Code Z: Fetid Breath and Glassy Stares

[Doaj]

THREAT LEVEL 0

The walls of the bar once had a light yellow wallpaper, which was adorned with silhouettes of insects, butterflies, centipedes, beetles, and the like. But that was decades ago. The building is one of the oldest in Houston, and the bottom floor of the four floor building has been furnished into a bar. It was ten 'til seven, but by John Smith's watch it was five past. The watch is broken, so to be more specific, his watch said it was five past ten. Often times when he got too drunk he'd forget it didn't work, and fully fool himself into believing it was indeed ten o'clock. John Smith was keeping to himself, as most didn't care to converse with him. John was smelly, to be frank, and his rags were a visual tell that warned others about the stench, the ode of rotting teeth, the hole-ridden boots.

The bar had a fair amount of inhabitants, a table by the front door with four men drinking from a pitcher. Two men were black, the other two white. One of these men had just made several thousand dollars in a lawsuit, and the other three were the following: the oldest white man was his lawyer, while the younger was a long-time friend that Malcom had grown up with. The other black man was a foreign man that Malcom had become aquantanced with while visiting family in France. He had met him at a racehorse track, and the two found they were betting on the same horse. After winning, they went out for drinks, and later learned they were both going to America, although the Frenchman had not been before. He was setting out to make a fortune, but didn't know where in America he should try his luck. Malcom talked up Houston, and soon the frenchman was paying half of the rent at the suburban home Malcom inherited from a man who went bankrupt trying to pay off the debt Malcom had buried him in.

The four had had quite a few rounds of shots and had been keeping their buzz with beer steadily since. They were all sloshed, to be honest, but none would admit it, so they all kept drinking. The bar was small and quaint, and there were three other patrons present. One was alone, on the opposite end of the bar, as far as possible from John Smith as he was capable of being. Nobody knew, but it was intentional. He hated John Smith, and while Smith wasn't aware he'd done any harm to another living person, the frequent bar fights had worked against him. The loner was wearing a large FUBU jacket, and when he put his hand in his pocket he felt the cold steel of a .38 that used to be his dad's. Used to be.

Two more sat at a table, a couple, and they were sipping wine that the owner had to get from the backroom because nobody ever orders wine. They did their best to ignore the fact that the bar wasn't the best place for a date, and they were doing a decent job at it, too. They didn't know that this place would soon be where they died. Even worse, was how.

[Casanova]

"I'm sorry, but you just don't match the criteria we're looking for"

Jay was walking home alone again, his job search completed for the day. He longed for some kind of excitement in his life. Even gigs were becoming stale. The ringing left in his ears after a good couple hours of punishment was no longer a souvenir to be proud of, more something he just put up with for the sake of it. Just for the sake of feeling something other than mind numbing boredom or despairing disappointment.

He rounded the corner at the end of his street and stopped just before a large tree that blocked his house out of sight. He dug a hand into his filthy denims and pulled out a badly rolled cigarette and a zippo lighter.

His parents didn't know he smoked and he'd like to keep it that way if even for his mother's sake. She was so proud of his running record, even if his father would rather him be a star wrestler or maybe even the school quarterback. He lit up and, leaning against a neighbour's Volvo, took a long drag. "I wish" he thought to himself "I wish that tomorrow will bring something crazy for me".

A few minutes later he stamped out the cigarette beneath one of his black Vans and wiped his smudged glasses on his track top. Heaving a deep sigh he made for his house at the end of the street, watching his feet as he went.

Without seeing the woman he smacked into the back of her and toppled backwards, unable to keep his balance. His glasses came off and Jay cursed himself for having a weird phobia about touching his eyes, else he'd be wearing contacts.

"Ahh!" said the woman "That hurt, you fucking weirdo!"

Fumbling his glasses on Jay recognised the voice but refused to accept the possiblity. Now fully bespectacled, however, there was no denying it.

"Sorry mom" he said laughing.

"Jay?" her face was red now "Oh my god, I didn't recognise you, honey!"

"It's okay" he said, lying.

She immediately started fussing over his hair being out of place and his jeans being filthy again. (I really wish you wouldn't spend all day on those damn skateboards)

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked, though he already knew. Jay's mother was probably the biggest busy body on the street. There wasn't a whisper of gossip that she didn't get a hold of and the phone bill was always hefty despite her being the only one that used it.

"I was coming home from Stacey's when I noticed number fourteen's lovely new flowerbeds. Don't you think they're beautiful?"

Jay knew that her and Stacey were no doubt talking about number fourteen's reported love affair with the new gardener. He also knew that his mom was no doubt hoping to catch a glimpse of number fourteen and the gardener at it.

"Mom, it's past seven, I doubt the gardener's still there"

"What on Earth are you talking about, silly boy?" she asked, going slightly red again. "Come on," she said "I'm making beef stew"

With that she made for the other end of the street and Jay followed in her wake, nursing his elbow with a smirk.