In Short a Redneck Has Arrived!

Growing towards the evening, the sunbathers of the day have left the edge of the lake and things are actually on the edge of being peacefully quiet before the neckers come out for the night. There's a few scattered cars, but no one in sight to this tiny edge of the lake. That's somewhat strange, however, considering right near this area there's a clear sign that someone had been around earlier. A large old blanket has been spread out several feet back from the shore line and there's a cooler closed on one edge of it, holding it down against any wind. A plastic bag is tied around the handle of the cooler and contains two dead soldiers inside as well as a few cigarette butts. To a trained nose, the scent of the blanket is woman and dog… and a faint hint of hospital antiseptic in the background. On the other end of the blanket there is a pair of daisy dukes and a sports bra, both abandoned by someone or other.

The dog scent on the bag suddenly wafts closer into the area as a fairly nice sized female blood hound lopes onto the scene from around the far corner of the leck, long ears splashing up water almost as much as her big paws are, she runs and runs until she suddenly stops and begins sniffing. Something interesting! Sniff, sniff… and then she's running again, tail wagging madly.

There is a trained nose coming near, but the nosiness is currently blockaded by cigarette smoke and the frame of a 1991 F150 pickup, which rattles and groans its protests when its owner forces it to accelerate up towards the lakeside parking lot. Which, in this case, just means the fact that there is a spot which is not occupied by trees or water that is relatively flat and can fit a truck. The twangy chords of some overly melancholy country song crackle out of the truck's radio as Murphy spins the wheel to send up a shower of dirt that rains into the water like a teeny meteor storm, and he continues to be utterly unsubtle by kicking open his door and leaving the music on as he hefts a six pack of beer by its plastic rings and slides himself on out.

In short, a redneck has arrived.

Hiking boots hit the damp earth and the disheveled man tosses his keys over onto the passenger seat of the arthritic vehicle before starting to tromp towards the water, only to quite suddenly stop, prop a hand up on his waist, and stare at the bloodhound that he has miraculously managed to miss noticing up until now. Huh. But - but. A quick glance 'round and away from the running hound and Murphy's eyes laser in on what appears to be female clothing, so. Y'know. That's all good. And like any man with no sense of modesty he changes direction and heads for the convenient blanket. Which he plans to hijack, yes he does.

Oo… Lots of new scents. And while they weren't exactly pleasant, lilacs and roses or some such, they were interesting and spoke of things far different that sickness, injury and death which had surrounded Kate on duty since the moment she arrived down here. The scent on the air is tobacco, making something very human itch at the back of her skull as a reminder that she's not smoked in probably about an hour and she'll be nic-fitting soon if she doesn't change back and light up. Beneath that, there's truck, smokey and scenting of gas but also it's the sort of smell that comes with the promise of a drive, wind in your ears and the thrill of the road. Lastly, beneath it all, the most tempting of the scents is simply -masculine-. Red neck or not, it was good to feel on the air the manly musk of a healthy and very alive red blooded American boy.

So, as he looks at that bloodhound, she's looking straight back at him. Body straight a moment, nose high on the air as she brings all that in, her tail's wagging having slowed just a bit with the perk of her big ears, almost as if she were thinking. Her coat is a gorgeous auburn brown red in the early evening sun. Big, wet paws carry her a few feet closer, though she haults suddenly as another scent catches the air. Swampy. The same way someone described her a few days ago. Two souled? Her head tilts, black eyes watching him curiously.

Murphy lips contemplatively at the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth for the few seconds in which he still eyeballs the dog, but in no time at all he's sauntered up to that blanket and tossed his beers down… which are quickly followed by himself. The man rolls onto his back and quite happily uses the pile of clothing as an improvised pillow while he spits out his cigarette in the general direction of the water, separates one can, and cracks open the pop top.

In no time at all he's practically burying his face against the metal as he gulps down the first rush of air-conditioner-cooled alcohol. That done and with one hand lifted to wipe any stray foam off his mouth, the man is once again free to look about. Seeing that the dog's still kicking around, he lifts his eyebrows and just smirks to himself, lifting the can in what might be considered a toast.

That antiseptic smell comes a bit more from her clothing, mainly the bra, having been worn on some shift where medicine was heavy in the air, somewhat recently. But the rest of it is all woman and not that unpleasant at all. Well, woman, and something similiar to the scent that is coming closer to him on the air as that redbrown canine approaches more. If a dog could smirk, Kate would be, staring at the red neck on HER blanket and HER clothing. At least he wasn't drinking her beer! She pads within a few feet of the blanket and just stares, waiting.

Apparently, the watch and wait approach isn't working. She finally steps all the way up to him and leans over, nosing at the edge of her daisy dukes and trying to get them out enough she can clamp teeth around them and tug them out from under him! Her clothing! Though her nose is flaring all over now, almost as interested in his scent as she is her own clothing.

It's not going to be that easy, because now that the cigarette is gone - well, there are things that are tickling the stranger's nose. He twists around onto his stomach, still holding his beer can upright, and uses his free hand to clutch at the clothing that the canine seems so invested in 'stealing'… and takes a deep whiff of it. And don't call him a pervert, either - that's only part of it. "G'wan, dog, git!" Murphy is, amongst all other things, clearly. Uh. Eloquent.

Her clothes! The dog's tail now drops a bit, stiffer as tension wraps through her body and she clamps down tighter on her jeans. Still, she tries not to pull too tight, if she rips them then she's really going to be sorry when she changes back. He is not scaring her off with those words either, she's just trying to win this momentary tug of war which might be a game except for her body position. And, this close, his nose might confirm a few things… Her fur smells a bit too much like the very clothes he holds. Strangely too much.

There's a slight flare of the man's nostrils as he takes in a quick breath and hangs on to the jeans like a bulldog on a rawhide chewie, and that's enough to give him even more reason to not let go of the clothing. Murphy sits up as best he can and swings one leg over the dog's head to wrap it around the denim garment, trapping it under the hinge of his knee. "Get on back, girl, and let me have a look atcha. Without them floppy ears, neither." Oho.

Without them floppy ears? That's when he gets the first growl of this conversation, her droopy, drooly mouth sneering just a bit, showing a flash of brilliantly white, well helped teeth as sharp as any canine's should be. She doesn't change quite yet, not even daring to let go of her clothing though she's getting a good whiff of his leg and her head has been pulled down as he tries to trap her precious denim underneath his leg, the way he's bent it. She's trying to keep her ground! Stubborn red heads, at least in this coat she's a redhead.

Yes, without them floppy ears. It is possible that Murphy is a little bit of a lech, it is. He grins at the dog, setting down his beer, and then reaches around to try to get hold of her nose and give it a quick squeeze for shock value, which will hopefully liberate the clothing. "Don't be shy. You got nothin' I ain't seen before, darlin'."

Kate whimpers away, snuffing and chuffing a bit as he dares to cut her scent off like that, even if just for a few moments. That's about the last thing on the planet she can stand. She snuffs again, shaking her head and backing up on too-big paws. Her tail's tucked under now and a bit stiff, body tense with anger and frustration at the whole situation. She looks from the red neck back towards the slightly dark water, then back to the redneck. She could go in and get wet again, hiding her body when she changes at least, or she could show him everything. Eventually, she actually seems shy enough that she pads back towards the water.

Murphy just sticks his tongue out at the dog when she backs off, winking a bit cheekily as he then rocks backwards and takes his ease, fetching up his beer again and giving it a chug worth a good few seconds. "Modesty don't become Texas girls, darlin'. But if you insist." He doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Judging by the fact that the dog is getting herself all wet again, it doesn't seem like she is either. "And don't be a sore loser."

If a dog could noticably roll her eyes, that would be what Kate Clarke is doing right now. She treads back into the water and begins doggie paddling out that she won't get a buttocks full of mud the moment she changes. And then, as smooth as breathing, the gorgeous, well bred bloodhound is no longer there. A very blonde (not redhead) woman is treading water in her place. Pretty, in that tomboyish sort of way, the most feminine thing about her face might be her blue eyes, or more so her full lipped mouth which is now in a very tight smirk. She stares over at him, in water all the way up to just above her breasts, her hands coming to rest on her hips under the water now that she's found footholds. "Well, I am not a Texas girl, so I would thank you very much to return my clothes." No, her voice is all New York, actually. Husky from years of smoking, a voice made for late night radio.

It's with distinct interest that the man watches the dog moving out into the calm water, propping his arms up on his knees and hunching forward to get himself another drink without tipping his head back too far. "Aw, you ain't no fun. Lighten up. And now that you've got me thinkin', modesty don't become no girls at all in my opinion. Maybe I oughta help you with that by removin' temptation." Murphy lifts the garments in a bundle and waves them around teasingly, a grin wide on his face and a waggle of his eyebrows to punctuate.

Kate folds her arms across her chest now, just incase the water is too crystal clear and he's getting a show either way, she's not going to make it easy. That tom boy toughness lingers on her face as she unhappily watches him, narrowing her eyes at the balling up of her clothing. "Well, fortunately, I'm not trying to be becoming to you, mister, so I have no worries about who may or may not approve of my modesty. I do, however, have to drive back to work in a few hours, and it's not very gentlemanly of a man to torture a lady so… Though possibly you're not a man or a gentleman, just a foolish little boy."

"No need for name-callin'." Murphy takes another long drink and then tosses the now-empty can off to the side, where it rolls down the slight incline and straight into a small shrub. It doesn't look like he cares. "But you're right. I ain't a gentleman. So I think I'll make your drive to work a little more wild, maybe make a state trooper have a more interestin' traffic stop when he pulls you over. Howzat sound?" Wink, wink. Murphy twists on the blanket and gets to his feet, tucking the clothes under his arm.

Kate keeps her arms folded, though her anger is deepening every passing second. There is a growl to her voice that isn't just being husky toned, but it's something natural from within her chest, her very being, and not very human. "You could at least be a man and not a jackass? Why the hell pull shit like this, honestly? You never even met me, and it seems you sure as hell understand what I am… Why bite at your own kind? I smell it on you too." She accuses quietly, tryign to keep her voice meant just for their ears.

The man straightens up and stretches, taking a brief glance back towards his truck. Yep, country music is still blaring. It seems like it's in good shape. But then he's called out on his own nature and it brings Murphy's attention squarely back to Kate, who simply gets stared at. "Why not? Seems like it'd be fun. Y'all could always follow me home. I'm pretty sure a good hound could keep up."

The stare is straight back in his direction. She's not some blushing, wilting wallflower even if she's modest about showing off being nude. The jeans have nothing in them, no keys or wallet, so at least she was smart enough about that. Who knows if she came here in a car or not, but she certainly didn't carry her blanket in her jaw, so she didn't come in dog form. "If this is the way you pick up a girl to follow you home.. it sure as HELL isn't working, boy. I can be fun, but hell… Not like this."

"Fair 'nuff, ladybird. And I usually just wait for them to come t' me. I've got m'looks going for me, if nothin' else." A slight grin follows and Murphy starts to investigate the clothes a little, eventually pulling out the jeans and giving them a wave. "C'mon, then. Tell me 'bout yerself. Earn these back. I ain't gonna be shy about drivin' off with 'em if you don't."

Kate relaxes, just a little, as he hints at the fact she might be able to get her clothes back without shifting and dragging him down into a fight which she isn't entirely certain she can win. In the jeans he will find a single pack of menthol cigarettes and a lighter, no panties, no ID, nothing else. But there is one other car in sight, something that looks pretty, generic and clean enough it's probably a rental. Possibly there's more clues in there. "Light me one of those cigarettes and bring it over here here…then maybe we can talk."

Murphy does steal and light a cigarette, but it doesn't look like it's going to be heading anywhere near Kate. Instead he tucks it into his own mouth and starts wandering back towards his truck, chuckling all the way. "This ain't a negotiation on your part, honey. See ya when you track me down."

Kate groans quietly…"Fuck, fine… Fine. What do you want to know?" Kate yells out to him, impatience in her husky voice, but now just a touch of desperation. Granted, it's just her clothing, and she has a blanket, but this is still miserably embarrassing. She takes a step or two forward, just -barely- hiding her breasts beneath the water now, the tops of them soft and clear above the fold of her arms, body's curves fighting out through the muscle she tries to keep toned.

"Oh, I gave you your chance, darlin'." He does not seem to be stopping. In fact, he's rather close to his truck now. Murphy's hand is on the door. The door is being opened. And then, with one foot propped up on the lip of the car door, he turns back and grins at Kate again. "Your name'd be nice, though."

Kate stops herself from getting further out of the water, though her pulse runs quicker now, hopeful and nervous at the same moment. "…Kathryn… Kathryn Clarke. Happy? Now… just come back here, please." Kate calls out to him, doing her best to keep that tough bitch attitude up, but she's really not all that good at it. Now she just sounds worried and tired… the exhaustion in her voice matches it in her eyes. For all her tom boy roughness, she's got two sets of luggage under her eyes, if he bothers to study her closer.

Thump. That is the sound of Murphy hefting himself up and into the driver's seat, and he drops Kate's clothes on the passenger's side before stuffing the key in the ignition and letting the engine roar to life. If a machine could groan, the truck just did. "Nice to meetcha, Kate." The door slams shut and the emergency brake is released, but instead of hitting it into reverse the redneck just eases off the brake pedal and lets the vehicle roll slowly down towards the water's edge. "Let's hope you can catch good. I'm Glen." Studying isn't really what this guy's about, though, and he just leans over to retrieve the woman's shirt and holds it out the window. Teasingly. Because he's a jerk.

Kate groans again, rolling her eyes deeply. And in a flash she's out of the water, bounding paws and flopping, cute ears. But she's fast, no matter exhaustion, proving that Bloodhounds aren't just slow lopers and sniffers, they can be honed canines and beasts when they need to be. She's dashing towards the car, probably just narrowing avoiding being hit by it as she leaps up to grab the shirt into her maw and rip it from his directions.

Murphy lets out what can only be described as a 'whoop' when Kate goes into dog-mode again, switching gears quite literally and starting to set his foot onto the gas. The truck kicks up dirt as its wheels spin, no doubt getting the bloodhound (and the shirt) nice and muddy in the process as it starts to work its way back up the little hill. "C'mon, girl! Hop up in the back, I'll take ya to a rib joint." At least he lets go of the shirt when the hound gets her mouth on it.

That's too damn much. The mud, on her fur and her shirt. Kate turns on her paws and trots back to the water, letting him drive away as he likes. She's not going to grovel to some red neck hick who wants to play power games, two souled or not. She dives back into the water, splashing off messily, trying to get the mud off her fur and enjoying herself the way only a dog can in shallow water. One might thought she had water dog in her somewhere!

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