"Call me," Rose said as she entered her number in my cell phone right before leaving my apartment in the early evening. To sell drugs? To rob people? Other nefarious deeds, perhaps? As long as she wasn't using kids, I didn't really care to ask and she didn't care to tell.
So there I was, sitting on my couch, engaged in a most serious and exciting staring competition with Mr. Wall when I suddenly remembered that I still had most of the money I had earlier pinched from Trenchcoat's **** corpse, and blinked.
"You win again, buddy," I said getting up. I threw on a hoodie and stepped out for a walk.
Whether it was the come down from the coke or the fact that I was starting to slowly realize that my life was quite literally in the ****, I started to feel increasing depressed walking down the street. I stepped into a super market and bought the biggest muffin I could. First of all, not only does biting into it automatically force you to smile, its cloud-soft interior just takes you to a whole other world of happy and delicious the whole time you eat it. When I was done, I felt like I had just spent a lazy Sunday afternoon in a hammock with a cool beer in my hand.
Continuing my walk I found that the night air was fairly warm and the wind was crisp and refreshing and not too fast. It was this kind of weather that made you feel like you could keep going on in this forever. Adam Sandler was totally right. **** the sun. The sun sucks. The night time is the right time.
I eventually happened upon a bar on the first floor of a ritzy looking hotel. Walking in, I found that the quiet, still atittude of the outside world seemed to carry over into The Pine. The walls and ceiling were painted orange with wood trim and wood paneling on the bar counter. Three tables with chairs surrounded a pool table some feet away from the main counter. These were all a dark brown, mahogany-like wood (how the hell am I supposed to know what wood they used? It's not like I'm some expert. Get off my back already!) with an orange trim. Despite how it may sound, it wasn't tacky at all, but quite surprisingly fancy and slick.
And indeed others seemed to think so too because the place was pretty busy. There was a tastefully dressed couple in their mid thirties sitting at the table closest to the wall engaged in quiet conversation. Next to them sat a group of business women in their late twenties, enjoying a drink after a long day of work. they really seemed to be letting themselves go because I totally heard one let a mean burp go. The last table was occupied by a lonely candle, flickering in the dark.
There were even two guys shooting a game of pool at the table in the middle. They both wore nearly identical dark blue jeans that very seemed to shimmer or sparkle when they hit the right light. The one holding the stick wore a bright red Ralph Lauren polo shirt with the collar popped up and hair spiked pristinely. I knew the shirt was Ralph Lauren because of the giant **** polo emblem stitched into the front of the shirt. His friend, not to be outdone, wore a dark grey shirt with sparkly silver accents and a gossamer scarf lightly wrapped around his neck.
These two were obviously either still in, or just out of college, and trying to come to a place like this so they could bring up their "classy points." I was instantly hit with a wave of disgust. Fauxmosexuals, the worst **** guys you could ever run into. They always talk softly and politely, have extremely feminine body language and have impeccable hygiene and fashion sense. Nothing against them personally, but damn is it annoying to see how often and easy these guys pull tail.
"That was an awesome shot, Rob!" said Scarf with almost sincere excitement. I walked over to the counter and ordered a beer. It was much less crowded and enfuriating here. There was only one other guy sitting to the far right and he didn't seem to notice me.
I sat there for a while, looking up at the modest-sized tv in the corner. There was a rather interesting story about how there had been a head on car accident out in the dessert a few hundred miles away. What made the story interesting was that the accident apparently occurred when human feces fell out of the sky and hit his windshield, impairing his vision and causing him to slam into the other car.
My attention was broke when the man at the other end of the bar came to sit next to me and spoke, "hey there, Scott."
"Aw ****," I said, "not you again."
He was an Enforcer.