He was covered grease from opening just some of the boxes, more black than tanned.
Don opened the bag and lit another "roach" by candle light and took a hit, the gas from the oils setting off small flares from his fingertips.
A knock on the door. 'I'm hearing things,' he thought. Again "knock, knock" louder.
The door opens to a gust of wind, the smell of wetness.
"Q? Is that you?" a voice
Don turns his eyes, glowing in the light of candle. He says nothing.
"It's me, Seventy Percent," a shadow in the door suggests. There is a head in the glow of the light. "Q?"
"Seventy Percent?"
"You're not Q," a little fearful.
"I'm his brother, Don. Q...Q is dead." It sounds more like a question from Don. He feels he is more and more his brother, that he became more and more his brother as he dug deeper into the boxes, as the fumes and reefer unhinged his mind further and further.
"Oh, sorry man, I didn't hear."
"What did you mean, Seventy Percent?"
"That's what Q called me. He said that I never did more than 70% of anything so he called me 70 percent."
"You did stuff for...Q?"
"Sort of fixed stuff for him. Hey, can I have a toke off that reefer?"
Don was silent again. He eyed the books, the scripts. His brother was calling him to take to the road. This Seventy Percent, this Sancho Panza was a sign. He pushed the ash tray towards him. "I suppose you were paid for what you did?"
"Yeah, he owed me some money," SP breathed in a glow lighting up an honest, but clueless face. "Hey," he said, in a chocked voice,smoke coming out with each syllable. "I don't expect to get paid now. I'm not here to collect money from anyone. I just hope I have enough gas to get home."
"I have a job for you."
"What? What's the job."
"Do you know what a squire does?"
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