A Stroll in the Park, part 1
Sanguine pools form around the body of a male, punched with so many holes that he looks like a cheese grater. The first of what will be many flies perches on the corner of his open eye, cleaning itself and partaking on the feast that will soon be the home of its children. The fly jumps into orbit, startled by the sudden rattle of death that creeps from the dead man's throat. The everlasting glare of the dead man's eye paints his last moments as painful and shocking: the only way anyone really goes. His mouth hangs open as if in mid-gasp, forever frozen by rigormortis. A single rat scampers to investigate now that the commotion is done, and a meal has been left. It is going to be a long hard day for the dead man.
Gregory woke from his whiskey dream, still at his desk in his office on the second floor of a slum apartment building in the middle of one of New York's worst neighborhoods. Not a bad area because of violence, or the mob. Bad because it was poor. Poor because most everyone who lived there was too doped up to do much of anything, let alone work a steady job like stabbing people for their wallets. His hand was still clutching the mason jar of Old Runner's whiskey, now empty. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, peeling away like two steaks held together with velcro. His throat was swollen from too much drink and smoke. The whites of his eyes were spackled red, and his hair was matted down from grease and sweat. He slowly leaned back into his chair, his face desperately clinging onto the desk before finally letting go with the sticky sound of tape being pulled up. He rolled his head to the left and right, wincing as his neck popped painfully. He rubbed his strong, lanky fingers across his chest and stomach slowly, checking for bullet wounds. Satisfied that he found none, he let out a sigh that came out more like a groan, and the fly that was resting on his eyelid took off into orbit.
"Are you Mister Putin?" A raspy voice cried out. In the doorway stood a tragically thin woman with an aged face. She could have been anywhere from the age of twenty to dead. Her sunken yellow eyes were caked with bright blue eyeshadow, and heavily lined with black eyeliner. Her chapped, crusty, swollen blackened lips painted red curled around her crooked, incomplete set of yellow teeth. The skin on her face looked as though it had been poorly glued to her skull with no muscle to separate them. "I am looking for Mister Putin," she croaked. "I have a job for him." Her lips moved incongruently with the words she spoke, as if there were peanut butter between her lips and gums.
"I am Mister Putin," his voice cracked through his swollen throat, strained from lack of use. "What can I do for you?"
She took a long step into the door, carefully placing her highheel down and rolling onto her toes. She still held onto the door with her long, bony fingers. The black shawl around her shoulders slipped, revealing the straps on her long, silky red dress that was stained with dirt and car exhaust. "My father is missing. I need you to find him for me." As she moved into the room at least one hand was placed on a sturdy object so as to keep her balance. "The police have come up with nothing, and they won't continue to look for him." She slithered into the chair opposite him at his desk. "I can pay."
"Sure, you can pay," Gregory muttered, curling his lip in disgust. "I don't accept drugs for payment. So do us all a favor and rub that Shine on your face till it swells up so much you can't breath."
She narrows her eyes in hate and produces a stack of Puerto Rican bills. "Is this enough to buy your time?"
Gregory's face drops emotionlessly in defeat. "Yes."
I don't fully know where I'm going with this. I just felt like writing something really weird. I have the workings of this story in my head, but nothing solid. Let me know if you like it or not. This is definitely inspired by William S. Burroughs.
Gregory woke from his whiskey dream, still at his desk in his office on the second floor of a slum apartment building in the middle of one of New York's worst neighborhoods. Not a bad area because of violence, or the mob. Bad because it was poor. Poor because most everyone who lived there was too doped up to do much of anything, let alone work a steady job like stabbing people for their wallets. His hand was still clutching the mason jar of Old Runner's whiskey, now empty. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, peeling away like two steaks held together with velcro. His throat was swollen from too much drink and smoke. The whites of his eyes were spackled red, and his hair was matted down from grease and sweat. He slowly leaned back into his chair, his face desperately clinging onto the desk before finally letting go with the sticky sound of tape being pulled up. He rolled his head to the left and right, wincing as his neck popped painfully. He rubbed his strong, lanky fingers across his chest and stomach slowly, checking for bullet wounds. Satisfied that he found none, he let out a sigh that came out more like a groan, and the fly that was resting on his eyelid took off into orbit.
"Are you Mister Putin?" A raspy voice cried out. In the doorway stood a tragically thin woman with an aged face. She could have been anywhere from the age of twenty to dead. Her sunken yellow eyes were caked with bright blue eyeshadow, and heavily lined with black eyeliner. Her chapped, crusty, swollen blackened lips painted red curled around her crooked, incomplete set of yellow teeth. The skin on her face looked as though it had been poorly glued to her skull with no muscle to separate them. "I am looking for Mister Putin," she croaked. "I have a job for him." Her lips moved incongruently with the words she spoke, as if there were peanut butter between her lips and gums.
"I am Mister Putin," his voice cracked through his swollen throat, strained from lack of use. "What can I do for you?"
She took a long step into the door, carefully placing her highheel down and rolling onto her toes. She still held onto the door with her long, bony fingers. The black shawl around her shoulders slipped, revealing the straps on her long, silky red dress that was stained with dirt and car exhaust. "My father is missing. I need you to find him for me." As she moved into the room at least one hand was placed on a sturdy object so as to keep her balance. "The police have come up with nothing, and they won't continue to look for him." She slithered into the chair opposite him at his desk. "I can pay."
"Sure, you can pay," Gregory muttered, curling his lip in disgust. "I don't accept drugs for payment. So do us all a favor and rub that Shine on your face till it swells up so much you can't breath."
She narrows her eyes in hate and produces a stack of Puerto Rican bills. "Is this enough to buy your time?"
Gregory's face drops emotionlessly in defeat. "Yes."
I don't fully know where I'm going with this. I just felt like writing something really weird. I have the workings of this story in my head, but nothing solid. Let me know if you like it or not. This is definitely inspired by William S. Burroughs.