation of the street was a breeding ground for trouble, and Fedora had been standing on that curb for a far more suspicious amount of minutes than he himself realized.
He tracked the uneasiness etched into the wrinkles of her face. He wouldn't even be surprised if she pulled out a gun and aimed it right at his chest.
That dark thought almost pulled a grin onto his lips—a fleeting, macabre sense of humor amidst the heat.
The glare from the woman was so intense that Fedora felt the primal urge to glare back, but she was old, and that would be disrespectful.
Besides, considering how lonely the surroundings were, it would be foolish to do anything stupid to heighten her suspicions that he was a threat.
What if she really has a gun?! The thought flooded his mind, and without reluctance or hesitation, Fedora flashed his teeth nervously at her—a smile that was more bone than warmth, a jagged display of "I'm harmless."
It wasn't convincing.
The woman didn't even blink. Sensing the failure, he gave a stiff, awkward nod coupled with a series of jagged, dry laughs that echoed hollowly through the empty distance.
"Ummmm. Ma'am?" Fedora waved slightly, his hand a limp flag of surrender.
"Can I take some rest here?" He asked, his tone and face a total grimace of heat-stroke misery, though he tried to lacquer it with a thin coating of politeness.
Thankfully, the woman finally moved, causing Fedora to realize he had been holding his breath.
After another round of judgmental, condescending stare-down, she let out a hiss, a sound that hovered somewhere between stress and relief and then she was out of sight, retreating into the shadows of her stall.
The Fedora Effect.
His voice alone was pure, melodic, and soothing. You didn't need to know him to vouch on your life that the owner of that voice was capable of no harm, perhaps even unproblematic.
"Psych!" he breathed through his nose, watching her walk away from the open counter.
From the dim interior, he heard the faint, metallic click-clack of keys twisting into a latch—possibly a drawer.
I guessed it right! he screamed internally. This woman was about to go Van Damme on him.
"Action Mama," he smirked, genuinely amazed at how vigilant she remained despite her years.
The road to his father's villa must be way too dangerous for an old woman her age to worry about self-defense like that.
"Why is his villa even located in a place like this?" he muttered. He didn't read deep meaning into these things, but the setting felt like a stage for something he wasn't yet ready to act in.
"Why not leave the damn sun?!" the woman scolded softly from the shadows.
Her voice was a huge contrast to her previous demeanor; it carried more genuine concern than he'd heard from his own mother lately.
The elder flicked her wrist and shook her head in disbelief at his stubbornness, then vanished back into the depths of the kiosk.
A small smile tugged at Fedora's face. He shook his head and turned back toward the road, taking a deep inhale that tasted of dust and dry heat.
He exhaled slowly, his mood slipping back into its default setting: pure frustration.
Since there was no vehicle in sight and the food in the flask was likely losing its heat, Fedora had no choice. He had to trek it.
At least he had gained a little energy from the water, and the sun seemed to have decided to show a momentary mercy by not roasting him to a crisp.
No time would be better. Before Mama Solar System wakes up again, he thought.
He crouched slightly, reaching down to pick up the food flask, and what came next was...
SPLAAATTT!!!!!
He felt it on his skin immediately, warm, sticky, dirty, and carrying a dangerously disturbing stench.
It was the stagnant water from the recent rain, accumulated into deep, oil-slicked potholes, now violently displaced.
Fedora froze instantly. Rage germinated with unnatural stealth and speed inside of him, ready to explode. He stayed in that awkward, half-bent position, his mouth ajar in total bewilderment and disbelief.
First, the foul mood this morning. Then his mother successfully manipulating him into this stupid decision to trek.
And as if all this frustration wasn't enough for one person to bear in a single morning, some reckless, unlucky, miserable car owner had to hit the pothole and add a layer of dirty icing to the cake.
Fedora finally blinked. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe if he blinked hard enough, he would wake up from this nightmare.
But the texture of the mud on his skin, the grit and the dampness, was too real to be fake.
"What the fuck!!!?!" he barked, a sharp scoff of irritation escaping his steaming lungs and parched lips.
"Hey!!!" he yelled furiously, jolting up to his full height as he examined his jersey.
Oh, fucking disciples. It wasn't just covered in mud; it looked as if someone had emptied a full bucket of brown paint across his ribs.
To make it worse, he could feel the sticky, warm texture on his face. His expensive face!
He took a few steps back with a gasp that could have powered a turbine.
"Ahhhh! No, no, no!!!" He shook his head frantically, wishing he could peel off his skin and start scrubbing away this disgusting filth.
And what made it more painful, more insulting than a slap from a thousand men, was the fact that the idiot car didn't look like it was slowing down.
"Heyyyy!! You bastards!!!!!" Fedora yelled at the top of his lungs. His screams seemed to just bounce off the shiny, impenetrable metal of the Escalades.
No brake lights flashed. Not a single gesture of acknowledgement or apology. They were getting away, and Fedora would rather die than let that happen.
A convoy, he realized, noticing three identical, luxurious black SUVs moving in a synchronized, arrogant line. His lips pressed into a hard frown, his eyes narrowing into razor-thin slits before a wicked, sly smirk took over.
Since these goats weren't going to make a move to apologize, he would gladly ruin everyone's mood to match his own.
Nobody was going to splash him like that and ride merrily to hell; because that was the only accurate destination for them now.
His gaze swept the surroundings with precise urgency. Joyfully, he spotted what he needed: a rock, sitting cutely and demurely by the street pole, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment all its life.
"Well," a flash of mischievous glee crossed Fedora's mud-streaked face.
"Let's see how shiny that paint is."
To be continued.....