Log:The Past Always Catches Up

The Past Always Catches Up
Participants Jack Fry, Weaver Utridge	24 April, 2018 Jack Fry has a meeting with an old enemy - but has no idea he's facing the man that almost killed him.
Location Lake Brunsett - Western Woodland
==========-< << Lake Brunsett - Western Woodland >> >-========== Traveling a mile or so westward along the lakeshore, the wealthy, glitzy houses and hotels are left behind in favour of the occasional cabin and a great, great deal of forest. In the appropriate seasons, hunters can often be found prowling the woods farther from the lake, and there are two separate boat launches for fishers on the shore itself, though 'beaches' are few and far between, and pebbly at that, larger rocks brought in and stacked to help prevent bank erosion. For those who appreciate the earthier side of life, the city does make the majority of its money from tourists: want to rent a bike/motorbike/snowmobile? Want to rent a fishing boat? The businesses here have just the thing. This far away from it, three miles across the open water, the thunder of the distant falls is a dull rumble, but a beautiful one, if you can find a spot with few enough trees to see it properly. There was a bit of a hubbub - an otter had gotten caught in a net and was quite mad about this fate. So, someone called the Park Rangers, Jack was sent over, and he's now managed to calm down the otter so it's basically a pet, as he disentangles net from the poor little fella. He's cutting the net carefully but is not dawdling with the task, wanting to free the little critter as quickly as possible. His black German Shephard is lying nearby on the beach. There's quite a few gawkers, tourists or locals both, but Jack's curtly asked them to keep a distance so the animal remains calm. His hat is pushed back, he's taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, as the weather today is much warmer than just a few days ago. He hasn't changed much. Maybe a few more lines around the eyes and mouth. More stubble, as if he shaves even more infrequently nowadays. Bit skinnier - maybe that happens when you get laid up in the hospital for a month, and then have to regain strength. Still that sinewy, sinuous lankiness to his build though. Clearly, he didn't die. Weaver is amid the crowd, a changed man himself. He's wearing a white jacket bearing the crest of FB's high school, cargo shorts, and is in a pair of loafers. Right now he's drinking from a bottle as he watches the animal rescue with the rest of the peanut gallery. He calls out, "If you can't save it does that mean you feed it to your dog?" As classy as always as he pulls out his cellphone, and points its back at Jack while he cuts away. "I've heard that they taste a lot like pork." The otter wriggles, as if alarmed by what Weaver is calling. Jack shoots the man an intent glare, pausing in the work for a moment. There's a crowd, and now it looks like he's being filmed too, so he responds with the polite curtness practiced by police: "He will be let free, sir. If you're filming, I'd appreciate it if you stopped." He resumes his work, and manages to free the otter with a few more quick cuts; he lifts the animal quickly before it can run the wrong direction, taking a few steps down to the lake and releasing it, so it can swim off. There's a few scattered applauds at this, because saving cute animals always gets attention. Jack pays no heed to this, turning an intent stare at Weaver again, maybe recognising trouble when he hears it. The dog, Goblin, stays at his side and wags his tail, like this is all some fun game. With a grunt of frustration Weaver eventually relents just as the otter is cut free. "Fine," he groans with a roll of his eyes. The disgust from the crowd at his query only elicits a brief smile from the man without shame. He turns his attention to the otter when it scurries away, and then back to Jack as his smile grows slowly. "Well, it's free now," he says with a mocking frown. "It's not as if there's a proper barbeque pit for the thing anyway, and it looks like most of the people here wouldn't have much of a stomach for it." Jack grunts, brushing his hands off on his pants, not too worried about staining them. He adjusts his hat and starts walking up from the beach, people dispersing - though some linger around out of curiosity to see how Jack will handle the abrasive weaver, scandalised and eager for something they can film too. THere's a few phones out, most of them trying to be subtle about it though. The look Weaver gets now, is a tired one. Like Jack doesn't have the energy to be riled up about this. "I'm sure someone, somewhere, eats otters. Not on the menues around here." He cleans his knife off, then sheathes it - it's one of those typical hunter knives, nothing special. "Got an issue with otters? Did one bite you when you were a kid?" "I mean, yeah" Weaver notes with a slight, sad shake of his head. His gaze drops to the ground for a beat, and then lift back to Jack as he smiles once more. "Got me in the ankles, but thankfully old Spot, my dad's doberman, fixed that problem soon enough." He lifts both hands in almost mocking innocence as he adds, "We didn't cook it, of course, but we probably should have. Waste not, want not, et cetera." "Should've cooked it. Probably could've used the proteins to your brains." Jack says this in the most informative way possible, a not so veiled insult. His dog is showing its teeth a bit, not growling, but kind of on the verge of any seconds; it doesn't move an inch from Jack's side though, staring at Weaver with oddly intelligent eyes for a dog. "Alright people, thanks for calling me, and for being so patient. Beach all free to use again." Jack waves to the little crowd still lingering, trying to get them to get moving. Weaver's hands come down, and he's left frowning once more. "Is that so? Why, mr. officer, I never would've taken you for someone that can enjoy the finer things in life, but it seems I was wrong to cast such judgements." When his gaze falls to the dog any pretense of kindness quickly drops as his lips curl into a sneer. A beat passes as he shakes that off, and looks back to Jack. "So does this all mean we're free to go otter-hunting?" "No." The response is flat and no-nonsense. He doesn't elaborate, no preaching about if or when you can hunt them. Instead, he starts up the beach, to walk past Weaver on the way to the Ranger Off-road SUV parked up on the parking lot nearby. There's a narrowing of eyes, and he pauses to stare at Weaver - as if something disturbs him, other than the man's behaviour; but then he shakes his head and adjusts his hat and with a set jaw, he walks on. Goblin stares balefully at Weaver, probably seeing more and sensing more than his owner, or just picking up on Jack's mood. The simple, understate response draws a grunt of disapproval from Weaver, but there's nothing added behind it. When Jack walks by he smiles, again, and waves goodbeye. "Be safe out there, officer. I heard that there might be random bear attacks out there, and we wouldn't want that to happen. Those things'll eat more than otters, and might even go after poor-" He motions to Goblin, unsure what to call him before he shrugs. "Well, it was nice seeing you." "Animals don't bother me. People do," Jack responds over his shoulder, snorting a bit. "You watch out for those otters, Sir." He tips his hat, grins a toothy grin and climbs into the vehicle. The dog hops in over him and clambers into the front passenger seat, with practiced ease. Starting the car, Jack does stare at Weaver, as if trying to memorise how he looks; not that this will do him any good in the future.