SlamFiction: Ron Stone- Part 6

Well the SlamFiction experiment continues on. I think I'm going to have to seriously ramp up production on these, if I want to keep up a twice a week schedule. I either deleted a section, or I miscounted horribly... There appears to be only 2 and a half sections left in my buffer... Perhaps I should spend less time on the Buffy rewatch I am currently doing, and more time on the writing, because doing both obviously is not working so well.

Read on, to see how the story continues. Read the previous sections before you read this...

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Individual linkage like that is not so easy... Next one is gonna be tough. Onward after the jump!

We were in his apartment for nearly an hour before I realized I hadn't even introduced myself. We chatted quietly for the whole time, waiting for the cops to show up. When my nerves got the better of me, and I started to tear up a little, Ashton offered me a beer, and although I knew I shouldn't, I accepted, and downed it. By the time the cops finally showed up, I was on my second beer, and was starting to feel quite a bit more mellow.

Ashton opened the door, and two officers stepped into the room. The one who appeared to be in charge looked to be about 6 foot tall, with a small beer belly. The other one was a bit shorter, perhaps 5 foot 8, and he looked like he was in better shape.

“Miss Stone?” The taller officer asked, looking at me. “You were the one that reported the disturbance?”

I nodded my head, and put down my beer, “That's correct, officer.”

The officer's eyes followed the beer, and then he looked back up at me, “You've been drinking?”

I looked down at the beer, and my eyes widened as I looked back into the officer's eyes. “No sir... Mr. Blake saw that I was shook up, and offered me a beer to help calm my nerves. I almost never drink.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, and scribbled a quick note on his pad. “Can you show us where the incident happened, Miss Stone?”

I nodded, and started out into the hallway. However, the second I turned, my heart stopped. The door to my apartment was whole again, it was as if the behemoth had never bashed his way in. I rushed to the door, and ran my hand along the surface, feeling the chipping, faded paint and the numerous scars of years of poor maintenance.

In a frenzy, I reached into my purse. My hand briefly brushing against the cell phone the mysterious dying man had given my before ultimately closing on my keys.

A quick check of the room revealed that it was in almost perfect order, as if nothing had happened. The only proof that anything had actually happened that day, was that my bloody clothes were still scattered about the floor. Otherwise, there were no broken doors, and more importantly, no sign of the scarred giant.