text: [Themes: modern, anti-hero]
  
  Heavy bass, flashing lights, and naked women.
  
  The Rhino Room isn't the most respectable establishment, even as far as strip clubs go. Its walls boast noticeable thinning paint in more than one area. In their defense, though, no one is staring at the walls. That money is better invested in a higher class of dancer, some pretty girl needing community college money or needing to make it as a single mom in a man's world. Or both.
  
  The drink numbs your senses, dulling your mind into a timeless void. You're aware of everything in front of you, the girl dancing on the stage, topless waitresses taking orders—but you're finding it hard to focus on one thing, a result of more than a few. Johnnie Walker Red Label, just what the doctor prescribed, not that you hadn't been ordering it over the counter since hitting the tender age of 21, or at least that what the fake driver's license said.
  
  The drink numbs your senses. Like slapping a Little Mermaid bandaid over a fatal wound! From the Appalachian to the City of Angels, to various towns in the shitty state of California—you couldn't get far enough away from your hometown. They say problems follow you no matter where you are, but damn, if you aren't going to leave them in the rear-view mirror.
  
  The drink numbs your senses.
  
  Can't hurt if you can't feel!
  
  > keep drinking
  You decide to keep as you are. The drink comes first. Topless waitresses and dancers are simply the cherry on top, and a bright fucking red one at that. What's the point in tossing bills on the stage anyway? The cash is gone as soon as you pull it out, all for a brief moment of pleasure, tucking dollars into the waistband of some young girl's thong, being just clumsy enough to drag your hand on her bare skin. Having second thoughts, are we?
  
  No, you're quite content where you are, whiskey in hand, eyes on the stage. You didn't catch the dancer's name. It'd be a fake one anyway. They always are, part of the allure to keep men entranced, the downfall of many eager men who act like they've never held the attention of a woman before. Hell, maybe they haven't. Maybe that's why they're here in the first place. You sit comfortably in the back, doing your best to go unnoticed. Somehow strippers always know who isn't spending money, and they swarm like sharks smelling blood in the water.
  
  By the time you finish your whiskey, slowly sipping at the burning liquid, three different women have come up to you in attempts to get you to buy a dance, like if you aren't willing to throw a few bucks on the stage, you have a twenty to blow on a three minute song. As you finish the Johnnie Walker, leaving behind a lowball glass as a calling card, a fourth dancer approaches.
  
  Unlike the others, she isn't naked, even if that's stretching the use of the term. Her legs display black fishnets, rising from high-heel to hip. Black bra, black panties. Somehow she knew your favorite color. As she speaks, her fingers gently touch your arm.
  
  "How 'bout a dance?"
  
  Your eyes glance to the back room. It lies behind a dark open hallway, only accessible with cash or the right friend. In this case, your friend's name is Grace. No doubt not her real one.
  
  "I'm Grace," the dancer says, tucking a strand of unnaturally red hair behind her ear. Her voice lowers, causing you to lean forward. She takes the opportunity to draw close, putting her lips mere inches away from you. "My boss is watching, and he gets mad when girls on the floor aren't pulling their weight."
  
  "I've still got a drink left," you answer back, keeping your lips at the same distance. No booze is allowed in the back. House rules. It's goddamn lucky this place allows booze at all. Most states simply allow one or the other in "titty-bar," and last you checked California isn't one of them. Perks of a small town.
  
  Grace suddenly pulls the lowball glass from you, her black nail-polished fingernails matching her lingerie. She finishes the Johnnie Walker in a single gulp. The action surprises you, leaving you speechless. Quickly you glance around to see if her boss noticed. Apparently not if she isn't being whisked away for poor customer service, in this case stealing from the customer.
  
  "Don't worry," Grace breathes into your ear. Warm fingers touch your hand, sending a slight tingle up your arm. "Next one's on me. Now are you wanting that dance?"
  
  Current excused swallowed by Grace, you have nothing left. "Sure, why not," you answer looking more happy than your hesitation may have given off. You start to walk towards the back when Grace stops you. Now's a good time as any to cut back on the drinking. Helps when a stripper cuts it for you.
  
  "First. Let me see it," she says, wiggling her fingers playfully.
  
  Of course. You reach inside of your jeans, hands finding the leathery object you're looking for, black, a gift from your late father. You pull the wallet from your jeans and hand Grace a twenty dollar bill, doing your best to hide the wallet's now empty state. Grace places the bill somewhere on her. It's astounding how little she can wear and still hide money with ease. That's the difference between unskilled labor and professional work.
  
  Arm around yours she leads you to the back. More than a few jealous eyes watch, housed within bodies that are either unwilling or too poor to buy a private dance. In about three minutes, you'll be another one of them. Grace nods to the bouncer standing guard at the hallway to the private dance area.
  
  "Just holler if he gives you trouble, my dear," he says, talking like you aren't there.
  
  "I'll be ok. This one's a cutie," Grace answers. She gives your arm a pinch for emphasis.
  
  She takes you into the back. The main room is already dimly-lit, but the back takes new meaning to the phrase. There aren't flashing lights. No strobes. Just heavy bass and the cover of darkness for questionable actions to go unquestioned.
  
  You allow your guide to lead you. Grace obviously knows where she is going and walks confidently in the dark. If you paid closer attention in Sunday School as a kid, you might have caught the symbolism. Grace suddenly stops, and you almost crash into her. She spins your weight, using your momentum to sit you down into a seat, rather forcefully. A second later she's on your lap, her hands grabbing yours to place them firmly around her hips.
  
  Body moving seductively, she grinds on your lap, teasing around your rock-hard erection that she obviously notices, making you wish—even more—that she'll focus all of her attention on the area. Grace deftly flips around, pressing her back against the front of your torso, leaning against the weight of your chest. The wail of Slash's guitar pierces through the room, Welcome To The Jungle blasting full-volume through the speakers, far preferable to whatever rap music was playing earlier. Grace rubbing against you, the warmth and softness of her skin making every penny of the 20 dollars worth it, brings her lips to your ears.
  
  "'If you want it, you're going to bleed. It's the price you pay.'"
  
  Thinking she's quoting the song lyrics, you respond. "'You're a very sexy girl, very hard to please.'"
  
  Grace draws even closer. You feel her breath on your skin with her next words. "It'd please me if you were dead."
  
  That's not how the song goes. She continues. "Really, what fucking use are you? You have no one in your life. The little time you aren't wasting at that dead-end job is spent numbing your senses into oblivion. It'd be better if you were dead."
  
  "What the fuck?" is all you can utter, still erect. While your body may be in a state of pleasure, your mind is far from it. Seriously, who the fuck is this chick? Truth hurts, don't it?
  
  "Death isn't so bad," Grace whispers. "It's like a good night's sleep. You slowly fade into it. All your fears, anxiety, insecurities—they're erased. It's a clean slate, honey. All you gotta do is give in." She pulls a sharp broach from behind her head. Interesting. You never noticed it before. She places it in your hand. Cool metal greets your palm, in contrast to the warm skin that your hands were previously feeling. The end of the brooch is needle-like, as sharp as the point of any knife you've seen.
  
  "It's easy," Grace says. "Just plunge it into your neck, and it'll all be over in seconds. Mommy will take care of you." She caresses your cheek, moving your hands once again, although this time it isn't towards her hips. She brings the point of the brooch to your neck.
  
  "Sink it in, baby."
  
  > sink it in
  "So," Grace says. "How 'bout a dance?"
  
  You're back in your original spot. The coolness of the brooch is replaced by the glass of Johnnie Walker, glass still half full — an irony towards your current mindset, to say the least. Somehow you have a sinking feeling that your wallet still holds twenty dollars inside.
  
  "N...no thanks," you manage to utter, the present scene throwing off the normal eloquence that accompanies your words. The whiskey, also, may have something to do with it.
  
  "Are you—"
  
  "I'm sure," you cut her off.
  
  "Ok, fine then. Enjoy your night," Grace says as she walks off. She immediately heads towards another lonely patron in the Rhino Room. Apparently exclusive offers aren't so "exclusive!"
  
  Clearly you've had too much if you're imagining things...or not enough. The drink is supposed to numb such thoughts, not bring them into realistic experiences. Not good. Time to get outta here. This time, it's you who downs the cup's remainder. You place the empty class on a nearby table and take your leave of the place.
  
  The old Challenger is parked outside. By now, the repairs themselves have cost more than the vehicle herself. She's a beaut, however, a gift from your late grandfather. He loved the car, and it's the only thing you have left of your family. They haven't been around for what, 15 years now? About that, give or take a couple years.
  
  Painted black, your favorite color, the Challenger rests between two small flat tops. It looks harmless, dormant. When you turn the key, pump the gas, and kick it into first, the baby'll purr. Oh, she'll purr real nicely. A little more on the gas will turn the purr into an all-out roar. You do just that, leaving behind the Rhino in your rear-view mirror, giving those smoking in the parking lot a reason to cover their ears and utter a few curse words.
  
  > The next morning
  The next morning, the heavy bass, flashing lights, and naked women are replaced with the ringing of phones, fluorescent light, and very un-naked women. You sit in your cubicle, resting your head on your hand and your elbow on your desk. Your other hand is firmly gripped around a mug of hot coffee. An open window of Microsoft Outlook sits open in front of you.
  
  Your usual plain black mug was missing from the break room cabinet, so you made due with what was available, in this case, a purple Little Mermaid mug, showing Ariel and that little fish friend of hers. What's his name again? Your eye catches sight of Ariel's seashell bra with the next sip, and you can't decide whether her over sexualization is more pedophilia than beastiality, or perhaps it's only half. That answers that. She's clearly underage, but only half fish, after all. Life is full of mysteries!
  
  "Finish the article on Hartman's daughter yet?"
  
  You turn to find the editor, Joseph Max, your boss. Not only does he possess two first names, he's a bonafide pain in your ass. He stands behind you, two hands on his khaki-wearing hips, peering through classic brown-rimmed glasses. They always reminded you of the glasses worn by Guy Pearce in L.A. Confidential.
  
  "Not yet, Mr. Max," you answer through a fake smile. "Nancy hasn't gotten around to finishing her interview on the subject. They spoke over the phone, but I need an in-person follow up to finish. Nance is busy with the victims of the factory fire on 83rd."
  
  "And you didn't think about speaking to the daughter yourself?" Joe Max asks, demonstrating the prime example of what you call in this business a leading question.
  
  "I thought about it, Mr. Max. But I didn't want to overstep. If Nance needs help, I'm sure she'll ask." That's a good doggy. Well trained. No more "going" in the house.
  
  "I'm approving it. The article can't wait—I'm sure I don't have to tell you Mr. Hartman's importance to this paper. Pack your notepad, sleuth. You're going on a field trip," Joe says.
  
  Well, anywhere's better than sitting in a cubicle for nine hours a day. Nancy usually does all the investigative journalism for you. The two of you are a power-packed couple: she gathers the information and you place it into a neatly-typed column. In boxing they call that the ol' one-two punch. Instead of knocking a man unconscious, you're turning some oral story no one cares about into a written story no one cares about. At least you give people the option to skim-read. If only that were an option listening to someone talk. More specifically, if only that were an option when Mr. Max talks. Guess that's what email is for.
  
  > Head out
  If you know Joe Max, and you do—more than you'd like, then you know that he's a "no time like the present" type of man. Whatever needs to be done suddenly finds its way to the top of the list, even if there are more rational steps to take. You shut down your computer and prepare for mobile work.
  
  Grade school teaches that field trips are a time for blowing off work. When you reach adulthood, you realize that's the furthest thing from the truth. Instead, it somehow keeps you on the clock longer, while taking up precious time that you could actually be getting work done.
  
  Still, it's a nice change of pace from staring at a computer screen all day. You unplug your laptop from the monitor that resides from your desk and slip it into your traveling bag. Hooking the strap around one shoulder, you down the Little Mermaid cup's remainder. Laptop, check. Notepad, check. Dignity, remains at large. It's the longest game of hide-n-seek in history! Making sure you have your employee badge, Joe likes showing off official "I.D.s" when on the job, you head towards the employee parking lot.
  
  "Closing time already?" Earnie calls out from behind the front door desk. The old security guard lives behind that hunk of cheaply put-together wood. He'll probably die behind there too as he's there both when you arrive and depart. Somehow he can't help himself from making that known to everyone. We get it, Earnie, you got no life.
  
  "House call," you answer.
  
  "Ha! I'd sooner trust Web M.D. than have you as a doctor," Earnie responds.
  
  "That's too bad, Earnie," you shout, now through the open front door. "I have a sick kid who needs a heart transplant. Turns out he'd rather keep his dud than take your cold one." The door shuts before the security guard can offer a retort. Low-life 1, security guard 0.
  
  Ignition. Purr. Roar.
  
  The black Challenger takes off down the road. Gear three is a little sticky, but you're used to it. Just takes a little finesse, that's all. As you drive towards the Hartman estate, your mind draws to the events of the previous night. Most wouldn't dare going out on a Sunday night, especially to an establishment like the Rhino Room.
  
  The human body is a wonderful thing, isn't it? Adaptation. Conditioning. Expose it to stresses, and it'll slowly build resistance. Most experience it through weightlifting and exercise. Your liver does most of the heavy lifting. It'd give Johnny Cash's a run for its money, not that the musician was lacking in such a regard. That's not something you can boast.
  
  For the second time, you expose yourself to Guns N' Roses. Paradise City blasts through the speakers. Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty. Cruising in the Challenger, blasting rock—not a bad way to start a Monday morning. This Monday ain't blue. Feeling alive, for the first time in a long time, you crack the driver side window, letting cold air assault your hair. It'll take a few licks and pats to get it down again, but it's damn worth it. Mind clear, caffeine pumping in your veins, your foot presses on the gas.
  
  Oh won't you please take me home.
  
  > The Hartman estate
  You end the call and turn your attention back towards the blasting Guns N' Roses. The Challenger roars forward, signaling its approval of music choice. Always good to call ahead. That's something Nancy taught you, not that the two of you expected you to be conducting interviews. She didn't teach you as much as bitch about it. One time her interview subject forgot about their interview, and Nancy ended up waiting two hours for them to show. Nancy's complaints were enough to drill it into your head. Knock, knock. Anyone home? There's at least ONE inhabitant here. The rest appear to have drunken themselves into a stupor.
  
  The neatly-paved road steadily transitions into a less pristine state as you near the Hartmans. Smooth asphalt becomes replaced with off-gray pavement, full of chunks and small potholes. Nothing that the Challenger can't handle. The road twists and winds upward. You've made it past any homes in the area. All that surrounds you now is dry California hills and dead grass, trees of similar state, their branches void of life, outstretching their arms like lightning frozen in time.
  
  Eventually, you reach a gate. It's large enough to fill the two-lane road with ease. For a family with more money than you would have trouble earning in Grand Theft Auto, the gate to their estate isn't as nice as you were expecting. For one, rust lines the hinges, bars in badly need of paint complete the picture. Through the gate, you can see the road turns into complete dirt, like it's given up completely, going from smooth blackened asphalt, to bumpy gray, now to nothing.
  
  The gate locked, you have no choice but to roll down your window and holler at the intercom.
  
  "Anyone home?"
  
  A perfectly articulate voice rings back, its polished state far above the wavering audio from the intercom speaker. "Hartman estate. State your name and business, please."
  
  "I called earlier," you answer. "About interviewing Miss Hartman."
  
  "Very well, sir." The gate slowly opens, moving at about half a mile per hour. "Approach the driveway. You may park to the far left side, furthest away from the front door. Park your car and stand next to it until you're called upon. Miss Hartman will be with you shortly."
  
  Jesus. That's a lot of instruction for a simple parking job. You half expected the voice to command pinning a rosebud to your left breast (not your right) after that. Shame. You forgot to stop by the florist on the way. They'll have to make due with just the parking job.
  
  Gate fully open, you roll the Challenger forward, doing your best to avoid potholes, which have only dug themselves deeper in the dirt road. Each pump sends your head bobbing back and forth in a wavelike motion, similar to one of those blow up dummies displayed at used car lots.
  
  More dead trees line the dirt road, looming overhead. If they had leaves, the road would be covered in complete shade. In their state, however, jagged shadows stretch across the path like shards of broken glass. The Challenger slowly crawls forward with a low rumble. Slow and steady. Too much gas will cause a burnout. Not the best first impression. The muscle car itself already has a certain stigma attached to it.
  
  The trees break, opening up the road to the house's exterior. Aged yellow paint greets you. It's an off-color yellow, like one born from a previous generation. You know the type, lacking sharpness and sheer nimbleness of modern times. The house is a classic country home in shape, the kind kids love to explore in, its vintage design offering substantial hiding places and areas to explore.
  Countless windows face the front, well, 14 if you were to count them, but enough to think, damn that's a lot of windows, and along with that goes a casual comment about the interior receiving ample natural sunlight.
  
  As you approach the house itself, the dirt road turns back into pavement, a U-shaped driveway rests in front of the Hartman home like a life-sized piece of a child's racecar ramp set. Only one car is parked, a black town car, leaving more than enough room for you to park on the right side, close to the house.
  
  > park as instructed
  Despite the apparent empty driveway, you do as you're instructed, taking the Challenger to the far side of the driveway. It feels a bit silly, but it isn't your place to question. The voice in the intercom came from someone whose life is devoted to making sure this place is cared for, most importantly that Rachel Hartman is cared for. He probably is more well-versed on the subject, and as such, you follow his direction.
  
  No cars around you, the only one in the driveway being the black town car, you take the furthest spot away, ignoring every instinct to take the spot next to the house. It's a little like sitting at a red light in the middle of the night even though there are no cars in sight. But still, the stoplight says "sit tight, motherfucker," and so did the voice from the intercom.
  
  Removing your key from the ignition, you reach over to the passenger's seat and ensure everything's in your bag. Laptop, notepad, a pen... There's no pen. Frantically, you dig through the bottom of the bag, reaching your fingers inside like a juvenile delinquent trying to get free items from the bottom flap of a vending machine.
  
  Unlike the juvie, however, you finally find what you're looking for. Unfortunately for you, there seems to be a theme today. The pen is a cheap thing decorated with Ariel the Mermaid, the image not printed correctly. From the front, Ariel is all smiles, but the other side of the pen shows a twisted connection of princess to mermaid tail, one half slightly higher than the other, the print being anything but seamless. It'll have to do. The same thought that Joe Max probably had when assigning you to the interview.
  
  Demonstrating your grasp of Instructions Pt. II, you exit the Challenger and stand next to the muscle car. As you're just about to pull a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros at your breast pocket, the front door—a large heavy set pair of doubles—swings open and a butler exits, likely the origin of the voice from earlier. Oddly enough, he's Korean, but still dressed in typical butler black and whites.
  
  "Good. You've arrived. Miss Rachel is in the study. You're not to disturb her until she's ready. You can wait in the foy-yay." (Whatever the fuck that is.)
  
  You glance at your wristwatch. It's two-till-nine, the appointed time that the interview is supposed to be taking place. "...will she be a while?" you ask.
  
  "Miss Rachel takes as long as she takes."
  
  Inwardly, you sigh. It could be a while knowing rich people. By the man's reaction, the sigh was a little more than inward. The Korean butler holds the double doors open for you. The entrance to the Hartman estate lies open. Rachel Hartman may keep you waiting, but you sure as hell won't return the favor. Inside you go.
  
  > Inside the Hartman estate
  It's a lot of wood. Wood floors, stairs, even the dining table is unpainted wood, although the quality speaks for itself, any sort of paint—no matter the kind—would cheapen it. As expected, bright natural light spills through the front windows, basking the interior in its golden glow, shining magnificently from the polished wood. You wish that you brought your sunglasses. Just as you're about to take a seat on a nearby chair (a wooden one), a voice projects from down the hall, a woman's voice.
  
  "Let him in, Warren."
  
  "Very good, Miss Rachel," is the butler's, Warren's, reply. Lowering his voice to you, he says, "Be respectful and don't waste Miss Rachel's time. She is doing this as a favor to the Herald. Keep that in mind with your line of questioning."
  
  In other words, don't rock the boat, Jack!
  
  Warren leads you down the hall, his posture perfectly upright, yours a little slumped, a perk of writing for the Herald. Just as the butler led you into the house itself, he motions similarly to the open study doorway. The first thing you notice is papers. Papers everywhere. They're scattered on the floor, begging attention from the large empty desk that sits at one end of the study.
  
  In fairness, the volume of paper is nowhere near the surface area of the desk. Seems Rachel Hartman isn't afraid to sit on the floor and get a little dirty. Instantly, the impression of a pompous, entitled little girl vanishes, and you rely on observation rather than pre-built conception, another perk of writing for the Herald. Spend enough time working with details of the written word, and you pick up a few things.
  
  Rachel Hartman sits cross-legged in front of her sea of paperwork. She doesn't apologize for the mess. "I thought you were supposed to be a woman. What happened to Nancy?"
  
  "Busy."
  
  "Well," Rachel says. "Should we get started then?"
  
  "And here I thought I was conducting the interview," you answer.
  
  "One final question," Rachel starts. She rises from her seat, heading towards the far end of the room. Natural light pours through the window. If this were your apartment, dust vapors would be visible in the air. Here, however, in the Grandiose Hartman estate, it's simply clean sunlight.
  
  Rachel walks through a beam. Somehow her navy blue suit pants remain unwrinkled from her seated position. She wears a satin white blouse, which is just see-through enough to notice the white bra she wears underneath, tastefully, of course. Rachel Hartman is the type of woman to notice when a man is staring. Mentally, you prepare for eye contact only. No drifting south mistah. No sir, keepuh due course north! She finally completes her question.
  
  "If I were to offer you a drink, would that stay off the record?"
  
  You've never been one to turn down a drink with an attractive woman, and you sure as hell aren't going to start now. Besides—you check your watch—it's noon o'clock somewhere. "Whatcha got?"
  
  Rachel Hartman smiles through perfect white teeth, matching her blouse below. "What don't I have?" She waves a hand in the air. "I'm speaking through questions. Enough of that. Macallan, Goose, and Hendricks. Take your pick."
  
  You take your turn traveling across the beam of sunlight. Rachel stands next to a mini-bar, built from a darker type of wood. The actual type escapes you as your expertise in identifying types of wood span from "light colored one" to "dark colored one." A man of culture!
  
  Macallan 30. Jesus, you could run a bar tab for months and not reach the cost of that bottle of scotch. Some choices are difficult, some are easy, others are thrust upon you. This one in particular is anything but difficult. The only downside is that your typical Johnnie Walker Red may not taste as sweet going forward. Once you consume from the hands-off tree in the Garden of Eden, there's no going back. Eve offered the apple to Adam. He partook. And so you follow in his footsteps.
  
  "Macallan, neat."
  
  Rachel answers, "Coming right up," and not a few seconds later, she places a drink in your palm before turning back to the mini bar.
  
  You hold the lowball up to your lips, savoring the smell before, imagining what the flavor of the burning liquid will taste like as it touches your tongue. Hints of oak, a bit of citrus, smoky. Goddamn smoky, just how a scotch should be. You take a sip. It's what you imagined, and more.
  
  The citrus—is that orange?—is subtle, not as strong as the aroma suggested. It holds a bite, one which you gladly allow to roam freely within your lips, the strength of the drink assaulting your senses. Suddenly, the sip turns into a gulp, and like every enjoyable moment, it passes, leaving you with nothing but an empty glass and a quick fade of dopamine.
  
  As you look to see what concoction Rachel is brewing for herself, you're a little surprised when she pulls a bottle of water from a mini-fridge. The fridge's door is made of the same "dark wood" that decorates most of the study, which is why you didn't notice it earlier. From the outside it appears to be nothing more than a cabinet. Rachel notices your face.
  
  "It's barely 9 A.M. Little too early to be drinking for me. I know how it is with you writer types. My father dabbled in it from time-to-time. His autobiography came out a few years back. Did you read it?"
  
  You shake your head. "Haven't gotten around to that one, Miss Hartman. It's on the bookshelf, though."
  
  "Don't bullshit me."
  
  "Amazon cart?"
  
  Rachel's eyes narrow.
  
  Before you can stop the words, probably a result of the scotch as well, you spill out, " Ok, you caught me. I have no intention to read it. I write articles about boring people and events that happen in this town. The last thing I want to do, in my own free time, is read an entire book on that subject." Your words hang in the air, and quite a hang time it reaches. Sign this motherfucker up for the NBA Dunk Contest! Your face turns a reddish hue. Noticing the color change only makes it turn a deeper red.
  
  Rachel is silent. She stares at you through pursed lips, her eyes narrowed, still. Then, like the words that you couldn't hold in, laughter escapes. It's much more gleeful than you'd expect. "I can't say I've ever been interviewed by someone who walks into my own home and disrespects my father, a man who is at this very moment laying in his death bed upstairs."
  
  Somehow your face finds a deeper shade of red.
  
  "Apologies—"
  
  Rachel cuts you off. "No need for that. My father is an ass. And before you go ahead and quote me saying that, just remember who's under the influence and who is not. The same goes for anything you'd think about jotting down in that little newspaper of yours. Anything other than 'The Hartman's Are Class-A Citizens' will be met with our legal team. I'm sure they'll make quick work with whatever back-alley discount lawyer you have on retainer."
  
  Well, shit. When you put it that way... How quickly Rachel Hartman's mood changed. She went from laughing to all business as if flipping a switch. Fun time's over. Still, that laugh. That must have been the real Rachel Hartman poking through. Through all her hard business exterior, likely plastered and molded by her father, the real Rachel was spotted through the cracks and she wasn't unenjoyable.
  
  Rachel continues. "If you want a story, how about I take you upstairs and fuck your brains out? That'd make the front page, don't you think? Loser Reporter Bends Businesswoman Tycoon Over Like A Ballerina. Front page stuff. Don't think I haven't seen how you look at me.
  
  Your eyes blink in response, seeing if the scene before you is really playing out this way. Rachel Hartman still stands before you.
  
  "My father is upstairs dying. We could do it in front of him, spiting him right to the devil. He was a horrible man, my father. You work for the press. Surely you've heard rumors. 90% of what you publish on the man is utter bullshit. We could give him a good send-off. In fact, why don't we stop by the kitchen. You can take your pick of knives. We only have top quality, here in the Hartman residence, sharpened like a barbarian's spearpoint. You could stick it in the man. Then it's my turn."
  
  "I don't think that will be necessary, Miss Hartman," you manage to answer, thinking that keeping the professional approach will get Rachel back on track from...whatever the fuck this is.
  
  "Now, now. Don't be rude," Rachel says, taking your hand. "Come, then. First to the kitchen, then upstairs."
  
  As with the broach in the Rhino Room, the decision is not yours to make.
  
  > First to the kitchen...
  Rachel's hand is soft and smooth, like a silk pillowcase that you could rest your head upon. Its coldness surprises you. A chill runs through the length of your arm as you touch. Although given her recent speech, it could be due to that, feeling the physical reality of her words through the woman that spoke them.
  
  She leads you from the study, taking careful steps to avoid the scattered papers on the ground. You follow the exact placement of her steps as if being led through a minefield. It's like some fucked-up Indiana Jones scenario where one wrong step could result in poisoned darts flying from the walls and a giant boulder, ready to turn you into one human-shaped pancake. Only in this scenario, a golden artifact isn't the prize: the prize is fucking a dying man's daughter at the foot of his deathbed before sending the old geezer off. Treasures come in all shapes and sizes.
  
  Back into the hallway, wood on wood greets you, the theme of the entire house. Down the hall you go, led by Rachel's cold touch, into the kitchen. Here, the room breaks the theme. Sure, there are cabinets and shelves built from the "lighter type" of wood, but that's the extent of it. The counters are polished slate, surrounding a center island that is pure chrome. Not a single mark, stain, or blemish is seen. It's surgical, almost.
  
  "Over here, love," Rachel Hartman says, pulling gently with her arm. On the other side of the island, a case of knives sits quietly waiting for you. Like most of the house, their handles are from polished wood. Rachel pulls one from the set and places it in your hand. It's cold, even colder than Rachel's hand. Its blade flashes in the light, sending a white reflection dancing on the chrome island.
  
  Does it satisfy you?" Rachel Hartman asks.
  
  Barely conscious of the words escaping your lip, you respond. "It'll do. It'll do just fine."
  
  "Come, then. My father awaits us upstairs." One hand around the knife, another intertwined with Rachel's, you allow her to bring you to the staircase. The staircase leads up, leaving behind the natural light of the main hallway. Oddly enough, the sunlight does not appear to reach the upstairs, like all the shades on that level are drawn. From the light you ascend, taking each step into the dark, Rachel's icy hand around yours, mimicked by the knife in your other.
  
  Your eyesight can't keep up with the gradual darkness. Slowly, step by step, images turn formless, blending into a perpetual blackness, making your physical steps more visceral, a conscious effort climbing to the top. Along the way, Rachel Hartman leans in close, whispering in your ear. Her warm breath assaults the senses. Comforting. Sensual.
  
  "I can't wait for you to stick it in me. First deal with the old man, then you can have me. I have some daddy issues if you couldn't tell."
  
  Her other hand finds the waistband of your jeans, undeterred by your leather belt fastened tight. It slips inside, grasping your rising manhood. The suddenness of the act causes a gasp to escape your lips.
  
  Rachel's hand rubs while she continues to whisper. "That's a good boy. Hard cock just how I like it. You know what you have to do. Stick the knife in old man Hartman. Stick it in him, then stick it in me. Fuck a man's daughter on his deathbed. What a way to go. Come, my father waits for us."
  
  Morning light. Pounding headache. You roll over in bed and come face to face with a mostly-empty whiskey bottle, the liquid line barely reaching an inch from the bottom. Backwash line you used to call it. Now you call it what it is: liquid breakfast. A quick toss back and the bottle's ready for the recycling bin. I'm no hero, just doing my civic duty. Carry on. You lay in bed a few minutes more, waiting for the effects of your breakfast to kick in.
  
  Head slightly alleviated, you sit up. Your apartment is a single room, the bedroom essentially an extension of the kitchen, the only thing separating the two areas being a slab of kitchen counter, nothing like the Hartman's. Next to your bed, twin sliding doors house your closet, which is currently bleeding out a steady stream of clothes, like air escaping a punctured tube.
  
  You pull a plain white shirt from the pile. Well it used to be white. Now, it's lost its brightness, more beige than white, but that doesn't roll off the tongue as smooth as plain white T. As you walk to the kitchen area of your bedroom to start the coffee pot, the lyrics of Albert King pop into your head. They call it stormy Monday, but Tuesday's just as bad.
  
  Like the bottle, there's only a small remnant of coffee grounds remaining. You dump the bag's contents into a filter and pour water in the back section of the BLACK + DECKER. Lazily, in a trance, you watch the pot slowly drip until it's finished. Drip, drip. The clock reads 6:24. Your shift doesn't start until nine. Drip, drip. Gives you plenty of time to work on your novel. Drip, drip. Your stomach growls in protest that you're filling it with more liquid rather than solid food. Drip, drip.
  
  Coffee in hand, stomach empty, you make your way to the small desk in the corner. Besides your bed, it's the only piece of furniture you own unless you count the chair that sits in front of it. Small surface, it only boasts enough room to hold your laptop and a coffee mug next to it. That's all you need. Tonight, the mug will likely be replaced with another bottle. Until then, you'll make due.
  
  Your laptop opens to your latest entry, what you hope will finally catch the attention of a publisher. As often as your articles are published in the paper, you're hitting nothing but a brick wall when it comes to your personal projects. Somewhere in this dump, there's a drawer overflowing with rejection letters, similar to the way your clothes spill from the closet. This one will be different. Ok, crazy. It's better than the rest. Sure it is. It is. Bang your head against the wall enough times and eventually a hole opens up, whether that ends up being in your head or the wall is up for debate. Your fingers start to pound on the keyboard.
  
  Tirak had his fill of lords and ladies. Pompous buffoons, all of them. Assuredly, they would say the same about him, minus the "pompous," replacing the word with something more suitable. Worthless, poor, something along those lines. Hell, their omission would be true. But still, he had something they all desired. He possessed the ability to entertain. Tirak could be excitement to their dull reality.
  
  That kept him around, despite moste wanting him gone from the court. Tirak played his hand well, never revealing too much. Keeping them on the line, so to speak. That's the performer's secret. The curtain can never be opened, fully. There needs to be the aura of mystery, suspense.
  
  > Continue
  You continue banging on the keyboard, losing yourself into the story. Some days you can get into it, others not so much. This morning falls in the former category, so you take full advantage, wishing there is more coffee. Writing oil to prime the pump. Booze works as well, but the tank's on empty for that, too.
  
  The clock eventually hits 8:30. You save your progress. The love story between Tirak the Jester and the Duke's daughter will continue tomorrow morning. Now, you've got to rush to the Herald. Joe Max will no doubt be wanting your finished article on Rachel Hartman. Weird interview. There's definitely a reason why Nancy usually conducts them. Besides, the gaps in your mind have been increasing of late. First the gentlemen's club, and now at the Hartman residence. Two times in the same week...not good. They haven't been more than once a month since your childhood.
  
  You shake the thought from your head. Better to forget the past. It holds only phantoms, seeking return from their dormant state.
  
  From the overflow of clothes, you pick through for an unrumpled shirt. Smell you can handle. Nothing a few sprays of deodorant can't fix. Wrinkles are a little harder to manage. They require more effort to fix. That very reason is why your toolbox is filled with duct tape rather than conventional tools. Don't fix what ain't broke. Wrap that shit up tighter than a jimmy at a whorehouse.
  
  You find a dark navy button-up, almost black, and throw it on. Dark colors hide wrinkles better. Sipping into a pair of jeans to match, you casually turn on background noise to keep you occupied—and your mind from thinking of the past. You settle on the news. Helps to tune in, especially in your line of work.
  
  After listening to a little jingle about waking up with something in your cup, a male voice rings through, speaking with the steady cadence of a news anchor, the teleprompter being his metronome.
  
  AND ONCE AGAIN WE'RE BACK TO THE BREAKING STORY OF THE MORNING. JIM HARTMAN, 82, IS FOUND DEAD IN HIS RESIDENCE. MANY KNOW MR. HARTMAN AS THE MAN WHO REVOLUTIONIZED THE TOWN, HIS HAND AIDING MANY SMALL BUSINESSES IN THE AREA.
  
  You freeze in terror. A sudden rush of adrenaline fires through your body, like when a cat runs face-to-face with a pit bull. Fight or flight.
  
  Shit.
  
  The gaps in memory, in reality, whatever, don't really occur twice a week, do they? Does that mean the events at the Hartman residence actually happened? If that's the case, Jim Hartman's picture may be the number one posting, but sure as hell you're bound to be a close second. You're a danger to yourself and others. If the gaps are getting worse... Listen for foul play. THERE CAN'T BE FOUL PLAY.
  
  MR. HARTMAN WAS FOUND IN HIS HOME AT 6:44 AM THIS MORNING BY HIS DAUGHTER, RACHEL HARTMAN, 32. MR. HARTMAN WAS MOVED TO HIS COUNTRY ESTATE FIVE MONTHS AGO WHEN THE DOCTORS DECIDED FRESH AIR MIGHT DO HIM GOOD. HE'D BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH LUNG CANCER IN THE BEGINNING OF LAST YEAR. HIS DEATH, THOUGH PREMATURE, WAS NOT UNEXPECTED BY THE FAMILY. MORE ON THAT LATER.
  
  Premature. Since when is dying at 82 premature, unless... No, it can't be. You've been in the business a few years. That's what you always say. Joe Blow Died At A Tender Age Of A Hundred And Ten. He Was Taken Too Soon. Premature. That's what they always say. But you've also been in the business long enough to know signs of foul play wouldn't be disclosed at this time, despite your momentary hopefulness. The fuzz won't allow it until they've had time to investigate.
  
  Revealing too much, too early, is a sure way to cause a few persons of interests to be a few persons in the wind. Premature. God damn it. Premature, premature, pre-fucking-mature. If the news story was of your own causing, there's only one chance to run, and that chance is right fucking now. Pack up the Challenger, and let's take her for a lil spin.
  
  > get outta town
  It might just be coincidence, but you're sure as hell not going to wait around to find out, not when the stakes are so high. Not willing to bet on black, huh? Pussy. Nope, there's a time to roll the dice and there's a time to walk away from the table: you're taking that walk outta town.
  
  You don't even bother packing. Let your asshole landlord throw out all your stuff and polish the place shiny-fucking-clean. You own few things worth taking, and the rest can be purchased wherever the hell you end up. You slip your laptop and normal gear into your travel bag, slinging it on one shoulder as you stuff a few articles of clothes into an aged Jansport backpack. Hit the gas, leave this dump in the rear-view. Taking one last glance at the apartment, you pause in the open door frame. Ignoring the graduation goggles, or whatever the running from the law equivalent is, you shut the door closed behind you.
  
  North. You'll drive north. You've had your fill of sunny skies and warm weather. The cold will treat you nice. Nicer, even. It's easier to blend in when the vast majority is wearing winter coats and hats. Perfect place for someone in your situation. The Challenger may disagree with icy roads, but you're sure they'll get along in time.
  
  The roar of American muscle fills the air. There's nothing quite like getting on the highway, finding the open road early in the morning. Endless possibilities it promises, the ability to go wherever you please. Freedom. True freedom, even if there are flashing lights chasing you down. No shackles on these wrists, honey. Shake it, shake it.
  
  You drive.
  
  The Challenger takes the north-bound ramp, urging you to press harder on the gas. You give it a little pump, but hold back reining the car as if taming a wild animal in the jungle. It deserves a little slack on the leash. Too much, however, and it'll press for more. No, there's a sweet spot in the middle, and you find it perfectly. Thoughts of yesterday appear.
  
  You drive.
  
  "Out here, love." Pleasure. Knives. (Stick it in me). Rachel Hartman, a thing of beauty. All business. But still underneath there lies a little girl, one who wants to desperately prove her father and all his associates that she is her own. It went unspoken, but you were able to read between the lines. Children of the successful rarely have the self-esteem to match the amount of zeros in their bank account. Oh they can pretend. They can pretend as well as anyone. But the fact remains that everyone and their mother's mother expects something from them.
  
  You drive.
  
  Two episodes so closely together are...concerning, to say the least. As you light a smoke, cracking open the driver's side window, you find small relief. Bad things come in groups of three. If somehow another episode occurred—-no, you don't even want to think about that. Jim Hartman's death may be of natural causes. It was just his time. The same can be said for you. Time to move on. Mentally, you calculate the amount of cash in your pocket. You estimate it'll last a good two, maybe three months.
  
  You drive.
  
  The sun slowly reaches its highest point, then begins waning down. Bright sunshine steadily becomes replaced with approaching dusk, its dark blue shade stretching across the horizon. You've had to fill the tank two times already, and the needle is telling you a third is imminent. A bright signpost catches your attention.
  
  Bright neon red and orange outline the name of the joint, a truck stop dive adjacent to a Shell station. Finger flicking the turn signal, you pull in. Your stomach grumbles its agreement, your liver doing the same. The Challenger parked among a few lifted trucks, you head towards the front door of Maybelline's, twirling your keyring around your pointer finger.
  
  Oddly, a bell rings as you swing open the door. Your eyes catch sight of the bar. Pictures of breakfast food are posted above racks of liquor. In the morning a diner, by night a bar. Just the type of place to be open 24 hours for travelers, suiting all their needs. Throw in a few rooms to rent for the night, and it'd be the holy trinity, the Shell acting as Mother Mary outside.
  
  A woman meets your eyes as you enter. She stands behind the bar, dressed in a worker's flannel and jeans. Her heavyset hands hold a glass, polishing it clean. "What'll it be?" she asks. Your eyes move from the woman to the array of bottles behind her, scanning through the selection. Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Jameson...Johnnie Walker.
  
  "Johnnie Walker Red. Neat," you answer. She nods and pulls the bottle from the shelf. It's then that you notice the hanging silence of the place. It's subtle, as silence often is. It doesn't force itself. Rather, it's the absence of something you expect. Here, for example, you expect rock music and drunken laughter from a few locals. There's neither, just the patron and his drink. That's fine with you.
  
  A lowball glass slides your way, landing firmly in your palm. Cool glass to house the medicine within. It's not a cure by any means, but a quick fix is better than none at all. There's a wound to heal, and it's the only thing present. Present and abundant. Take daily. Up the dosage if the condition persists. Just as the doctor prescribed.
  
  "Twelve even. Just passing through?" the woman casually questions.
  
  You slap a five and a ten on the bar. "Something like that. Heading up north. Keep the change." You may be strapped for cash, but you dare not break the unspoken tip rule towards a bartender.
  
  The woman nods her thanks and stuffs the cash into the register. Two knuckles rap on the bar in front of you. "Just holler if you need anything else."
  
  You return the nod and take a sip, letting the medicine do its job. Just a quick fill-up, and you'll hit the road again. This time, however, the morning's optimism won't accompany the journey. Only darkness awaits, welcoming you in as one of its own. Weariness, reality sets in. Nothing good lies at the end. You only do what you can.
  
  You drink.