Brone Barnheart Apt. 223

I woke up late. It was raining. “Another day in paradise.” I rolled out of bed, grabbed my beige trench coat, and lurched out of the door. Out on the sidewalk, the rain patted my hair like fingertips. I had nowhere to go so I let my feet decide. I took a left, passing the little taxidermy stand where the elusive buzzard lives. Victoria cracked a smile,
“Hey Mister, want to buy a rat? It’s good for a scare.” She held up a little black ball, complete with tail and whiskers. I grinned back,
“Sorry, this time I’m sober.” My feet walked on. My eyes unfocused and glazed over all of the grey in my view. Then a strip of red caught my attention. There next to the gutter, soaked, was a dainty red scarf. I looked at my watch as if I had something better to do than go pick it up. As I lifted it, I noticed it was complete with tire marks. Looking around to see if anyone was taking not of my peculiar behavior, I saw a laundry mat. “What are the odds.” I took the scarf in, holding it by one end, away from me. The laundry mat manager lifted an eyebrow. I just blankly stared back; this was definitely not the strangest thing he’s seen. As it was washing, I slouched down, put my feet in another chair and lit a cigarette. The manager cleared his throat and pointed at a no smoking sign. I kept puffing. Two cigarettes later, the scarf was out of the dryer. I carefully rolled it up and placed it in my inner suit pocket. As I was leaving I herd “asshole,” under the manager’s breath. I was tempted to show him the wonders of a window punch, but my feet had already guided me away. Back, past the little stand.
“Are you sure?” Victoria said.
“Get me after I leave the bar,” I said without stopping. Huh…the bar it is then. I took a slightly quicker pace with a destination in mind. At the door to the bar, I paused. In the refection I saw the woman in red. Except it was a red shirt, not a dress. Hand propping her head up, she had a look of absolute boredom. This time, there was no work to do. I turned around and put my hands in my pockets. Ding ding ding, she glanced at me, but did not move. Her expression gave away nothing, I like a challenge. I wiped my feet and hung my dripping trench coat on a hanger, careful not to make more work for her.
“Hey, I’d like a coffee, black.” I said.
“What size,” she responded automatically.
“Medium,” she finally got up and started getting the coffee. As she turned away to get the cup, I admired her figure. She had perfect curves and the right proportions in all the right places…Looks like I was going to find out the hard way why she lived here.
“That’ll be 2.50,” she said. Again rehearsed, this was going to take some time. As I gave her three bucks I said,
“Want a scarf?” She looked right at me and her eyes gave away nothing. It looked like she was capable of anything, “daunting” I thought. She handed back two quarters and I tossed them in the tip jar. I took out the scarf out and put it on the counter, snagged my coffee and put on my trench coat at the door.
“Thanks,” she said apathetically. I walked out into the crying world without looking back. I tossed the coffee in the gutter, and tried to light a cigarette, “A challenge alright.”

Brone Barnheart Apt. 223

I was sitting on my bed staring at the squirrel on the table. It’s grey and brown fur forming a perfect coat. Sitting on its haunches, its tail curving up it’s backbone before bending the other way forming a sort of question mark. With a quizzical look frozen on its face as if to say, “Hey, what’s that shiny object coming at me?” I sighed. “Why did I buy this?”

The day had dragged on and was now turning into night. “It’s time for some payback,” I thought. I pocketed my newly acquired squirrel and headed into the hallway. At door 22 , (226) I stopped. “What a jerk, waking me up early. This is gonna be good.” I thought. I lightly knocked on the door and looked directly into the peep hole, waiting for it to turn black. There it was! I swiftly kicked the door as hard as I could. The cheap brittle dead bolt snapped, and the old rusty hinges flew off. The door went crashing into the room, pinning him to the floor. Well, I didn’t mean to kick it that hard. I took a cautious step inside, “Yo, Michael you still alive?” In response, he somehow threw the door right back at me, I barley had time to take a boxer’s stance and block with my forearms, it still hurt like hell. He rolled away, and the door fell sluggishly back to the floor. Michael slowly stood to full height and coolly stared at me with those calculating eyes.
“Brone, I was quite certain it was you,” He said.
“Oh? How could you tell?” I said.
“Your shoes make a unique sound against the tile in the hall. Along with the frequency of your step and knowledge of your usually languid stride I would say you are exactly 6 feet and 3/8ths of an inch tall. Strange, did you grow an eighth of an inch this week?”
“Hah, maybe. Here take this, a gift from me to you.” I tossed him the squirrel.
“Expertly crafted, done quickly but no mistakes, this is the work of Miss Victoria Lampshade.”
“So that’s her name, listen I need to know where there’s gambling nearby.”
“There are precisely eight places within a 100 mile radius, six of them illegal.”
“Just gimmie the closest.”
“Oscars Butchery, password new york strip, the entry fee is 50 dollars. Why? Must you indulge in the cheap thrill of losing money for nothing too?”
“You know me; my eyes are too sharp to lose. Besides, the thief, eyes like the bluest ocean, will appear with the rolling dice.” He looked puzzled.
“Chow,” I quickly left before he tried to make me fix the door or something.

Outside, I surveyed the butchery. It was a medium sized shop, but there were way too many cars parked nearby; not everybody was jonesing for delicious pork chops. I entered the shop and I saw Oscar. He was a large man but he knew how to carry himself, and with all those sharp culinary knives easily within reach I suppose I was gonna have to pay the 50 bucks. “I want a new york strip,” I said while pulling out a crisp 50 dollar bill.
“I think there’s one in the back, follow me.” He said, taking the bill. We went into the back of a freezer where he pulled away a rack of meat to reveal a small stairwell. I ambled down the stairs to find a large, well lit room. Green walls and green felt where everywhere. No windows, no clocks, no sense of time. I saw blackjack, poker, roulette and finally, craps. There were 28 people in the room, 13 had blue eyes. I went straight to the craps table and watched the action. The shooter was about to roll, he threw the dice from his right hand to his left, and back to his right. “That was bad etiquette, and he just switched the dice.” I thought. He rolled. “Winner! Winner!” He won five more rounds before I asked the brown-eyed dealer “Do you know a Sugar McCoy?” His eyes inadvertently traveled to the shooter. I looked at the shooter, the shooter looked at me…then Sugar McCoy dashed out of that room. “Shit! Those dice are loaded,” I yelled as I ran after him. Up the stairs he went, checking his watch. I followed taking them three at a time. At the top he threw the meat to the side, ran out of the freezer, around the counter and out the door. I followed, hopped the counter and sprinted after him. He was fast, but I was catching him. He raced down the smarta steps jumping sever or eight at a time. I was closing the gap every second. He hurtled the turn-style, and ran for the light of the open train door. He made it just as the doors were closing and I ran right up against them. I looked at him, he thought he was safe. I pulled out my window punch and stabbed the train car window with all my strength, it shattered, the train started to move. I put my hands on the roof of the train car, jumped, and swung my feet in first. I tore my shirt on the glass, he was gonna pay. “Alright! There’s no where to run so why don’t you just-” He pulled out a butterfly knife, I rolled my eyes. He charged me in the most awkward way imaginable. I side stepped him, grabbed his wrist, and tripped his feet. He went flying, head over heels, landing on his back. The butterfly knife slid out of his hands down the aisle. I turned him over and handcuffed him. Then we took a seat and I punched him in the face for making me run that much, “bastard.”
After twenty minutes we arrived at the police station. I opened the doors and threw him in; he stumbled and landed on his chin. The receptionist lady gave me a look. “Resisting arrest,” I said. “This is Sugar McCoy, a car thief who jumped bail, got my reward?” She looked at her computer, “Ah yes, Sugar McCoy, let’s see…the bail was set at 200 dollars so you get 20.”
We looked at each other.
“TWENTY DOLLARS!!!”
“Yes, the bounty hunter always gets 10% of the bail.”
“His bail was only 200?! Why couldn’t you have killed someone!? Asshole!” I kicked him in the kidney, he groaned. It was not satisfying. I snatched the measly 20 from the receptionist’s hand. On my way out I took out my window punch and shattered the front door.
“HEY!” she said. I felt much better.

Finally back in my hallway, I noticed room 22 , had shiny new hinges and two new dead bolts, I smiled. I went to my bed and collapsed, what a bad day. I caught the smallest of the small fries. It actually cost me 40 bucks to arrest the douche bag. I passed out. Then I smelled it again…

Brone Barnheart Apt. 223

As I cooly glided in the dimly lit bar, cigarette smoke filled my nostrils. “This is the place,” I thought. I glanced around and only saw a few patrons. It was still early. In a shadowy corner there was a woman wearing a red dress and an expressionless face. Our eyes met. “I’ve got work to do,” I thought and looked away. As I was sitting down at the bar, a glint of light caught my eye. In the reflection of the mirror I saw it. Under the bar was a M1014 Combat Shotgun. It was a semi-automatic, made by the Italians. Currently it was only used by the U.S. Marine Corps. Under that I spotted a box of flashbangs. This was no ordinary bar.
“So what’ll it be?” The bartender interjected.
“Jose Cuervo and keep it coming,” I said. After downing 5...or maybe 6 shots, the bartender asks,“What kind of work do you do?”
“Some call me an old fashioned cowboy, but I’m a simple bounty hunter. I also do other odd jobs if my wallet calls for it. Here’s my number if you ever have anything that needs doing.” On my second try I swiped a pen off the bar and wrote my number on a cocktail napkin. The bartender said nothing but pocketed the napkin. I stopped him from pouring me another drink, “Time for a Prairie Oyster,” I said. He made it. "Bottoms up." I downed my drink and headed out. As I meandered up the sidewalk, I decided it was time to give the juvenile delinquent a call. “Yo kid."
“Yeah well I'm still gonna keep calling you kid. Listen, I need some information on the bartender.”
“Busy with what?”
“Why are you investigating all the tenants? Wait a second…my alarm clock!”
“Michael you son of a !”
click. He hung up. The power didn’t go out last night, it was him! Next time we sparred I’d be sure to kick him in the face for that. Lost in thought I entered the Wrath. Piercing dark brown eyes and a hesitant smile greeted me.
“I, ah, I’m looking for someone...can you help me?” The smile vanished.
“Follow me,” she said. The next thing I know, I was sitting in a small room smoking a pipe. She sat across from me, legs crossed, eyes closed.
“This is real mystic and all but uh, do you have anything to eat here?” I said. A growling stomach was her reply. “…I see.”
“The blue-eyed thief will appear with the rolling dice. That is what I see.” There was something different about her voice, I couldn’t place it.
“You, swimming bird,” she said.
“Huh?” I said.
“The swimming bird will meet a woman; the bird will be hunted by this women and then….death.”
“Heh, one more time.”
“What’s that?”
“I was killed once before, by a woman.” I got up.
“…you take women too lightly my friend.”
“On the contrary, catch ya laters,” I replied. I put the peace pipe down and headed for the door. At the cash register I stopped. I didn’t know if she was expecting payment so I threw down a 10 and stumbled back out into the world. “I wonder where there's gambling.”

Life is just a dream

Meredith

Brone Barnheart Apt. 223

I smelled it again. That scent that has been haunting me all my life...her. There in the graveyard I saw her, her silky blond hair playing across her face. She was not smiling. Trembling, she pulled out her pistol and pointed it right at my chest. I couldn't run, I couldn't draw my gun, I was frozen. "Meredith," I whispered. BANG...

ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR ERR

I instinctually slammed my palm on the snooze button, again, but no sleep came. "It was just another dream," I thought, but that didn't comfort me at all. I finally opened my blood-shot eyes, and a slit of sunlight burned into them. "Agh."
I looked at the clock; I looked at my watch. The clock was wrong. The power must have gone out last night. Today was going to be beautiful. I fell out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom, slamming my knee against the sink. "Ugh." I turned on the knob for hot water and splashed cold water onto my face, no surprise there. Looking in the fractured mirror, I ran my hands through my hair, pretending that sufficed for a shower. The sound of a muted phone reached my ears. "There's a phone in here?" After a quick search I located the phone under my jacket. I made sure it wasn't booby-trapped and then answered it.

"Hello, is this Low Ride?" a timid voice asked.
"Nope," I replied with a sigh and dropped the phone back on the receiver.
My grogginess finally subsiding, I thought "Wait a minute...how did I get here?" I couldn't remember. "Well, whatever." Seeing nothing entertaining in the room, I got all my stuff together. At the door I paused: cigarettes, holster, lighter, Spyderco folding knife, cellphone, Jericho 941, jacket, window punch, wallet, zip-tie handcuffs, ammo, shoes. As I glanced down, a white envelope slid under my door. Without thinking, I picked it up. Then I flung the door open, stupidly realizing that I should have done that first, but no one was in the hall. I examined the envelope's contents: 150 dollars and a letter in some ridiculous font. "Must be from that snot nosed kid." It read:

Brone

New target, car thief, likes to gamble, only known as “Sugar Macoy,” lives in Washington Heights.

“Oh, so that’s where I am.” I put the money in my wallet, threw the letter on the floor, closed my door without bothering to lock it, and sauntered down the hallway. I glanced at the numbers as I passed. 224, 225, 22 , 227…“pft.” Lethargically, I walked down the stairwell admiring the graffiti art as I passed. Out onto the sidewalk, the sun shone down on me like God’s high beams reminding me just how early it was. I lit a cigarette, put my hands in my pockets and let my feet guide me. I avoided the graveyard. “Shit, I need a drink.”