Frank is fighting, will anyone save him?!
"Excuse me, sir, but other people will want this table, so you'd better move." She came close his face, the final part of her sentence slipping angrily from her lips. It was a small town, so she'd probably seen him begging once or twice. It was such an angry, upsetting thought that Frank had winced at it, and the waitress got the wrong idea.
"What? Do I have bad breath?" She hissed through gritted teeth. "Well, your breath isn't too good either!" At this new, close up version of the already horrific lady, Frank moved his chair back and stood. He couldn't stand the sight of her peeling skin, her wasted grey hair and eyes, and worst of all - that hairy mole at the end of her nose. As the waitress wrinkled her face up at him, doing her best prune impression with disgust, the mole shifted and moved awkwardly.
Frank, hating this horrid woman, left quickly. He had to see the comic book man again. The glass cafe doors closed behind him with a slam and the weather shocked him further, but he turned and pretended to window shop at the neighbouring comic book store. Behind all of the cardboard figures, the comic books and the posters taped to the window, he saw a young man with flame red hair and an aged and faded tan. Frank stood there for so long, mesmerising all of his features, from his clear, blonder, mucky roots all the way to the way he packaged the comics. He smiled politely at the young girls and their spongebob squarepants comics, and joked with the adolescents and their simpsons comics, and made conversation with the older men about which superhero was the best. He was so good with people, and it was a talent Frank felt slightly jealous of. Of course a hobo, no matter how good he is with people, obviously has no social skills what-so-ever.
Frank looked up at the sky - it was getting dark. It must have been about half past four, which wss unfortunate because the store shut again at five. Deciding he didn't want to get caught staring, he turned to leave, but with one last little act. He took a quick glance at the mans name tag in the store. Gerard.
Frank turned away, now, satisfied that Gerards image was now perminantly tattood into his mind. He was so busy thinking of Gerard that he hadn't noticed the neon green sweater, or the swing of a fist. Without warning, knuckles collided with Franks face, knocking him onto his back and down into the snow. An angry, slightly slurred voice began to shout abuse at him.
"'S a shame y'r showed up t'rday. Bad day t'r walk darn 'n alley, this 'n especially. Go back to y'r cardboard box, Fr'nk." Then more fists collied with his stomach. Each punch seemed worse than the last, and though there wasn't milliseconds between each punch, Frank felt each blow seperately. He raised his own hands into the air and managed to catch some of the fists that had been thrown, before opening his mouth and shouting the first thing that came to mind.
"Gerard!" He cried, and as he opened his mouth a metallic taste seeped in. It was from his nose, now more like a fountain of thick scarlet. The pain spread all over Franks face, making his speach quieter and his eyes water. This was not good. "Gerard!" He cried again. The teenager jeered at him.
"Shoutin' y'r boyfriend, Fr'nk?" He laughed. A crowd had gathered by this point, all pointing and looking shocked but not actually doing anything. The teenager lunged forward a third time, shoving his face into Franks and repeating his comment. "I said are you shouting your boyfriend!?" As if by magic, a fist flew at the other mans face. Frank thought it might have been his own, but then he realised that, stood just over him, were black skinny jeans and a black winter coat. Gerard.
The teenage boy jumped from the floor, raising his fist up at Gerard then deciding he didn't fancy his chances. "Not worth it." He shrugged, walking away. Frank couldn't see well, couldn't talk well. Hell, he was struggling to stay awake. Arms wrapped around his waist and hoisted him up from the floor.
"Come on, Frank." A familiar voice begged. "Stay awake. Tell me your address. I'm taking you home." Then Frank was being dragged into a car. He couldn't tell what colour it was, just that he'd been laid on the back seat, and the sound of the car doors told him Gerard was in the front seat. "Come on, boy. Address!" Gerard demanded. Frank was in pain, he'd been beaten up and cried out another mans name for a saviour, he'd lost his dignity. These stupid questions were getting him and his temper nowhere.
"Homeless, dipshit." Was Franks reply. As angry as Frank had been, it reassured him to know that Gerard wasn't too angry with the way he was being about everything.
"Right, of course." Gerard said, pausing in thought, then turning on the car engine. The last thing Frank remembered before he passed out was Gerards sweet voice. "It's going to be okay. I'll fix you up at my house."