Love it All, f**k it all episode 1

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“Love it All, F**k it All” is a fictional fantasy noir version of Northern California with a lizard-man brothel owner, wolf-head soldiers, and under-lake vampires. It includes elements of extortion, rape, violence, dismemberment, blood, graphic language, death, substance abuse, and sexual activities. Readers sensitive to these elements, please take note and prepare.

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“Love is the only currency for love: tears, receipts of pain. Blackness thick and tangible, sunlight deadly.”

-Walter Thursby

Coins of Pain

Floyd

Hours after the attack.

5 a.m.

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Under the crashing obsidian sky and pounding steel rain, Floyd's Shovelhead Harley rips across the valley floor like a chainsaw of revenge. His shaking headlight a glint of hope, a penny-fountain wish tossed to the damned water of Lake Berryessa.

A cold growl fills his helmet. “One in a billionaire's ass-hair this’ll work.” Wet gales pound his chest and rattle teardrop mirrors. “Maybe’s better than impossible, but worry is no action. Work is action, and god damn it, this better fucking work!”

He leans into the storm and forces the glowing speedometer to one ten. The roads are slick, the turns sharp, the cliffs steep. Rain hisses on the hot engine, the sky thunder-smashes again. “You said anything, lady.” Floyd drives — hard. Grinding his bike through daggers of rain. 

His cargo sloshes around his lap, two salvaged 23-gallon can liners snatched before Roland lit his dumpster fire. He squeezes the sloppy double-lined sacks, ignoring the chewed-on bones and trying not to think of the cold, familiar parts he feels through the plastic. The shoulder he tapped in busy service, the neck he kissed the night they finally got together, the waist he pressed tightly to his, the chest he fell asleep on. 

“She deserved better than this, Roland!” Behind Floyd’s tinted visor, tears carve erosion lines into his cheeks like rain on the hard Foothill soil. Through gritted teeth, “You said anything, lady,” is what he’ll say when he finds her. "Nows no time for manners, nows time for action.” He grumbles in a lower tone, “And if you can’t deliver…”  The V-twin buzzsaw rumbles and spits as he chisels into the twisting Berryessa Highlands.

“And if this bitch can’t deliver.” Floyd charges past Putah Creek, the weeping Devil’s Gate, then onto Spanish Flat. He banks a turn, stomps the clutch, and shifts to fifth. The engine roars fire. “You said anything, lady.” He squeezes the throttle of the growling bike, downshifts, and leans into another hairpin turn. “And if you can’t deliver, I’ll bury you both out here.”

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“Violence is a fire inside us. Grow it, contain it? Let it go, burn it all.”

-Alfonso Forcade

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Night of the Attack

Roland

Winter 2017 

2 a.m.

Hours before.

Assembled from collected scraps of Roland Desmund’s journal. Four Bar Isabell-branded matchbooks, used 3” x 5” server book, and black G2 Gel Point pen.

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In the silent hour between the end of their shift and before the 9 ta 5’ers scrape outta bed, outside of Sacramento’s downtown, closer to the homeless camps than the capitol, behind what most might think is an abandoned industrial building, he kicks open the back door, and throws a long, fluorescent rectangle across the dim parking lot. Roland Desmund’s stretched shadow fills the shape and lights a cigarette. As the petal of flame steadies, he flips open the black and red Bar Isabell matchbook and scrawls. “The match head combusts like an inspired thought: furious, sudden, bright.” 

“Damn.” He exhales blue smoke, “I shouldn’t be using the branded matches.”

He counts on his thin scaley fingers and looks to sit. “After, what? Fourteen hours? Yeah, seems like a grand idea. But, shit. Where’s the milk crate?” So he leans. On the cinderblock wall, under the buzzing floodlight. His long lucky shadow sighs and stretches across the asphalt — feet kicked up, resting its weary tail.

What smoke he can't hold off the borrowed Parliament meanders past a lonely moth drunkenly chasing dreams; it caresses the hips of a rust-orange bulb, then sails off to icy cobalt moonlight, to distant stars, and beyond.

His phone’s empty. Isabell still hasn’t gotten back. “After tonight, this week, this year, my broken — no not broken: soggy ’n torn like a cocktail napkin in the dump sink, marinated with squeezed lime wedges, plastic straws, whiskey-wilted ice, and spent mint leaves — used up and tossed off, either way, love is gone, and my limp, broken heart needs a drink.”

Inside, through the loading dock, past cases of bourbon that got delivered today but not put away, past boxes of paper products, a mop bucket, and a bag of clean plastic-wrapped linens, his eyes water after his snout burns with the shiny smell of cleaning supplies. “Finally. Didn’t think housekeeping could ever get rid’a that smell.”

Big Floyd, head of security, fills the lobby doorway and dabs sweat off his bald head. “Bar and kitchen are shut down. Just staff’s left fucking ‘round in the Cardroom. Gotta lock this door, then I’m done. Need anything else?”

“Nah, that's it. Let’s get a drink.” 

“Don’t have’ta ask me twice.” Floyd checks the back door. “Damn, boss, was up ‘til sunrise on Reddit last night, lookin’ up all that 'bout space cats n’ shit.”

“Ha! Yeah, with Last Name Walter, Iz and I joke about it all the time. Cats living in nine different dimensions.” Floyd has his phone out and looks to be pullin’ up the thread about cats being multidimensional. “Floyd, it’s late. I need a drink. Make sure we’re all locked up, see ya at the bar.”

Floyd shakes the back door handle again and strides across the marble rotunda to the Cardroom. Sex workers, card dealers, cocktailers, servers, bartenders, bussers, line cooks, dishwashers, hosts, and housekeeping are all cooling off from a busy night, gathered like two a.m. refugees from the Island of Misfit Toys. Watching stupid videos on their phones, telling stories of mistakes made during service, times they lost it, and the great tips they all got. Done workin’, only interested in finding creative ways to untangle the knotted fishing line of stress a busy night ties to your soul. 

---

War Truck

The Captain

Just down the street

2 a.m.

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The silent hour between midnight and dawn is never really just that. A few blocks from the ambitious brothel, thick steel belted tires of a growling war machine flatten an empty garbage can, smashing what little peace there is in this world. The truck clips the corner by the dingy lotto store as a scampering rat darts into a group of weeds. The dump truck misses and rolls off the sidewalk, thumping to the street. 

A shaggy, pawlike hand grinds the shifter, spooling the turbocharge, popping and blowing off the wastegate. This dark beast of a ride barrels over another pile of whatever, spewing more trash across the street. Inside the truck's cabin, a reminiscent reek of rotten vegetables and greasy excrement fog the windshield. Sweat streaks inside the glass. The four hundred-pound driver pants, licks his lips, muffles a bark, and wants to howl. He shifts again and stomps the gas to a new account, ignoring the wrong-way sign. 

The behemoth truck launches over another curb, slamming three canine soldiers into the cargo bay’s ceiling. One of the toppled hound-men barks, another bites the shoulder of one, making him get off his lap. The bitten one yips. The human guy in front shouts to the brown furry driver through the stench, “I heard they have food. We should eat.” 

The driver’s ears perk at the word “eat.”

episode 2

Night of the Attack (part 2)

Roland

Down the street, back at the newly opened brothel.

2 a.m.

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Roland slides his fingers along the oak drink rail — they decided on more wood than marble finishes in the Cardroom, giving it more of a clubhouse feel. Down the wall on the last of the three green-felted card tables, a couple line cooks hustle money from new staff in a game of Hold ‘em. On one of the velvet Chesterfields, Mitzi and The Viking reenact the incident from earlier in the shift. “Ok, here. Let’s show ‘em that filthy fuck tangle.” Both are freshly showered, with heads wrapped in grey house towels. Mitzi climbs over The Viking’s naked figure. “So, I’m on top like this.”

“Yep.” The Viking, the new six-foot-plus adonis, says. “And your pale ass was just like this, right in my face, while Big Banker Guy brushed my hair.” He adjusts his towel, and Mitzi’s bathrobe opens. As her pink parts swing over his tired-looking pieces, she twists to position The Viking’s hands over his lap where there’s a pretend john gulping down what they paid to gobble up, bobbing their imaginary head.

Roland shakes it off. Three months ago, Mitz was just a cute bartender in their failed restaurant. The Viking? He was an escort already. They just hired him. Roland already heard the story and keeps to the bar, to a drink, not sure he’ll ever get used to all’a this.

The doors are locked, and Big Floyd’s now stuffed behind the small stick playing Bartender/DJ, clashing 90’s grunge, R&B, and whatever else they’ve scratched together for a record collection. Floyd’s still in his dark suit but done for the night as head of security. The crew notches up with more dancing, joking, and shouting ‘bout the crazy night, the cards, the band, the tricks, the mess in Room Ten O’Clock, the pink glass dildo, and the fucking French onion soup pot pies. 

Dani, Roland’s right hand, the better business person, squeezes behind the bar with Floyd and lines up three shot glasses. “Last guest gone! Fuck me. Ya believe Mitz and the Viking? Like ten people in that room!” She slides the whiskey. “Good payday, but what’a mess. Might have to burn everything in there to get rid’a that stink.”

Floyd smiles. “Rich ass mother fuckers be dumpin’ more than bills tonight!”

Grossed out, Roland changes the subject. “They’re all squared up?”

“Fuck off. Ya think I’d let that easy money get away?” 

“I dunno Dani.” Roland almost slumps into a barstool, but just leans again. “I think I fucked up. Maybe Iz and I should just go ‘n get’a cabin in the hills, way up in the Redwoods. Or one’a those buildings on Cheap Old Houses. We can start an art colony. Make a safe place for people to create and get away from all this capital exploitation. Just art, ya know.” They all clink and shoot. “There, we can raise our baby, garden. Have chickens and stuff. It’ll be cool. Right?”

Dani pushes a lock of umber hair behind her ear and bends her business face to a smile. “One. Roland. Can’t believe you and Iz are having a kid, and you sneaked this by her while she’s morning sick and barfing all the time. Two. Don’t be bringing all this whiney baby shit in here. We just worked our asses off for the last three months, and tonight, we made a shit-ton!” 

They both twitch a smile and let that joke go. 

“Ha! Now’s the time to make some dough.” Her silk top snags when she slips off her blazer (ochre/raw sienna toned shoulders, black bra strap). “Then three. Lighten up, crybaby pants. You and Iz’ll figure things out. She’ll get used to the tits and dicks. This place is gunna kill. Were just getting started.” She pours Roll a double in a crystal tumbler. He nods thanks and retreats to rest his achin' heart and tired-ass feet.  

Chef Mauzy, their culinary savant, leans into the Cardroom in bright Nike kicks. He wears his weight well and looks like he’d fit into one of those Chinese silk paintings of ancient emperors. His scraggly beard and tattoos make him a mix of Attila the Hun and a cool kid from the East Village. He’s out of his chef jacket in a black V-neck tee. “Way to go, mother fuckers, great job! I’m fucking beat. Been here since nine this morning. See you tomorrow, and we’ll do it again.”

“Man, Chef, that crazy pot pie was fucking epic!” Nelson, hired bartender, now lovable bad boy for rent, shouts across the Cardroom, wearing only black combat boots and a gallery of tattoos. He leans over a cocktail table, fills his sinus with powder, and falls back into the large chesterfield. His throbbing flagpole smacks against his illustrated washboard stomach. “Still don’t know how you keep the liquid inside the pot pie? How’d you do it? You could eat the soup and the whole bowl at the same time. Just crazy.” He pinches his nose and squeaks, “And the fire?! Fucking genius, Chef!” Chef Mauzy waves and moves to go for the night.

Kim, another pretty waiter now turning tricks, slaps Nelson’s crooked mast against his leg. “How do you have a hard-on? You fucked all night. Put ‘The Club’ away, already!”

“Easy, darlin’. I’m chafed. Worn through. This thing might break ‘n pop off like a cork” —sniff. “Took much Viagra to keep up.” Sniff. “It’ll die down soon. I hope.”

“Hold up, Chef, take’a ‘to-go.’ Look at all these I rolled.” Kim licks the rolling paper and runs to Chef Mauzy in an oversized Sac State sweatshirt, no pants. “Just a lil’ tobacco in there to keep ya sharp and get you home safe.” 

She stuffs a smoke behind Chef’s ear and reaches to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her shirt lifts, showing the naked double-U shape of her bare behind. “After tonight, we all have’ta calm down a bit. Didja see Mitzi, Chef? She stuck a big ass glass dick in some dude’s ass and he shit all over Room Ten O’Clock. Everywhere! Like, what’d that guy eat?”

“Or what didn’t he eat? Like a goddamn soft serve machine. Shootin’ chocolate everywhere.”—Nelson chops another line—“but the smell. Damn, I know that wasn’t your food, Chef.”

“Yes, Chef’s food only makes great shit.” Bare-bottomed Kim returns to the cocktail table of a dozen crafted joints in a rocks glass, an antique hand mirror of lines of powder, and a rolled hundred-dollar bill.

Finally, Roland is off his feet and can disappear into one of the big leather Cardroom chairs. Isabell still hasn’t gotten back. You’ve reached out enough, Roll. Give her space. Don’t call. Don’t text.

Floyd shouts over the volume of his headphones, flipping a record. “Shit, Roll, I was spacin’ hard. Nine lives, nine dimensions, crisscrossing. You think its like degrees, like the further one dimension is from another the more different they are? Like the dimension next to ours maybe, maybe they got people that are like dinosaurs or something. Maybe that’s where dinosaurs came from!? Maybe that’s where they went?”

“Shit, Floyd, I’m having a hard enough time with this one dimension. Can’t be worryin’ about eight others.” Roland smiles and raises his glass to the crew. 

Floyd looks to the next record he’s going to play and says to himself, “Cats sleepin’ all the time. Working hard in nine spots at once.”

Not wanting to stand again, Roland stretches his drink up to address the room. “Wasn’t easy. Phew! What a night! What. A. Week! What a fucking mess. Thanks, everyone.” He tries to sound excited and sincere, but it slurs out tired and a little drunk. They cheer. They’re all slurring, tired, and a little drunk.

Mitzi gives Roland a warm terry-cloth hug; escaped wet hair drips on his neck. “Roland. You look so sad. She’ll come ‘round. Izzie loves you. Just give her some time. Make sure you celebrate, Rolly. You made something pretty special here.” She tickles his ear with gin-soaked lips. “You did it!”

In chilled whiskey blues and post-shift euphoria, Roland closes his eyes, slides into the overstuffed chair, and runs his tongue over his new gold tooth. The Fugees’ “Killing Me Softly” and booze rock him to a happy-ish alcohol trance.

The record player’s needle pops gentle static on the paper label as the crew gathers for an after-after party at Nelson’s place. “Coprophilia!” Zeke shouts, looking up from his phone. “I knew it was’a thing.”

“Crap-o-felling-ya? Fucking gross, dude. Let's get outta here. Night, Roll. Sure you don’t wanna come?”

Roland waves ‘em off. Snout to tail, he’s half drunk, half asleep. “Sorry guys, I’m exhausted. I still gotta close up shop.”

“Night, boss.” Big Floyd walks across the lobby to the restaurant, through the bookshelf door. 

As the staff spills out the loading dock, she runs back inside, now fully dressed, shouting back to the departing staff, “Oh shit, I gotta pee ‘n forgot my phone. I’ll catch a ride with Biggs. See ya guys there.” 

Her voice trails into Room Ten O’Clock while the intoxicated crew spills into the parking lot. The still spinning and forgotten record player needle pops. From next door, in the fully legal restaurant, through the secret bookcase doorway, Roland hears the bar’s shopkeeper bell ring. A door slams. A Clock Room toilet flushes. 

—————-

They move through the bordello with heavy boots, scanning corners, entrances, and exits with automatic rifles professionally tucked up to their heads. For a second, before Roland notices they are hounds, he thinks maybe they’re cops.

The one in front is human (thin, good cheekbones, and scars from acne and cuts). Out of his crooked nose, a chunk’s missing. The armed beasts behind him are a little taller and a lot more terrifying. They have the heads of dirty dark wolves: long white fangs, broken ears, scars, pus-filled wounds, tongues out, and matted hair with the large, powerful bodies of men. 

Dressed head to toe in black, with flak jackets and helmets, they look like modern U.S. soldiers but with wolf heads and no flag patches. Chewed-on broken tails poke out from the back of their uniforms. Geared up with assault rifles, sidearms, and pockets on top of pockets expertly packed with whatever endless death instruments to kill everything twice and burn this place to the ground. 

Through the open door to the loading dock, Roland hears the staff in the back parking lot, oblivious to the walk-in Dog Head Four Top. They close car doors, start engines, make jokes, and drive off to Nelson’s party. The human guy has his helmet under his arm and his face covering pushed around his neck. “I am looking for Roland.” He projects from across the lobby with an accent hard to pin. 

Roland is frozen, still in the Cardroom, leaning to lift the record player’s needle scraping against the red paper circle. The leader’s words linger awkwardly in the hall, like a lonely drunk after last call who doesn’t wanna leave. His men spread out and work the circular perimeter, popping open Clock Room doors, ensuring they’re empty, then lunging to the next. The human guy stops under the chandelier, scans the interior, and locks on Roland’s large blue eyes. 

“Roland Desmund?” the intruder asks,.“Is that you? The owner of this establishment?”

Roland’s glassy, exhausted eyes, blink slow, and his scaly mouth hangs open. For fucks’ sure I do not want to chew what I’m seeing. I won’t be able to spit this out. After the last three months! And all’a this fucking back breaking work! building all’a this? Making sure the place is staffed, and packed with fat-pocketed paying customers. I finally get to start payin’ off this stinky debt? What the fuck even is this? 

The man waits for a response.

Before the hounds move to the staff out back, Roland stops the rhythm-crackle-pop of the record player with a shaking hand, crosses the large Persian rug, then slinks into the lobby, toward the men. “I am Roland. How can I help?” With his best host attitude, he stays calm and says to himself, Act like it’s absolutely normal that armed dog-head-soldiers show up at four in the morning right after we’re all doing drugs and drunk as fuck.

The leader smiles, “Ah, yes. I have heard of the famous reptile man. What a pleasure!” He sizes up Roland’s hands, neck, and head, then cranes around to see his tail. “Most Chimeras are locked up or put down, no?” He gives a nod that’s hard to read. “My men are an exceptional exclusion.” He looks around the lobby. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The human guy’s eyes go up to the dome of the rotunda. “Yes, rare indeed.” 

The leader ignores another crash from the bar. Roland’s pathetic worry washes away, and his broken heart skips when bloody and barely conscious Big Floyd is dragged in. A fourth guard dog easily holds the head of security’s substantial weight by the back of his jacket. Drops of crimson pitter-patter and cluster under Floyd’s wilting head. The leader pats his stomach. “I am looking for something to eat and drink for my men. We have had a long trip, and your establishment comes highly recommended.” 

The fourth soldier tosses Floyd to one of the waiting couches like a sack of soiled linens. Big Floyd spills more ruby coins on the polished marble. The cold blood of fear trembles Roland’s lips and runs a flutter of scales from his neck down his tail.  His stomach clenches. He wants to hide. Curl into a safe shape. Run! His eyes dart to the dressing room as a brown pit-bull-headed soldier squeezes through the doorway, blocking his exit.

Roland’s tail whips, he sniffs, shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and takes a breath. In his most sober and metered speech, Roland addresses the intruders as he would a guest who might be complaining about a cold dish or too long’a wait for a table. “Sorry, we are closed, but I might be able to get something out of the kitchen for you?”

The man in front pauses and looks around. “Will. You. Look at these walls?” The human leader studies the construction of the brothel and ceiling. “Did you soundproof this place? Wow! What a great idea. No one can hear anything from the street? I’ll bet we could release forty rounds in here, and nobody would hear a thing.” He motions to one of his men. The soldier chambers his rifle with a snap and positions to fire at the ceiling. Roland goes to cover his ears and head, then he sees her standing, framed in the doorway of Room Ten O’Clock, quivering lips, crying. 

The leader's head gears grind as he oozes a cola-sweet baritone. “Oh, I am just having a joke. I would not destroy such a luxurious place. Look at this sparkling, beautiful chandelier. Come now, little lady, don’t cry… But if you do cry…” He loosens a sideways smile. “No one will hear you, and no one will call the police. Because…what would the police do with this place, right?” He smirks. “Maybe the lady can get us something to eat?” 

“I can grab it. She’s just leaving. It’s been a long night.” Roland walks farther across the lobby, stepping between her and the leader. 

“Ha!” the leader scoffs. “She is not going anywhere, Mr. Roland.”

episode 3

Bizopp

Three months before the attack.

Roland’s Shift Log

Collected pieces of: Ram Board 38” x 25’, a scrap of pine Builder Bruce was using to frame up the Cardroom Bar, carpenter pencil.

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Bar Isabell’s not doing well — AC’s broke. It’s triple-digit summer in Sactown. The bar kinda stinks. Business is way down.

The day after I find out about Isabell, our landlord, Omar, comes into the restaurant with some creepy-ass workers and tries again to sell me on the idea of him being the boss. We’re late on rent, again, and he’s gotta plan to take over the business and bring me on as an hourly to work off my debt. He’ll cover the back bar’s booze collection with cheap plastic red tablecloths, get a new chef, use disposable plastic utensils and paper napkins, and try ’n book events through a church group he’s oddly associated with. 

I tell him to fuck off, again.

Mauzy and Isabell are off tonight, so before I tell’em about the Omar situation and the rubber $17,000 check, I work through a decent Thursday night with the staff. Luckily, it’s a little cooler, and we can serve guests in a pleasant environment. After customers have all left and we’re closing down, I open up and share what’s going on. 

Kim and Zeke are sitting at the bar and just finished folding napkins. Mitzi’s putting away the polished silver, and Dani’s opening a bottle of house white.

“Shit, the setup is wonderful. Damn, I dunno.” Zeke’s purple lips kiss the last drop from his wine glass as he looks to the cellar for reinforcements.

“Oh, wait. I think I can add another layer. Fuck. Could be anything?” Kim scratches something in her server book.

“This better be funny. It’s kinda fucked up, so it has to be funny.” Dani and Mitzi ignore them and look at their phones. Zeke continues, “There’s a debt that has to be paid. The more fucked up, the funnier it has to be. No debt with a chicken crossing the street, see? But you get into incest. Debt goes up, and the funny has to be paid.”

“Ok, don’t distract and mess it up. I gotta keep it going. I’m inna’ groove. Maybe add a gender element, like cross-dressing?”

“I dunno, gettin’ in the weeds here.”

“Or I could get all code on it.”

“Process. Witness the process.” Zeke motions for a refill. “We're all waiting, Luv.”

“Ok, here goes. What’s a cross-dressing redneck's favorite… Ugh.”

“What? Not yet? Again, great setup.”

“No. I hate redneck jokes. Maybe we can just imply that the dad goes by the not usual gender names?”

“Wanna drink? I’m empty.”

“I just about got it. Hold up.”

“What poet did the priest… No. I take it all back. Let’s go back to the top.” Kim stands, shakes her blonde hair, and addresses the vacant bar like a packed auditorium. “What’s an incestuous father's favorite poet?”

“Ready, already. Tell us, luv.”

“Emily Dickenson.”

“Ahh! Super fucked up, love it, Doll!”

Dani shifts her eyes, “Gross. Not even funny.” She ignores the rest of the endless banter and asks, “So we’re really going to lose the restaurant to our fucking landlord?” She slips behind the bar with Mitzi and pours herself another glass of chardonnay. Mitzi holds up a bottle of Butterfield Bourbon and a handful of glasses. I nod, and she lines shots on the rail.

“Well, per the agreement, he gets everything if we’re two months behind. He can liquidate what’s here to pay off the million-dollar loan built into the rent I took to build this out. But he wants to keep the restaurant and have Me, Mauzy, and Isabell work for him as employees while he’s in charge. He has some stupid-ass ideas to make it all more profitable.” 

I cheer the shot and dump the booze down my throat. “We’re over two months behind on the rent again.” The hot bourbon shivers down my spine, blooming trails of relaxation across my ribs, arms, legs, and back up to my head.

“We need 17K in the bank by Monday.”

“Shhhiiiite, I’ll quit. Fuck working for that arsehole.” Zeke groans, “Tons’o places I can work and make more money. We’re all here for you, Roll. You’re one of us. He’s one’a them.” Zeke’s English accent is similar to the pretty ones in “Love Island" or the poor kids in a cool London movie about crime. He’s a short, older guy with one hand, a weathered face, boyish freckles, a red ‘n grey beard, and rusty hair pulled into a lazy ponytail. 

In the folded rolling paper in the crook of his right arm, he pinches and sprinkles powder from a tiny zip-lock on some sorta tobacco/weed combo. He licks, then twists a joint. “We’re building somethin’ special here.” He loads the smoke in his lips and talks outta the side of his mouth. “The Landlord’s not. It’s why we’re all here, Roll.” The staff grunts agreement. But it’s late, and we wanna have fun and not figure out my failed dream.

Zeke’s Zippo bings. He lights the spliff, snaps it shut, then passes it around. We smoke and drink in silence for a few minutes. I’m talking before I realize — the words fall outta me like trash from a split bag. Ya know when you lift the final bag to the dumpster at the end of your shift, and it’s the last thing you need to do before you go home, but a cascade of empty bottles, discarded meals, cocktail napkins, and the weird coagulating things that happened when unexpected items meet all spill out? 

“I can’t lose this place, guys. You know I had fucking shit growing up, nothing, and there’s notta lotta of options for a guy like me. This tail only gets me so far…” 

There’s always some spoiled food in that last trash bag, and always coffee grinds, that get all over your feet and work clothes that you’ll have to wash before tomorrow's shift. Garbage everywhere. 

“..And Iz is Prego.” 

When I say this, I almost throw up. For the last thirty hours, or so, I’ve been in a dream state, half engaged. I haven’t said it out loud yet.

“Isabell’s pregnant! Shit Roll! Congrats!” Mitzi jumps up and gives me a hug, everyone cheers. 

“Didn’t you guys just adopt a stray cat? Mr. Last Name Whatever. Damn, you’re in a pickle, huh?” Dani shrugs. 

Fuck yeah, I’m in’a pickle! Whatever that phrase fucking means? Ok, I get it, a kid is a gift, but how? Really? How in the fuck? For fucks sure, I’m not ready to bring a life into the world. 

Sheeeet, I just wanna run, and run fucking fast! Right now, I’m about to lose the only thing that’d let me succeed in life. This bar. My bar. Bar Isabell. But, our AC’s broken, business is way down, our landlord’s a fuck, it’s hot, it stinks, and I do not have $50K for the repair.

Fuck, I dunno, how much does a baby even cost? Do you have to pre-pay? Do they hold the baby ransom if you can’t pay? Me, Isabell, and our new baby running through a dark parking lot, the bright white hospital behind us. A mean-looking group of nurses cramming through the automatic doors, holding clipboards, chasing us down. Me pushing Iz in a wheelchair, sweat on her head from the delivery, holding our tiny, squishy baby. 

Is the baby a lizard? Was the cord cut, was the purple belly button attachment to its mother swinging around? Fuck, or is our baby like a half-lizard, or I guess, maybe, a 1/4 reptile type thing? Will the baby have a tail? Scales? 

Shit, will Iz hatch an egg?

AHHHHH!

We’ll see, huh?

“Mate, ya here, buddy?” Zeke plugs his phone into the sound system and brings me out of my ruminating death spiral with a fresh pour of whiskey and a queued-up song. “I know what this boy needs.” The music starts silently with some synthy notes, then talk-singing. A little bass, and there it is, the late 90's famous chorus. 

“Oh, man, not this song?” Kim buries her face in her hands. 

“Serious, dude? This guy sounds like a heavy metal cartoon character, an Emo-Sesame Street Muppet?”

Mitzi’s arms are up, she’s in mock-slow motion, swaying her arms, head-banging her fiery hair — wavin’ her phone flashlight like she’s in a concert.

“Dude? Isn’t this some fucking religious band?”

Zeke, “Wha?” He looks insulted. ”It’s an epic song ‘bout having a baby. Required material for ‘ol Roland here. Papa to be.” 

As the guitar, drums, and tempo increase, Zeke climbs to the top of the bar, leans back like a rock star, and sings into the sloshing neck of a bottle of Butterfield. “Created life!” He leaps off, continues singing, working the room, rotating between air guitar and air drums, then chasing all of us with ‘Arms Wide Open’ for long rocking embraces. Kimi and the crew sing along, laughing and teasing Zeke about liking basic old guy shit. 

We all drink more. 

Kim finds a playlist about being a father that goes from Eminem to Beyoncé to more garbage about a future I can’t imagine, let alone handle. I keep drinking, smoking, and pretending to pay attention.  

A few hours later, the conversation tilts back to how to keep the failing restaurant afloat. We start making jokes about selling sex, drugs, and cards.  It’s about 2 a.m., and we’re still sitting around the bar. Mitzi’s actually lying face down on the bar and Kim’s practicing massage therapy moves on her back.

“Roll, what if we have like'a spa-type place next door in that empty warehouse space? We can make it all fancy and charge hella money.”

“The space next door’s available. We could get it for cheap. That ‘For Rent’ sign is hella old.”

“And do happy endings and get stacks’a cash from rich ass mother fuckers.” Mitzi’s head is resting on a stack of linens. “We could use that place to fuck. Like people. For money?”

“Or animals, we can do a farm shows?” Zeke jokes.

“Yuck, no serious. I’d fuck some dude for money. Big deal.” Mitzi closes her eyes to enjoy her massage. 

“We can be all holistic about it, good food, healing vibes, massage, then some lovin’. I mean, if he’s hot enough ’n rich enough. Shhh-yeah.” Kimi leans into Mitzi’s shoulder blade with her elbow. “Hell, I’d do it.”

Everyone lets out a lazy yay of drunk cheers. The barroom’s quiet, I push and keep the joke going, “How much would you charge if someone like Paul wanted to go a round. Ya know?” Paul, one of our regulars at Bar Isabell, a middle-aged forty-year-old white guy. A weathered face for his age, but he has caring and smart eyes, and he’s funny. A typical “john,” from my john experience, which is none. 

“Like fuck? Paul? I dunno.” Kimi’s rubbing Mitzi’s hand and forearm. Mitzi’s eyes are closed, and she’s making groaning noises that creep me out. 

Kim ponder’s, “I mean just fucking, sucking, and shit like that? I’d wanna be classy about it."

“Gimmie a real number, notta once in a lifetime number. Like… pretend it’s your job, and you do this three, four nights a week. What would you need?” I press, take a drink of beer, smile, and let her know it’s all just fun. 

Kim grins, drinks her chardonnay, smiles again, and proudly sticks a tag on it. “I’d fuck him for $500 and then another $500 if it took longer than 20 minutes. So $1000? Hella fancy. $1000 an hour! Ha!” She covers her mouth and takes a nervous slug of chardonnay. “Don’t tell him that, and don’t say that ever again!” She laughs. We all laugh. 

I love how honest restaurant staff is with each other. If ya ever wanna genuine, no-nonsense opinion ‘bout something, bring it to a restaurant staff after a shift. After all the customers have left, and they’re folding napkins, talking, and drinking. At that point, all the bullshit’s used up, the politeness is over, they’ll tell it to ya straight.

Kim continues kneading into Mitzi’s lower back and butt, still thinking. “I could do that three times a night, three nights a week?” She pulls out her phone and does some math. “Fuck! That’s over $400,000 a year!” 

“You’d have to pay the house, but not taxes, because…this is illegal… So let’s say the house takes 40%? You work three hours a day, three shifts a week? That’s…” Dani's on her phone. “Wow! That’s about $270,000 a year?!” 

“Damn, I could pay off Massage School and my bachelors…” She plays Mitzi’s behind like a drum. “Inna year!”

“Shit, Roll! Let’s do it!” Now everyone’s phone calculator’s out, planning all kinds’a different situations. How long's a shift? How many shifts a week? Do you charge by the load? By the hour? Some look up what sex workers make. Is there a union? We all fall down the rabbit hole. 

It was Kim, Dani, Mitzi, Nelson, Zeke, and me that night. The night it was born, and we really started thinking about it. 

As Mitzi sits up, Nelson shocks us with, “It’s not that bad, you know? I did it through and outta high school.” 

“Not that surprised.” Dani chimes in over her most empty glass of chardonnay. “$1000 is pretty steep for Sacramento, though. Maybe we start at $500, and you work a five-hour shift, three days a week.” Dani punches in some numbers, “But you can always negotiate higher rates. House gets 40% of everything, even tips. At lowest you’d be making $216,000 a year, after the house takes 40%? 40% works? Right, Roll?”  

Nelson pulls a beer from the tap. “Yeah, you get to pick who you wanna fuck. If it’s weird, you just don’t do it. Most people are pretty nice, and they’re just lonely or horny. Dani, you said $216,000 a year?” 

“Forty percent sounds good.” I joke. 

“Yeah, you’re a dude, though, Nel. Some guys are fucking scary, I’d be freaked out.” Kim’s over the conversation, cleaning up, and loading glasses into the washer. She stops, changes her mind, and pours herself another Chard. 

“When did brothels get so gross? In the movies and in the past, they seem to be such kind’a cool places, Moulin Rouge and such. Not all baby-oiled up with deep base, glitter, or methed-out desperate rag dolls with scary pimps? Or is that a stereotype? I’ve never been to one.” 

“Shit, I’d fuck some fat dudes for two hundred K a year. And tips? Fuck yeah.” Mitzi darts her eyes around, hops off the bar, and opens a fresh bottle of house red. “Ok, confession time.” She pours herself another shift drink. “Was gunna carry this to the grave, but since we’re all talkin’.”

We all stop, put down our phones, and share glances. Mitzi, behind the bar, re-does her thick red ponytail, takes a sip, and smiles. “Last year, I worked at the Mustang Ranch, outside’a Reno, for a Summer.”

“What? You were a prostitute?!”

“Wha?”

“Does Frank know?”

“Nah, he’d freak out. He’s real traditional.”

“Heh. Yeah, he’s going out for the academy, right?”

“Shh, don’t tell!”

“But yeah? I made a grip. Changed my name, went by Simone. The place was kinda depressing though, and eventually, I hated it. Not the fucking and stuff, there was this rotten bitch working there and tons’a catty fighting with the girls. A bad energy for me. Roll, if we did it here, you know I’d make some mon-eee!” Mitzi does a little dance, waving her hips around. 

“Simone, huh?” Kim’s ponders. “I think Mitzi is sexier, sounds more fun.” She shouts over to me and Dani.

“We gotta be high class, Roll, real elevated ’n shit, ya know.” Then back to Mitzi. “You should keep your name, Mitzi, if we open a brothel.” She switches thoughts and asks, “What about sex trafficking? Sexploitation and all that shit. I don’t wanna be a part of the criminal underworld and all that creepy stuff.”

“If everyone’s willing, what’s the problem? We just staff people we know, people that wanna do the work. We’ll sell all types, guys, girls, tall, short, fat ’n skinny. Fuck, what if we all get rich?”

Kim smiles, hugs Mitzi from her perch on the bar top, and stares ahead in thought. “What if we change the world? With love, I mean. Love, like real love.” She sips her chard and shakes her blonde hair from her face. “You can only give love away. And in return, the only currency love accepts, is love. Just love. Only love.”

“Yeah yeah, real sweet, Kimi pie. With love and all’a that. But you see. Let’s make it better yet. We’ll sell’a close approximation of that ‘Love Currency,’ You call it.” Dani must have pressed the equal sign on her phone calculator and liked the amount that came up. She shows it to Zeke, now he’s smiling and starts tearing paper cocktail napkins into tiny pieces.

Kim stands and gazes to a far-off horizon like an inspired something or other in some damn rom-com movie. “What if we make the world better than we found it? With just love?”

“Love, yes, love!” Zeke shakes the pieces of paper up, like he’s jerking off, “Preach, doll. Yes, love.”

 “And all we have to do is get people off?” She looks around the room, just now getting the joke, looking all innocent ’n sweet, like little Judy Garland landing in Oz.

Zeke tosses the cocktail napkin confetti up and over all of us. “Yes, love ‘em all and get ‘em off for money. Moneeee!” Zeke’s perfectly timed joke fills the air with confetti and decorates the bar room like a pathetic victory parade. Mitzi kisses Kim on the cheek, torn cocktails napkins stick in their hair and fall in my drink. “Love ya, doll.” Kim and Mitzi grab more cocktail napkins and start ripping them up and throwing them to the windless interior were all drunk in.

“Even if we have stupid costs and hardly work, we can bring in over $4,000,000 a year? And shit, I haven’t even done the card table numbers yet!” Dani ignores the swirling-laughing-celebration-mess and continues running numbers on her phone.

“Fuck, we can be making over $10 mill a year!! Then double that if we work our asses off!” Mitzi skips around the room with Kim — drinks in tow, toasting their new future life.

“No wonder they make selling sex illegal?” Kim grabs Zeke into their dance circle. “People like us. Using what we got to get rich. Selling love. Not stuck workin’ a shitty job payin’ off college the rest of our lives.”

——————————-

I don’t bring up my Mom; besides, I’m not even sure. When I was young. I remember a few mean dudes who’d take money from her, and they’d fight. I also recall a lot of “friends” who were men, lonely-looking guys hanging outside the trailer. And her thin bedroom door, and muffled noises that don’t make sense to a young kid. Maybe I didn’t fully put it together ’til tonight, but I think Mom did whatever to survive.

Why aren’t brothels makin’ a shit ton of money now? You don’t hear about Brothel Barons making a killing and retiring on millions? Or is it just because they don’t talk about it? Our brothel’ll be different, though. Elevated service, great food, a cool inspiring environment, classy. One of a kind. 

After all the staff leaves, I stare into my reflection across the bar and remember Isabell and me installing this mirror—when we were building our dream bar. The failed bar. Bar Isabell. The bar we all just drank the product of. The behind-on-all-our-bills bar. The about-to-fall-off-a-cliff bar. The heading-straight-back-to-our-shit-hole-landlord bar. Our lost-dream bar. The Isabell is-prego-we’re-havin’-a-baby-we-ain’t-got-no-money-holy-shit-we’re-in-debt bar.

——————

“We can see our past lives in here.” Isabell’s eyes looked like she was setting up a joke, but she corrected her reflection to look serious.

“It’s a good back bar mirror. Surprised you saved it. When we first got in here, I thought it was trash with the rest’a the junk.”

“See. You can save anything. Just needed some love. Paint stripper, and silver.”

“Like most things. You can save ‘em with strippers, silver, and love.”

“Har har. Plus, you gotta have a great backbar. The back bar’s the soul of a bar.” Isabell curled up to me, and we looked at each others bloomed smokey reflections.

“Savin’ stuff from the old place. Kinda our vibe, right? Clever-industrial-DIY.”

She looked around the almost framed-out restaurant. We were about a month from opening. “Like, what did this mirror see all these years before us, before I cleaned it up?”

“Who knows. Bar secrets are sacred. This mirror’s an old school pro. It’ll never tell.”

“Sing the song. You gotta say your great-grandmother’s maiden name, your grandma’s maiden name, and your mom’s maiden name. Then you’ll see who you were before you are now.”

“Like past lives? You just make that up?”

“Yeah, pretty good though, right?”

“Yeah. My scales just got shivers.”

“Maiden, Maiden, 1, 2, 3. Maiden Maiden, can you see. Maiden 4, 5, 6. Maiden Maiden show us tricks.”

“Damn, sounds like a horror movie?”

“Ok, you go first.” 

I held her strong, small hand. “Shit, I only know my Mom’s name. I think it was her maiden name. Maybe it was my Dad’s? Not sure.”

Before I pass out, I come back to now and say aloud to my antique reflection, “Shit, life’s short. It’s really just about making a decision and doing it, right?" 

I stretch out on’a booth and search for business loans on my phone. I fill out a few online forms, Shady lenders for desperate people: Small Biz Loans, Money 4 Your Biz Quick, Bizoop Now, Quick Cash, and my favorite name, Abracadabra Magic Money. 

Once I complete the form, which asks how much I’m looking for, past business revenue, and projected income, I get a call from a New York number, literally one minute after filling out the form. 

I figure to try and get the rent paid first, then find a way to finance the new brothel idea. I let the incoming call go to voicemail and fill out more forms. Since Bar Isabell has been open for a few months, I have some banking and revenue records from the restaurant.

——————

After passing out in the booth, I wake to a quiet, sun-filled bar, thirty-six voicemails, fifty-three emails, and a bunch of texts from random loan companies, and a few from Isabell. 

I’ll get home soon and talk to Iz, but for now, I return a few calls to the organized creeps that prey on small businesses. On the phone, I get the usual greasy salesman. Probably stuck in a basement somewhere in Queens, Siberia, or Bangladesh. They talk to me like we’ve spoken before.  

“Hey, Roland buddy, we have that money ready to lend. Just send those bank statements. You said you were going to get them over last we talked?” I never talked to this guy? I know it’s a sales technique, and send him bank statements from the last few months for fun. In an hour, he gets back, “Looks like your business is doing well. You’re just in a slump. We can help!” I hear another sales guy saying the same line in the audio background. It’s a terrible loan, but if I’m going to fail, let’s really fail. 

I take a predatory $75K cash loan with terrible interest under the business (seriously bad, like 350 to 400 APR bad). Then, before a new lending company knows, I borrow another seventy-five K. I take more ridiculous loans and get as much cash as possible. Some lend me 25K, some lend 100, and soon I’m another $500,000 in debt. 

The second the money clears in the bank, I call Builder Bruce, the guy who constructed the bar and restaurant for us. “Can you build this in three months? I’ll get you half the cash upfront, then the other when you're done on time. Oh, and keep your mouth shut about it.”

“Sure thing.” Builder Bruce shouted over the whirl of what sounded like table saw tools and a truck beeping behind him on the phone.

He had a crew there the next day. It’s all under-the-table cash, no need for permits, and Builder Bruce was grateful for the work. So, Abracadabra, three months later, we have a brothel next door.

Dani and I write up a budget on the back of some menu paper. Six Clock Rooms to sell sex in, three card tables for poker and blackjack, the restaurant and bar. We figure after staff, salaries, rent, and this ridiculous debt I have to pay off, we’ll have to hold our breath for three months, theeeeen we’ll start making some real money.

Episode 4

Castle Monticello

Winter 2017 

Three months before the attack

Charlotte 

---

In 1957 the dam was complete, but it took The Solano Project nine years of back scratching, palm greasing, and eminent domain to make that happen. Then another five for Putah Creek to flood the valley and create Lake Berryessa. Like the native Patwin before them, the residents of the little town of Monticello were kicked out in the name of progress. Eight generations of homes, farms and history were razed to the ground then buried under three hundred feet of water, that’s now used for hydro power, drinking, and agriculture. 

The Master’s residence quietly hides underneath the knife handle-shaped reservoir, nestled into the yellow foothills, not too far from California’s capital, Sacramento. During the dam's ambitious construction, among the chaos of stone, scaffolding, cranes, trucks, and manpower, The Master had Castle Monticello discreetly built into a hillside nook on the valley floor. The Master’s hypnotic persuasion had all the materials and labor conveniently buried in the dam’s inflated bureaucratic budget. Burrowed underground, Castle Monticello has over one hundred rooms, a grand hall, a library, two labs, a network of tunnels, a garage for his cars, servants’ quarters, and a now-defunct blood farm. The highest floors of the subterranean castle — the grand atrium, the eastern spire, and the broken western tower — pierce the darkest depths, the jade-black heart of Lake Berryessa. 

Today, everyone’s forgotten about the history of the lush valley, the natives, and the old farming town kicked out by the Bureau of Reclamation. Most thoughts around here are where to launch your boat, are the fish are biting, and who’s bringing the cooler for the next drunken bash.

Past Spanish Flat recreation facility and the relocated cemetery, into the water, down the slopes, beneath the murky shadows, to the drowned valley floor and the submerged stone arches of The Putah Creek bridge, past the razed foundations of Main Street and the General Store, at the edge of the valley, built into the side of a hill, framed between a solitary spire and shattered tower, under one hundred meters of cold lake water, is a glowing Pyramid Atrium. The young fish are surprised to see a light so deep in the lake, the old fish know the doctor’s at work. 

Outside the atrium, Donnie, one of the original inhabitants of the flooded town of Monticello, stands a remarkable ten meters with a long head of swimming hair. He’s stooped over the glass, peering into an area wiped clean, watching. Inside thick rhombic windows, packed with green leaves, blazing grow lights, pots, stalks, and more plants, is a woman in a white sleeping gown, tending her topiary. She adjusts her black welding goggles and assesses the boxwood shrub.

You think the legs could be longer? Doctor Charlotte trims a few dead leaves, making room for growth. She wipes thick brown hair from her face with the back of her stone-white hand and clips at the topiary centaur. She steps back, looks at the spring green bush, and up to him.

Nah, if you make’em too long. It’ll look cartoony.

I guess cartoony is better than just looking like a bush? Going for transportive here. She tilts her head and studies her growing creation. The shapes are getting more defined correct?

Yes. I like it.

She walks back to the horse shrub and shakes the branches. You watching anything fun these days? I just got my hands on a DVD for Movie Night. The Bones found it in The Master’s quarters. The boy pushes his face to the glass, and bubbles slip out of his mouth as he hollers. Under the water it sounds like a moan. Oh. I think you’ll like it. It’s a western, but all arty. A film by Jim Jarmusch.

Who’s that. What’s it about? I didn’t see any thing on TV? 

It’s an art house movie. They don’t advertise on television. His large hands are pressed against the glass and more bubbles roll out of his mouth. His finger nails are about the size of the granite stones that make up most of the castle. Kicked up silt settles and three large shadows of fish dart past a darker green shadow. He sits, crosses his legs again, then mutters, I wanna go to an art house movie. An Art House seems like a fun place. Can you draw there? I used to draw all the time.

Oh, I guess you could draw if you like. Might be best to give your full attention to the presented work though. I’ll have Phung and Somchai set it up soon. We’ll move some plants around and hang a sheet. You can watch like last time.

Donnie smiles while picking at a splinter in the bottom of his foot. He’s excited about movie night. I think it’s funny. When I watch the back’a the screen, I see the actors go left, and you see them go right. Like we’re on opposite sides of the world, and the toilet flushes the other way.

The Coriolis Effect doesn’t apply to toilet water, but did you know the moon is upside down in the southern hemisphere?

Don’t think I’ll see that either.

She ignores his sad-boy bait and goes back to her topiary. I’ll bring a lot of snacks. She trims around the belly and chest of the mare. This movie is black and white, with Johnny Deep. She looks to the boy to see if he thinks Johnny’s as handsome as she does. Donnie's wiping away scum that gathered at the base of the garden’s atrium. Johnny Deep? From Twenty One Jump Street? Ooh, I like him. He’s cool. Donnie begins fishing something out of his long hair, a tree branch, that he snaps. Somchai looks up; he can hear the crack through the glass but not their telepathic conversation.

You like William Blake?

Yes, the poet? I remember from school. We had to learn them. He shakes hair out of his face in the underwater slow-motion time he lives in. Lovely Lyca Lay. I love that poem. He stands attention, hands to his side. A few more bubbles slip out as he pantomimes the words he’s thinking and she’s hearing.

In the southern clime,

Where the summers prime,

Never fades away:

Lovely Lyca lay.

Seven summers old

Lovely Lyca told.

She had wanderd long.

Hearing wild birds song.

Well done! Now do you remember any of Little Girl Found?

He shakes his head. I don’t like that part with the lion eating the girl an’ all.

Yes, that is an interpretation. I’ve always loved the imagery of a free-spirited little girl hanging out with wild animals, running through the sun. Mid snip of a branch, she tries to remember a bright, endless cerulean sky, but can only recall lost dreams of daylight. Like a picture of a picture of a copy of a copy, her memory of sunlight has almost totally faded. At 100 meters below, the lake is dark-green and moldy-black. She steers her focus back on the conversation on Blake and his little girl lost, Sometimes heavy symbolism breaks the escape doesn’t it?

In the natural beat of their subterranean conversations, he leaps to the surface through the dark water, away from the artificial light of the atrium. A hypnotic bloom of blood spills from his foot, where he removed a shard of wood. Privately, her mesolimbic instinct is to chase, bite, and kill, but she calms herself. The tea still works. She blocks Walters murmurs in her head. The Master feels the triggering sustenance. Piss on him. He’s fine. He doesn’t get anything.

She closes her eyes to the blood temptation and says to herself, Yes, see? There it is again.

Recently, a high squeaking ring has been filling her ears. Over the last few days it keeps getting louder and changing slightly, like something is tuning in, a signal, or finding a radio station.

She sheaths the clippers, and Donnie’s large face reappears in the atrium glass. When’s movie time? And do we get popcorn? Can we watch tonight?

No popcorn this time, it’s still raining. We can watch from my room. She moves to get some water for her plants. Her words become distant and long, the ringing is getting worse. We’ll do that in the summer. He can tell she’s distracted, but he’s used to the strange pace of her conversations. Charlotte goes silent as her vacant amber eyes stare, thinking, listening. 

Remember? Somchai brought out that pot, and the popcorn went everywhere, all over the grass, into the lake? That was fun!

The ringing is new, even for her, after all these years. Yes, I’ll have the Bones cook up a huge batch. Just like last summer. She decides the plants are damp enough and starts to put away her trimming equipment. Charlotte forces a smile, flashing her sharp canines.

Yes, that was a fun movie. Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure. He arranges his face to serious, and quotes again. You don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dotty, a rebel.

Yes, such a brain for poetry. Phung will have your Supper out soon. She brushes soil from her sleeping gown and flexes another smile to Donnie. I have to visit the Master and need a little privacy, dear.

Her mood darkens as she curses to herself. She won’t ask Walter, but she’s curious if the ringing in her ears is something he’s up to. I hate going down there! She packs her clippings into the waste basket.

Is it roast? That’s what’s to eat tonight?

You’ll see. Smells like it. She switches her dark mood back to nice. Carrots, potatoes and such. He smiles and nods his head again. I'll have Somchai put your show on in the East Spire while you wait for dinner. Dr. Charlotte hears the bone feet clatter on stone and looks at the hunched skeleton, Phung’s already headed over to prepare the pre-dinner television. 

Ooo, maybe it’s Vanna time. Wheel. Of. Fortune! He swims to the standing spire. Somchai’s already out the atrium, across the hall and in the spire, pointing the small television out the thick glass. Donnie wipes the window of silt, slips his large thumb into his mouth, sits on the valley floor, and leans on the tower. His face is right up to the glass, his eye’s about the same size as the screen. 

Charlotte leaves the bright atrium, cinching the wheel door and shutting out the bright grow lights. She pushes the welding glasses around her neck and mutters more curses at Walter. Her bare feet quickly descend the curved stairs to the Great Hall — the white gown would be ghost-like, but nothing shows in this blackness. 

Inside, through the dark, a kaleidoscopic stained-glass rose window sits on three rows of more stained glass. The decorative view consumes the opposite wall of the stairs. The works were commissioned from third-generation European craftsmen, some say stolen from a cathedral in Germany, then modified. If one could see in this eternal deep water night, one might notice the window collection depicts typical themes and images of religious iconography. But, where Christ might have been, is a figure who looks remarkably like the Master, and where the Virgin weeps is a dead ringer for Doctor Charlotte. The others in adoration seem clueless participants and look somehow food-like — rosy, plump, and ready for the picking.

She drifts to the end of the Great Hall, through the cold stone hearth, down spiral stairs, through the wet catacomb hallway, past moldy shelves of Walter’s stacks of organized bones, into his murky piles of abandoned papers, books, and collectibles. Once in his study, she stares to the silent lake through a group of lancet windows, a red Hieronymus Bosh-like triptych of a blood inferno. She spits and shakes her head at the depiction of hundreds of nude bodies being flayed, eaten, cooked, and whatever else.

At another wheel door, she steadies her breathing reflex and snatches a clutch of silver nails and a framing hammer from the end table. Before entering the Combination Room, she knocks on the rusty door and says aloud in a high false pitch, “Dear. Are you decent?“ The silver nails sear into her clenched fist.

Episode 5

Killing Me Softly

About a month after the attack.

Roland’s Shift Log

*Cheap blue ballpoint pen on about 70 Bar Isabell branded ivory cocktail napkins.

---

How often you shed, Roll? 

I dunno, like about once a year. I get all itchy and shit, but I look good after, right?

You always look good, Roll. It’s funny you shed. I mean not Ha Ha funny, but kinda cool. I wish I could just shake all the shit of the past off and start anew. It’s like a skin-wardrobe change.

Human skin sheds, just on a slower, more cellular level. How have you been? I’ve missed you.

I’m ok. I’m always hot. Didja really need to burn it all? I mean you’re so dramatic, Roland.

I guess. I’m hot also. I think I’ll have scars from the burns on my hands. See?

…

How do you get 100 dead babies into a bucket?

Shit, Kim. I can’t hear dead baby jokes now. I have a kid coming myself. 

No, just answer. It’s a funny one.

I can’t, not now. Plus it’s cold in here. 

Why are we in the walk-in? I would love some chips, though. Funny I’m hungry, right? 

…

Ok, how about this one. How do you know when a dead baby pot roast is done?

Really. I can’t do these jokes right now. Not after last month.

It gets so stoned it stops crying.

——————————

I’m not passing out all the time, and my head’s not pounding anymore. I even found myself smiling at a joke by Zeke, but when I thought Kim would’a liked that one, my throat got tight, I had to leave the room, and ended up crying in the walk-in, shivering with frozen wet cheeks. 

—————————

“Hey Roll, wanna leave a message?” Mitzi and Nelson are sitting on the couch in the dressing room, holding a phone between their ears. “We’re all calling Kimi’s phone and tryin’ to fill up her voicemail. It’s nice, you get ta tell her how much you love her, how much we miss her. All that good stuff.” 

Mitzi’s cheer wilts, her eyes go red, and fat tears spill to her leopard skin lap. She carries through the crying, mopping her eye makeup with a folded cocktail napkin, “Didja know Nel and Kimi were dating? I never woulda guessed!” 

Nelson covers his face and red eyes. 

“Hmm, naw, never guessed. Sorry Nel.”

I wrap my arm around his shoulder. We all sit for a minute and try not to cry more. “How’d ya get Kim from Zeke? Always thought that was a thing?”

“Fuck off dude.” He fakes a punch in my stomach and hugs me. 

Mitzi’s buoyant nature bounces back, “And Chris went on a couple dates with her, I know.”

“Chris?”

“The Viking.” 

Were silent ’til Mitzi seems to remember something. “Here, this’ll be her spot. So when she comes back, she’ll see we were all thinkin’ of her and that we love her so much.” She stands with a mini Polaroid picture of herself, Kim, and Zeke. “This is from that time we all went to Old Sac to celebrate Zeke getting his level three som. We got really loud at the Delta King, and Zeke fell off the boat, like from the top, into the river.” She laughs and uses her chewing gum to stick the small square photo next to Kim’s mirror in the far corner of the dressing room.

Mitzi steps back and snaps a pic. I see her screen, Kim’s contact circle, and pages of unanswered texts. She checks her hair, sniffs and straightens her posture. Her phone’s on speaker, ringing. Kim’s contact picture is full screen; a photo of the two of them laughing themselves to tears. Kim’s voicemail says in a terrible english accent, “At the tone, be a doll, leave a note, or betta’ yet, text me’a loin.” Kim says, “Beeeep. Love ya.” 

I want to go back to that Kim, when she was recording that VM message. I’d tell her to run away. Go and do whatever the fuck you want because life’s too short. Don’t hold back, I wanna say. Go spread your love, your light, don’t waste time trying to pay bills, working a job you hate, doing things you don’t wanna do. Go run in the field of poppies and eat ice cream and potato chips all day. Shine your light, be as big as you can. But I don’t say anything. I’m not a time traveler, and she’ll never hear it.

“We talk all the time.” I wanna say. But instead, I raise my finger and pretend an important call’s coming through my phone. I have to get out of the dressing room, away from memories of violent hounds, smeared blood, broken dreams, tangled hair, and that cry.

———————

It’s about nine on Wednesday morning and Isabell shows to deliver the new Shepards Crook shopkeepers bell for the front door. Houseman Jimmie recently replaced the temporary plywood window and rebuilt the door frame. She’s meeting with the staff in a few hours, they’re going to put up more missing posters of Kim around town. Iz has been feeling better and wants to help, but most the crew is still asleep. We all stayed up til morning “looking” for Kim, but we mostly just worried, partied, and drank for our missing friend.

From the smell coming out the kitchen I know Line Cook Fernando’s chopping and sweating down mirepoix for something new, and straining off the stock that simmered all night. Isabell gives a curt smile, but doesn’t say hello. She hasn’t responded to the drunken poem I sent last night. She’s still not talking to me, aside from a few texts to make sure I was OK after the “robbery.”

Roland - The leaves are gone.

Now, just wind, rain, a bird, or a squirrel’s raceway.

There’s no rustle, shade, or shelter without you. 

With the crickets, I wait for buds and blossoms.
Then wait longer.

Izzie, please call me back. I’m an ass. I’m sorry. 

She’s shapelier and more beautiful every time I see her. Today she’s wearing a tight grey low-cut top and green apron over her growing tummy, breasts, and behind. Her flowing hair pulled into a low partial ponytail, skin pulsing with magic baby making cells.

Even though she hates the brothel, she still loves the restaurant. I paid her back her the ten K she put in to start up, but never changed the paper work, she’s still on as an owner. Izzie’s creative touch and positive energy is crucial to our business, so I take what I can get. 

I can’t get any work done. I only slept a few hours and I’m trying not to drink yet. My hungover, sweating head slips into a sweeter time, a memory of Isabell and me building the restaurant before the brothel and all'a this shit.

We followed inspiration and trusted our instincts as we built it, we grew this bar into something special, unique. Our restaurant was going to be a functional artwork collaboration, fresh, welcoming, electric. 

I Haven’t been to Europe yet, but through endless art books, Google searches, and cool articles in National Geographic, I’ve fallen in love with the mosaic floors of the houses of Pompeii. If you ever get the chance, go! I hear the park’s guards let you walk right into the places where people lived and died thousands of years ago. You can walk directly on tiny little pieces of different colored stone. The rocks are puzzled into and fit precisely where they should, making bad-ass designs with ducks, boars, plants or whatever those Pompeians were into. 

I’ve read you can even go into the old brothels and see the tiny beds they used to sell. They have ancient sex paintings on the wall of all the different ways to get off. 2000 years ago you could walk right in and pick the position you wanted, like a picture menu in’a fast food restaurant. “Yes, thank you, I’ll take’a number two, a number six, and heck, I’ve been working hard, lets gett’a ol’ number twelve in there, also.” Ha! 

They also had these huge stone cocks standing erect above the front doors. The more discreet places had carved out street stones with dick and balls pointing the direction of ecstasy for sale. We should’a mounted some stone units somewhere!

In our bathrooms, Isabell and I painted the floors together. We’d come to the space at night, after our shift, when we were working at the hotel, stay up late, drink wine, and paint right on the cement. It was cathartic, working on something together, using our creative powers as one, wind down, get a little drunk, and then usually hook up. We'd pull up images of plants and animals we liked on our phones and casually illustrate them with acrylic paint: field mice, Scrub Jays, fig leaves, poppies, sunflowers, and whatever shapes we liked. 

“I like this one, babe.” Isabell painted a Yellow Billed Magpie about to take flight, nervously looking over its shoulder with a swiped silver watch in its mouth.

“Stealing Time.” Shy, she spoke into her wine glass, never good with compliments.

“You don’t haveta steal my time, baby. I’ll give it all to ya.” On my hands and knees, I climbed over the paints and brushes, knocking over an empty bottle of wine, kissing her deeply.

When we completed painting the images and design on the floor, we found a tile guy connected with some of the contractors. He barely spoke English but was a promised wiz with a stone saw and hammer. We showed him pictures of the floors we liked in Pompeii. When he entered the bathroom and saw our floor mural, he covered his tooth-short smile with Mason's thick hands and wrote a quote on a scrap of paper. 

With his lifelong collection of boxes of colored rocks, saws, dust, and grout, he knocked out the mosaic floor in four days, and fuck, it looked fantastic! The pattern of the small stones flowed and created a natural rhythmic design. His sensitivity to color and tone shifts were beautiful. After the stone mosaic was polished and covered in a protective layer, Isabell and I had a picnic in the bathroom before the toilet was ever used. 

I ran my fingers over the floor and the reflective pieces of silver quartz the craftsman used for the watch in the Magpie’s mouth. She stretched out her bare foot, rested it in my lap, and smiled wine-stained teeth. 

“So if the back bar is a bar’s soul. And the bar is the body. Is the bathroom all its private parts, the fun parts?” Isabell sucked her finger with purple lips. “Glad we're doing this now and not later.” She prowled over the polished tiles towards me. “Soon, filthy hoards will taint this wonder we made.” She held the back of my neck, climbed on top and kissed me. “Let’s enjoy it once more, before this place gets all slopped up with piss ’n shit.”

“Oh, lil’ lady, talk dirty to me.”

We laughed a lot those days.

I snap out of my daydream and try, again, to get some work done. Set up with my laptop at one of the bar booths, I’m trying to be get the lunch menu ready, pay a lost invoice to our linen supplier, and get the liquor order in, but I can’t focus with her in the room. As the sun stretches across the bar, I gaze and get lost in her beauty again. I imagine a small lizard body swimming inside of her. Maybe our baby’s a tadpole or something like that at this point in gestation? 

Mom never talked about it, my lizardness. She just ignored me when I asked anything about my scales and tale. How was I born? Will Iz birth an egg? Will she have to sit on it like a chicken? Will we take turns keeping the egg warm like penguins do? I’ll be a good egg warmer dude, I bet.

Isabell’s wiping the dust off the bar bottles in the slanted late morning light, getting ready for service. Each time she picks up a bottle, sunlight projects the liquid’s color across her apron, her stomach, and escaped strands of hair from her ponytail. Islay scotch shows an amber light; gin, a slight blue twinkle; amaro, a glowing umber; aperitivo, a slash of siren red. Even when she’s mad at me, I’m grateful for this silent contact. I’ll take what I can get.

She loved me for me, not just the lizard man novelty. Most treat me as a ride they don’t have to pay admission to or a movie they snuck in to see. They just see the freak and don’t think, or care, that someone’s inside the suit, trying to get through the day, same as everyone. 

“So it was just you and your Mom in Ohio?”

“Yeah, mostly just me. Mom was always out doing other stuff. It was pretty quiet, we moved around a lot, but settled in a trailer, but the other trailers always seemed empty, no one around. I had to entertain myself.”

“Like what’d you do? Watch TV and stuff?”

“Nah, the TV was so old, you could barely make a picture out. I’d draw in spiral notebooks, listen to music, all shit I stole from rich kids at school. I’d make little houses and stuff outta mud ‘n sticks, divert streams and stuff.”

“Like little a house you could get in?”

“Nah, just little houses for whoever. Like a few inches tall. Like for action figures, but I never really had any toys.”

“No toys?”

“If I got any. Mom always took my stuff. I had to hide everything. She’d sell anything she could? I dunno, maybe I lost ‘em, or broke them, I can’t remember? I dunno. I’d make little creatures out of sticks and grass and stuff. Knights, horses, Dragons. Kid shit, ya know.”

“Sold your toys? That’s messed up.”

“I don’t know. She never said much, Mom was a strange one.”

It’s not like Isabell would pretend I wasn’t a lizard. She loved my scales, she loved the costume as much who’s wearing it. We’d be layin’ in bed and she’d stroke my tail. “So, when you sit on the toilet you just push it to the side or what?”

“Pretty much. Ideally it’d hang off the back, but really, I’ve taken a lot more shits with it then without.”

“See my ear, see the back? Yours don’t stick out as much.”

“Good thing they stick out though, I’d hate not being able to wear sunglasses.”

“I’d get you one of those sports bands or something. Or tape, we could tape them to your head. But what about ear buds, that’d suck if you couldn’t listen to music, right?”

When we’d walk down the street and she’d never pay any attention to the stares and snickers, she’d just look into my eyes, kiss me on the lips and say, “We’re going to do great things, Mr. Desmund. Me. You. Us. This bar. watch out world, the Desmund family’s taking over, shaken stuff up, doin’ it right!”

“I might hate Desmund as much as Green. We might need to come up with a new last name.”

“Oh, shoot. did you feed Walter?”

“Oh no. Poor lil’ Lasty. I’ll do it now.”

Even in separation. I’ll always love her. 

A loud diesel engine growls from the street; it’s break’s squeak and hiss. It might be garbage pick up today? The new bell rings. He fills the open door, stopping the glowing light, tossing his shadow across the bar like a sheet over a corpse.

Isabell’s close to the front now, organizing the bar stools. She takes a drink from her water bottle, looks up, and meets the Captain, as I start calling him in my head. He’s dressed in a black long sleeve turtle neck and black jeans, not suited for battle like I last saw him, but just as lethal.

“Hello, Mrs. Desmund.” 

His voice ignites flashback fragments of that night, of Kim, and getting smashed in the face. 

“What an honor to meet the person with whom this establishment is named.” He smiles and looks over her figure. Then shakes her hand like he would an employee or co-worker, going out of his way to show she’s not just an object to him, working hard treating her as an equal, maybe too hard? It shows his cards, I can tell he likes her. 

The rotten hound stench drifts into my head. 

Rough fur.

Crushing coarse claws. 

“Hello…” Isabell’s hand is out, charmed and happy to be respected. She has no idea who this guy is, what he can do, what he’s done. And I hate admitting this, but the Captain has a strange charismatic presence like he’s seen the world twice over and has lifetimes of stories to tell. 

“We don’t open until five, sir, but I’m happy to set up a reservation for tonight?” 

“Very nice of you. Oh, look here. What a blessing.” At the sight of her obvious pregnancy he smiles, places his hands together, and again does that obnoxious prayer/bow move. “But, you should not be working so hard in your state, Mrs. Desmund? Here let me help, and grab you a a seat.” 

He theatrically stops his feigned attempt. “No,” stretching out the o’s, he smiles and lets her know he’s making a joke. “A strong lady like you can do it all. I am sure.”

Isabell takes a small step back and looks over her shoulder at me. Her nurturing eyes and glowing smile silently ask, “WTF, Roll?”

“I am here on some small business and would love to speak to your husband. Is he around?” His eyes connect with mine the same time as hers.

Stunned and still, I’m slightly hidden in the booth, we all stare. I wanna throw up and scream while seeing him talk to pregnant Isabell. Houseman Jimmie comes outta the bathroom from Goat and breaks our connected gaze.

“Jimmie.” My voice wobbles. I climb outta the booth. “Listen, Jimmie, you need to… go ’n get some…” The only thing I can think of. “Toilet paper. With Isabell. Right now. No matter what, make her come with you.” He looks to me, confused, then to the cupboard filled with rolls of bathroom tissue. He’s slow to process the urgency, “Quickly,” I hush. “Just get her. Do it!  Just go.” I give him a handful of one hundred dollar bills to make clear I’m not fucking around. He blinks, doesn’t say anything, removes his latex cleaning gloves, and takes the money. 

Houseman Jimmie wasn’t there last time and he has no idea what’s ‘bout to go down. He calls Isabell over as I acknowledge the Captain across the room. Jimmie gets her out the back door with a story about needing help with something or other. The Captain smiles as they leave, seemingly allowing their passage. Once they’re outta earshot he greets me like an old friend.

“Hello, Roland.” First names? Fuck you! “Good to see you again, my man.” Like it’s the fucking 1970’s, “My man?” 

Honestly, I’m scared as shit and don’t wanna get my head smashed in again. I don’t want a shootout on this beautiful day. I don’t want him to burn our place down. Fuck. Where are his dogs? 

“Hello, Sir,” I treat him like a VIP again. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?” 

“Nice of you to offer Mr. Roland, but my work here is short today. I have a business proposal. Is there a place we can talk?” 

“Yes, always a pleasure…” Keep it brief, Roll. Don’t go off on some crazy tangent like you usually do. 

“It has been a month or so since we have seen each other. Correct?” 

The number seven shaped scar on my face is healing well, Doc Carson just took the exterior stitches out. I feel a cool breeze on the fresh skin. I smile outta habit, look out front, then to the back door. 

The sopping wet throw pillow I used to hold my face together that night. Hot hot flames of the dumpster. The fryer oil smell of the fire. 

“No need to worry. Just a business proposition. You and your precious family will not be hurt today.” I shift my eyes across the room and feel sick when he says, “family.”

“I have been watching your operation. Looks like you have a winner here!” He claps, motions around the room with his hands, then loosens a grin. “Here. Sit with me, hear my proposal.” I grab a couple of rocks glasses, a cold Aqua Panna from behind the bar, and walk us to a small two-top. 

“I have water, but would you like a drink?” 

He smiles and judgingly says, “It is a little early for me, Mr. Roland. But please do not let me hold you back.” 

I pour us water with shaking hands, my breath is tight. Cold whiskey sweat gathers on my brow like hungover dew before a frost. 

Ok, let’s hear this fucking asshole’s idea. Don’t start talking first. 

“I will make a visit every four weeks or so, in the early part of each month.” He adjusts the place setting in front of him. Lining up the fork, knife, plate, and napkin. “If I cannot personally make it, some of my men will come. Please have our ‘cut’ ready. It will be a good business relationship.” He reaches over and lines up my fork and knife with his. 

I keep my trembling hands under the table. My eyes keep darting out the front windows to see if his men are coming. 

His cut? Fuck, he’s not going away? The ever-splitting scab on my cheek starts to leak a mix of puss and blood. I dab it with one of our nice linens. 

I can’t spin this? Not now. Not this quick.

Hound drool on my arm. Hot breath. Rotten meat smell.

I inhale ’n wish I had a cigarette, then start, “Sir, it seems when you were here last, one of the ladies was injured and left and never came back.” He goes about organizing the flatware, then slowly blinks. “Incidents like that are bad for business. It creates a work environment that makes staffing difficult and eventually chases away customers. You see, if I cannot get premium Talent, we cannot get top dollar, and we will not be very busy.” 

He’s calm and doesn’t speak while I wait for this to land. The room’s silent enough to hear a car accelerate a block away. 

It’s true. If this fucking guy is going to show up every month to terrorize our staff, the jig is up. I can’t keep staff if everyone’s worried about War Dogs and this fucked up dude showin’ every month. No premium Talent, no great chefs, no great card dealers, no great sommeliers, no great pastry chefs, no great bartenders, no great parties, no business, no money.

“It’s a simple request,” I push. He uncrosses his legs and slowly leans forward on the table. I hold my ground, take a sip of water, and continue. “I cannot have you and your men talking to my staff. Please conduct our business off hours and with just me.” 

Take a breath. 

I manage to steady my hands and calm down. I might have smokes in my jacket. “Then we will pay your cut.’” This guy can ruin everything. So let’s find out now if it really is destroyed. Here I am, worrying about the business and not even my own fucking neck.

Oh, I get it!  There’s money to be made. We’re the Golden Goose! Ha! Leverage! 

He’s silent, re-adjusts the place settings, looks for a napkin to replace the one I’m holding, has some water, and licks his chapped lips. He slips black leather gloves over his thick-knotted hands that squeak as he opens and closes his fists.

A breath of memory: the smell of their weapons, the oil, the boots. The floor squeegee sloshing small tidal waves across Death’s pink ocean. All of it disappearing into the black infinite abyss of the loading dock's floor drain.

A few minutes pass, a diesel engine fires up out front, a plume of black smoke covers the bay windows and lurks through the front door. He doesn’t like getting terms, but it’s a hell of an offer. 

His lip wiggles a tiny sneer and his voice shifts to recover the high ground. “Mr. Roland. My men are very professional, and only do exactly as I say.” He stacks his fork and knife on top of the napkin, looks to my silver, then to my puss-blotted linen. “I am sorry to hear that one of your ladies went missing after the last time we were here. I also understand. We will keep our relationship professional. I will not ‘dip the pen in the company ink,’ as they say.” With this shitty joke, he winks, and I notice another vertical cicatrix, that what Dr. Carson calls mine, running down his left cheek. 

The Captain is a lion that’s earned all his scars. Whatever this guy’s seen, I’m sure it’s a thousand times scarier than my lizard-man-art-restaurant life. I think about Kim and wonder what she’s been up to last month. All the laughs she’d have given us. The cash she would’a made. The dirty oily charcoal smell of that burnt out dumpster. 

The Captain has me, but he’s thinking he can just fuck around here, be one of our VIP’s, do whatever. My leverage play seems to work, it sucks, but makes us a little safer? 

Oh, what a great fucking deal. We give you money, and you don’t kill or kick the shit out of us. 

I push, “The amount of the ‘cut’ sir? Remember, we need to stay in business?” I lower my head and look around to make sure I wasn’t about to be hit, like an abused dog raised by a shitty owner. 

“Very well. Last collection was $254,234. We will call that a security deposit. I know you need money to operate.” He takes a drink of water, licks his crumbly lips again, stands, and seems to do some lazy math in his head. “We will collect $50,000 a month. The last collection gets you current. At the start of every month, have our money ready. Then your business and family will be secure.” 

When he says “family” my heart jumps again and I almost fall out of my chair, I doubt he notices, but I do. He stands and extends his gloved hand to seal the deal. I stand, straighten my pants, adjust my shirt. We shake, he squeezes my grip and pulls me into his dark, swallowing gaze. 

Fill your lungs with air. Think of a cigarette. Stay calm. Isabell’s fragile naked body. Her porcelain smooth skin. The first time we met. I exhale, dry my palms on my pants. 

I need to sit down. 

Fuck! 

I take a mouthful of water, wish it was whiskey, think of a cigarette again, then take another big breath. 

With our projections, we’re set to make about $50,000 in profit a month. $50,000 is going to hurt, not as bad as not paying, but’ll still hurt. I need more time to figure this fucker out. I’ll figure something out soon, but for now, he won. 

“Ok," I agree, or am forced to agree, to pay $50,000 a month for nothing in return. Other than they won’t burn us down, beat us up, or kill us all. 

Seems like a fair trade? 

The guttural drum roll of a hungry engine fills the front street and an enormous matte black vehicle, the size of a small garbage or dump truck pulls up. The Captain scans the top shelf of the bar and using the space between his thumb and forefinger clenches and squeezes his hand deeper into his gloves, “Whiskey is becoming a thing. I have to admit, I’m becoming a bit of a connoisseur.” He molds the french word like he’s fluent. “I’ve started my own collection. I see you have some of those purple tops, and Pappy. Impressive. I might have to have one next time.” 

He climbs into the armored war truck that sits on thick, dusty rubber wheels. It’s got two doors up front and an enclosed cargo area over double rear axles. He slams the passenger door, which has streaks of tan paint over it, like this beast of a ride smushed a sedan off the road somewhere. The Big Brown Headed one and his mountainous body is crammed behind the steering wheel, tongue out and panting. 

The Captain manually rolls down the greasy window and shouts over the farting sounds of the engine, “Your payments are current until early next month. We will see you then. Please, be ready, and thank you, Mr. Roland. It was nice to meet your family. Tell your wife she is very pretty, and good luck with that little baby.” 

I stand in our doorway and outta service industry habit say, “Thank you,” then think, “Fuck, I hate this guy!” 

The war truck roars away, shooting thick black soot over our red planter boxes and overgrown rosemary. Line Cook Fernando comes up behind me at the front door, his white apron red from beets or pomegranates, “Hey, Boss. I did not hear you come in. All good? Aye, look at that truck!” 

An image of brain matter on the marble floor slips into my head. What part of personality was that ounce of gelatinous mush? Was that the compassionate part, was that a childhood memory of being pushed on a swing, a favorite meal? Or a long lost friend's name she couldn’t recall that time at the bar?

I push past Fernando, run inside, and throw up in the bar’s slim jim garbage can. I wash my face in the hand sink, and rinse the bile outta my mouth. 

Fernando shuffles back inside, twisting his hands on his apron and talking slow, “Boss, you OK?” I’m dreaming of drowning my stress in the juniper-whiskey ocean bottled up on the back bar. I buss the place settings. My voice echos a hollow resolution, “Hey Fernando, let’s get ready. It’s going to be really fucking busy today.” 

Business is funny. No matter what, it’s never enough. When it is enough, someone bigger, smarter, and meaner comes and takes away what’s made. Ya know those nature shows shot in Africa? I remember one with a cheetah who’d just expertly chased down an antelope or something. This poor cat runs 80 miles an hour and pulls a beast to the ground with only its claws and teeth. As the tired furry fella is resting on top of its prey, panting from the hot daytime chase and kill, a fucking lion. A bigass alpha lion, who watched the whole thing from the shade, calmly walks up to the tiredass cheetah and the hard-won prize. The thin cat has no choice but to walk away and wait for scraps. With just a look, the lion won, the lion knew it, the cheetah knew it, and the poor dead antelope knew it. 

Get in line, Roll, get in line. Don’t die, do what you gotta do, and get in line…