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 Posted: Wed Oct 23, 2013 3:41 pm
MaggotsWord Count: 1062Adrian stepped outside, into the dying light of sunset. He shivered; the harsh odor of chemicals clung to his clothes, his nostrils. And as he wrapped his jacket tighter about himself, he couldn't help but wonder if someday, someone might clean up after him too. Whether a gunshot to the head or death by heart attack, it didn't matter. Violent deaths were the worst, he supposed. But someone, somewhere, might make a buck off of it. Just like him. Goosebumps rose on his skin, and unusually algid wind tore at his cheeks.
A storm coming. In August.
He drew the zipper up on his leather jacket and straightened it out, hoping to cover just a little more thin cloth before he froze to death on a stranger's porch. He knew the girl peripherally, from a party some time ago. He never imagined she'd live in a dump like this - beer bottles tipped over and rolling across the porch, where they lodged against the gaps in the wood planking. Deferred maintenance and lack of staining drained the floors of their color long ago, leaving nothing but grey to accentuate the haphazardly placed white plastic chairs. One sported a hefty crack at the crook of one arm, so the chair permanently rocked back and forth. A matchbook still sat beneath one leg, but it was a futile attempt.
They just left it there. Just like him. Lying in the hallway, bug-eyed and mouth agape. Bugs already began their cycling, as evidenced by a singular maggot on the roof of his mouth, peeking out like a wisdom tooth from days long ago.
Eerie. He didn't like to look at those eyes.
His work took six hours. Not because of a violent death, no - this man died of natural causes for all he could discern, and if not that, then something on the less explosive scale like poison. Asphyxia. Broken neck. Though, he figured, a broken neck would be pretty obvious to him by now.
Eighteen years old and already diagnosing death. Oh, how his father would chastise him now... He knew he should call, say hey, say how are you, say have you been taking care of yourself lately, but that had to wait. Adrian decided long ago that he would never call his father after his jobs, for he was loathe to associate the old man with all that death and misery.
So as much as he loathed to do it, he waited. Peering through the broken slats of banister, still half-painted with some peeling white concoction, he waited. Watching street lamps slowly flick on, an the surrounding light dim to pinpricks against a blanket darkness, he waited. He checked his watch, his phone, half-wrote a text message, deleted it, half-wrote it again. Considered scratching minute designs in what had to be an already rotten deck. He even considered fully breaking the chair, knowing that they'd keep on using it somehow. Whether by ductape or sheer force of will, that damned plastic piece of s**t would keep on shining.
Keep on sporting those grease-stained, crusted whites.
Finally the car in question rolled up to the weed-stricken curb, a beat up old Beetle missing its VW logo and a whole lot of love. The damned thing shrieked when the driver opened her door, and he wondered if the glass would crack from the force at which she slammed it. She left the road bomb running, lights on and all, which meant either she intended to leave soon after or she didn't give a damn if someone stole it.
Inwardly he hoped someone would steal it. Steal it and take it on a death ride, through the destroyed streets littered with potholes big enough to break his ankles twice over. Yeah, that'd be a fitting death for an old car like that. Maybe if they were feeling especially generous, they might reduce it to a bonfire and roast some marshmallows. At least something good would come of it then.
"Looking beautiful as always," he began, but the beleaguered look in her hazel eyes silenced any further platitudes. He knew from her license that she was in her late 30s, just around the bend to the big four-oh, but she never showed it much 'til now. Wrinkles bit into her skin and held fast, exacerbated by grief and insomnia. Her hair ghosted around her head in that crooked halo of unkempt auburn - indicative of her dismissive attitude toward brushing her hair. On a normal day she exuded vibrancy and mirth, and the only wrinkles daring to show were those that creased next to her eyes when she smiled. But now... Now she wore grieving like the dozen other widows he'd met before.
He wondered if she regretted what she did before her husband died.
She didn't linger, didn't say hello, didn't mount the steps and drop a smile before passing on the bundle of money. As if on autopilot, she handed him his fees for his services and about-faced in one smooth, singular motion. He would've marveled at her grace if he wasn't busy wondering how she'd sleep through this night. Or the next. Or ever again, really.
Her eyes looked sallow, haunted, almost black in the yellowed street lights.
She retreated to the car in her same slow, but purposeful pace. She opened the door. It screamed at her, but she didn't care. She dropped into the driver's seat like a pile of rocks. The door slammed, the panes rattled, and she drove off without even a last look of acknowledgement.
Another job done, he thought, as he eyed the bundle of twenties still rolling haphazardly in his lap. He grew to detest it these days - and he wasn't sure if it was the money itself or the fact that he was paid to erase traces of loved ones passed on. But he didn't have much choice - it was either these odd freelance jobs or live on the streets. Or move back home, but he couldn't take that life twice.
Couldn't live twice either.
The cold seeped into his bones more readily before, and he fussed with his jacket further. He rose, and headlights flashed to greet him in passing. He descended the few creaking steps and began his journey down the sidewalk, into the dark, into the next broken household.
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Posted: Sat Nov 23, 2013 10:34 pm
Metropolis or Necropolis?Word Count: 853"Goddamn, hasn't anyone killed their parents in the past five hours? I know it sounds callous, but I need to eat, Jeff. I can't just sit on my a** and wait for someone to commit assault and battery, you know." The blonde sighed into the receiver, fully aware that the man on the other line could hear him. That was fine - his number one contact for jobs deserved it for all the times he ate breakfast over the phone. "Look, I could really use something right now. Maybe you can piss on the ground so some hypochondriac will flip out and call about it."
The man on the other end laughed - a deep, hearty, throaty laugh that sounded small and tinny through the cell phone's worthless speakers. But Adrian recognized that sound all the same, and it warmed him to the bones to hear such mirth in the man's normally deadpan tone. Jeff was a good man, and served him well since his rocky start outside the community, and they maintained their friendship through all manner of financial success and downfall. The two were a team in their own right, and for every success that Adrian tasted, he passed on that very fortune to Jeff. Even if it meant cutting a check now and again, the two supported each other through thick and thin.
And this time, it was Jeff's turn to offer up the prospects. "Hate to break it to ya, but the prospects are lookin' pretty thin right now. Not much you can do but sit on yer hands and hope someone up and dies here pretty soon. I know I know, that's not what you want to hear, but it's all I've got right now, alright. Nothin's brewing in the state, Addy. Maybe try somethin' else for a change. Somethin' less gruesome, at least." He meant well, but the remorse was there. It trickled through the receiver like sap down a tree.
Adrian felt the sting of rejection - it would've been worse than a girl turning him down, but girls never turned him down. "You know I'm not cut out for manual labor. I don't want to waste my good looks on construction work. Unless you've got some bright idea that doesn't require a two-year degree, it sounds like I'll have to hop couches pretty soon."
"Don't be so down on yourself, kiddo. You've got options, yer just not lookin' at 'em right. Think about it - sure, there's no human stains on the sidewalks right now, but that doesn't mean you're starving for greenbacks til someone bites the big one. Yer a cute kid, you can probably sell your face to a local rag or maybe model some clothes to tide you over-"
But Adrian wasn't interested in listening to Jeff peddle consolations and halfassed solutions. The blonde was lucky enough to discover something he was truly good at - the niche that all boys of his ilk sought - and he wasn't interested in forsaking it for a potential career change that might amount to nothing at all. "Jeff. Listen. I'm too good for magazines. That's not gonna change. This face is priceless. And this face wants to keep on smelling Clorox and SuperClean. Do you think you could pull some strings, and get me on with one of the companies that deals in more normal messes? Like Merry Maids or something?"
"... Merry Maids?"
"Merry Maids. I s**t you not."
A period of silence followed, where Adrian could hear a light electrical buzzing if he listened closely enough. Finally Jeff spoke again, and his tone had changed to a more somber drawl. "... You've got a few options if you look outside the state. Think about it - what's the most crime-ridden city you can think of? Just name one off the top of yer head."
"Chicago."
"And Destiny City. They're both pretty goddamn infested, what with the gangs and the terrorist bullshit. Pick either one, and you'll be swimmin' in so much bodily fluid that you'll end up with AIDS from yer occupation. Money won't be tight for you anymore, I guarantee you." Another pause, followed by a shortened breath. "But I'll sure miss you, kiddo. Write to an old man now and again, will ya?"
Adrian smiled. He couldn't help it. Jeff had a way of treating him like another son almost. He was lucky to call the man his mentor to this world of sin and sacrifice. "Thanks. I mean it. This... This is a break. It could be a good thing for me. And I'll be sure to pop in and visit sometime, even if it's just to be a bug up your a**. I'll talk to you later - I've got a yard sale to do before I pick a town and stick with it." Without waiting for a response, he ended the call. He always found it too difficult to say goodbyes regardless, and this one meant more than just a finished call. Only one thing weighed on his mind now, stark and heavy.
Chicago or Destiny City.
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Posted: Sat Nov 23, 2013 10:35 pm
The First StrokeWord Count: 529Months passed since he moved to Destiny City in the ides of August. He did so under heavy monetary duress - if he did not manage the move, with an absolutely paltry amount of cash drawn from his savings, then he had nowhere to go. Certainly the community wouldn't take him back now - he had no intention of returning for the baptismal rite and spending the rest of his days toiling away in fields and searching for a wife in an irrevocably repressed settlement. No, Adrian chose to follow through with his life-altering decision and pioneer new grounds in Destiny City.
The move itself was an interesting feat. Since he couldn't take anything with him, he sold off the majority of his possessions and used the scrapings to secure a down payment on an apartment in the heart of Destiny City, not far from some of the more crime-ridden neighborhoods. His small streak of black humor assured him that it'd be good for business. Besides, more crime meant less rent, and he couldn't afford much of anything right now.
However, his method of reaching Destiny City was... unorthodox, to put it lightly. Adrian hitchhiked across state lines, with a multitude of different people - truck drivers, taxi drivers, aged sedan drivers, overburdened minivan drivers. But they all had that kindness in common, and during the journey he was privy to stories tall and small, of toddlers attempting their first steps and of nephews thrown in jail for the last time. And he told a few of his own all the same, as those giving him a ride were often curious about the stranger in their passenger seat. For the most part, they were pretty shocked to hear of his past in the community, but they were more or less accepting of his past. Though, he suspected that the last truck driver with an unusual accent doubted his story in its entirety.
And now, after all that travel just to secure a more reliable living, he was faced with a very different problem - his entire apartment was goddamn bare. Sure, it had the necessities, like a couple bar stools and a bed to sleep on, but it lacked his taste and charm. With every wall white and not even a hint of a decorative lamp or photograph, it looked as though someone had nearly completed the process of moving out rather than in. And Adrian wanted to fix that.
Armed with a set of rollers, varying paint colors, a plastic tarp and admittedly dorky-looking eye protection, Adrian figured he was up for the task. After all, inhaling paint fumes differed little from his day job - the only marked change was the lack of a corpse to cause the mess. But today was his day off, and a rare time in which he both had the money and the means to indulge himself in a project of this magnitude, and he wasn't about to squander precious seconds by reflecting on his bizarre choice in jobs.
Adrian set to work on the walls, hoping that the hours would draw by slow and steady - he needed this to last.
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