What Does Two-bit Look Like In The Outsiders Novels & Stories

Two Years Later. District 9. The Safehouse. The apartment was a concrete box that smelled of ozone, stale coffee, and the damp mold of the city. The windows were covered with black trash bags taped to the glass. A tangled nest of ethernet cables ran from a stolen junction box outside, snake-like across the floor, plugging into a server rack that hummed in the corner. Oryn sat by the door. He was nineteen now. He had grown even broader. He sat on a milk crate, a serrated combat knife in his hand, whittling a piece of wood into a sharp point. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. He felt the vibrations of the room.

The Bitmus University was beaming in all it's usual glory, with floods of students moving here and there, some lost in their handfrees, some lost in their folks, some stuck in rich world of books. In middle of that chirping crowd, was walking a quiet boy, with headphones on, though nothing was being played on the electronic. It was just a way of keeping people out of his way. A dark colored hoodie was on his toned body, covered by denim jacket, his hands inside the pockets of his denim jeans, head lowered, so that his red-rimmed eyes couldn't be make out.

Jane Tong look at the other side did not give in at all, so the type of punks, out to do things, nothing more than for money. But in front of these people ...... is by no means figure money. At least, definitely not alone figure money. Otherwise, in the condition that she had just opened double the money, the other party, since they did not even consider it, immediately rejected it. In the end ...... who is it? In just this split second of time, her mind quickly flashed through several objects, and with a flash of aura, she abruptly narrowed her eyes and said morosely: "The one who is looking for you guys is tall, dark-skinned, and has a scar on the back of his left hand, right?"

I’m still frozen, locked in my steps. Completely stuck like someone’s glued me to the bloody floorboards. Every part of me’s screamin’, beggin’ to run, but my limbs won’t budge. This again? He looks taller than I remember. A bit broader too. And up close, he’s grotesque. His skin’s a pasty grey with dark purple blotches, like bruises on a corpse. His face looks unfinished, like some twisted sculptor gave up halfway. There’s no proper nose, just three uneven holes gaped open across his flat snout. His eyes? Just black. Like staring into a pit. No whites, no irises. Just two oily voids.

Pain bright enough that I cried out and then pulled him closer because the pain meant the street had not won. He bit. I came around the bite like my body had been waiting for a signature. He followed with a sound that was all animal and no poster. We stayed joined on the cheap table while the lamp buzzed. His phone lit on the counter. Not Zara. A number with no name. A photo. The safehouse door. From outside. Taken just now. Under it: Table does not wait on circus. Open the door, boy. Bring the plus size mate. We are already on the step.

I glanced at it but let her keep speaking while my eyes fell on the pit itself. The bamboo covering was damp from last night’s rain, the stalks warped and darkened where they pressed against the soil. Inside, the two men sat in filth, their bodies reduced to trembling, broken husks. Naked, their skin painted with dirt, blood, and sweat, they were little more than shells. Their bruises ran deep and purple, fresh lash marks crisscrossing their backs and thighs. One had wept until his eyes were swollen nearly shut, the streaks of dried tears cutting lines through the grime on his face. The stench was rancid. Urine, fear, unwashed skin, and something artificial that made my nose wrinkle.

Emily tried to get a better look at him but his wild hair and bushy beard hid his face. He brought the coin up and peered at it, his fingers toying with its glittering surface, turning it one way then the other so that he scanned both sides. Then, to Emily’s horror, the man put the coin in his mouth and bit down upon it. Not only did he try to chew it, he slowly turned his head as he did so until he was looking at her. She could see that his eyes were bright with a green fire, and his mouth was bloodied and oozing, shards of shattered teeth trapped in his beard like writhing maggots in a fisherman’s bait tin.

Worst than a mosquito bite and those bitches hurt. "Didn't anyone tell you that biting innocent girls can get you killed?" The next thing I know, this guy throws the one that bit me, against a wall with one punch. How does someone have that much strength. Then again, I just witness a vampire and freaking bit me "Now, next time think twice. Goodnight." He said and then he grabbed the guy's head and ripped it off. I was trying to get some air but wasn't working. I was dizzy from him drinking my blood and what I just freaking witness today.

I punch in the code, the steel tumblers clicking open. The atmosphere changes instantly. Shadows cling to the corners, hiding the rusted spare parts and piles of tires. It’s a graveyard for machinery. Max has the kid shoved up against a tool chest near the parked bikes. Between my Harley and Saint’s Indian, both looking menacing in the dim light. The kid is panting, his chest heaving under the layers of grime. His cap has fallen off, revealing matted blonde hair that looks like it hasn’t seen shampoo in a week.

Third Person POV The man sitting by the alley dumpster looked like he had been forgotten by the world. His hair was long and greasy, tied back with a torn shoelace. A thick beard covered most of his face, hiding the sharp jawline beneath the grime. His clothes were ragged and mismatched. He had on an old coat that didn’t fit, shoes with holes, and jeans stained with dirt. He sat quietly, eyes half-closed, like he hadn’t slept in days.