But It's Just a )(*@#$ BROOMSTICK !

Part 1. ( 1 rewrite )

Jason was new to the building. His mother had died six months ago and he had been granted into the custody of his grandfather. Grandfather lush, who spent the majority of his time down the street at the bar his old war buddy ran. Which war, Jason couldn't figure out. Grandpa spent his time drinking, swearing, sleeping, falling over, watching westerns, and drinking. Jason had, at a tender sixteen years of age, fallen into the court appointed role of caregiven caregiver.

Grandpa's apartment smelt like a baked cat. The smell was elusive, and while it looked like Jason cleaned alot, it was really just an attempt to figure out what the hell happend to the cat. Every time he found a source of stink, the stink seemed to double it's effort. Today he was on a search for stink when he happened upon the grocery money.

Grandpa had left twenty bucks on the counter with a note on the back of a reciept which read " Food is good for growing." Jason stuffed the soft yellow bill into his pocket, wondering where exactly grandpa got his money from. He was never out of it, but he didn't flaunt it. He never heard him talk about any kind of checks in the mail or pention or security this or anything. Maybe he wont he lotto or had a big insurance policy on granny. Maybe he and his bar owning buddy had whacked granny for a bag full of dough.

Jason stuck his hat on his head and stepped out the door. Not even one step into the hallway and he was damn near knocked on his ass by a rush of grunting, cursing, sweating, swearing, beer scented fury. If Jason had lived a few more years in New York, he likely would have stepped back into the apartment, shut the door, bolted it six times, turned off the TV, and hid in the closet. Instead, this native Nebraskan stepped into the hallway to see just what the hell was going on.

A man with a stick in one hand, a beer in another, and a bedhsheet draped around his shoulders was dashing up the stairs at the end of the hallway. No choice, Jason followed.

Topping the stairs in just a few bounds, he found the source of the mystery right at the top. At first glance the guy seemed to be a fairly average crazybum. Quick on the uptake though, Jason noticed Crazybum was clean shaven, and that ruled out homeless. Crazy tennant then. What was weird as hell however, was that the guy had seemed to tie the old pink bedsheet around himself like it was a cape. There was a bandana on his forehead like some cowboy samurai, and was swinging some kind of long stick like a monkey on acid. The stick bounced off the wall, clicked on the floor, and whistled through the air. Crazyman was dripping sweat, cursing and grunting the entire time. The swings didn't really look random though, it seemed almost as if he might actually know what he was doing. Aside from the costume, of course. Well, that and the fact that he was yelling at thin air.

Jason stood dumbfounded, wondering wether he should turn aroun and head back to the semi-normalcy of his apartment before he got brained, or keep watching until the situation came to a head. His, probably.

The nut ducked, bobbed, thrust, jumped, kicked, feinted back, and then, quite dramatically, thrust one fist straight ahead of him in a claw like shape, stopped, and squeezed his hand slowly into a fist. The man muttered something slowly under his breath, took a step forward, opened his hand, raised his stick, and then slammed it sharply down onto the ground directly in front of him with a momentum creating spin.

Having been raised Catholic, Jason new the sign of the cross, and the symbol the man before him made in the air was similar, but instead of top down, right to left, the man did top down, a counterclockwise circle, and then right to left.

Jason was dumbstruck, again, because what he was seeing was like something out of a really really bad comic book. What had turned out as a drunken bum show ended up being almost gracefull and completely random. He wasn't sure exactly what to do, but didn't need to, because right on que, the drunken hero turned to face him. He bent, picked up his beer ( which somehow did not spill through all of this ) and headed towards the steps.

" Urp " was the only sound he made as he shuffled past.

The situation was weird, to be sure, and the worst part, the smell of baked cat that had come out of nowhere.