The Dame
It was a dark and stormy night, one of those cold nights that are neither melancholy nor unpleasant, but rather bleak and abhorrent. Waves of rain fell like tears from the sky, mingling with rivers of sweat and blood to pool in the filthy gutters. The wretched refuse of society staggered drunkenly mere feet below my window, their slurred cries echoing far off into the distance. Repellent, all of them, disgusting refuse crawling up from the sewers, a blight upon society that could never be wiped away, even with the very strongest detergent.
And I should know.
My office was the only refuge from the carnality outside, the sole shelter from this filthy cesspool of society's bitterest dregs. The windows were shut tight, slatted blinds letting a minimum of smoke-clogged light inside. I preferred it that way. In total darkness, the world didn't seem quite so bleak.
I tripped over my chair.
When I struck the ground, my nose crunched, blood splattering across the floor like the blood shed by an un-mourned child, abandoned in the rain. The blasphemies escaping my mouth reverberated throughout the small room like the countless curses uttered by desperate civilians in their final moments. In my limited blurry field of vision, I could just barely make the eye carefully stenciled onto my frosted glass door. Weak incandescent light shone through it, the eye's emotionless gaze looking upon me, judging me, as if to say that I had been found wanting.
I got up slowly, nursing my wounds, and walked over to the window.
I opened the blinds.
Slowly, with the uncaring air of a man who knows that his hour has finally come, I returned to my chair and stretched back. Every crack my joints made sounded like a distant gunshot. Eventually, returning to my upright position, I pulled a flask of brandy from my coat. It gleamed amber in the cold light, the sole spot of brightness in a muted tableau of blacks and grays. The world was colorless, I mused, colorless and washed-out like a pile of laundry carelessly tossed into the washing machine and discovered hours later- too late, too late– by a horrified teenage girl. I should remember that one, I thought to myself, it could be useful at a later time.
I took a swig of the brandy, swilled it around in my mouth, and promptly spat it out. Too weak, too weak by far. Weak like the minds of populace, like their easily distorted opinions. I would be returning to Walmart later, receipt in hand. Either they would pay what they owed me, or I would pump them full of lead. Then, I would leave them to slowly die over a period of several years as they contracted lead poisoning.
A knock at the door– tentative, unsure– snapped me out of my reverie. Instantly my hand was at my belt, reaching for a large handgun. It was empty, of course. I had found that clients looking for a tough enforcer responded better when I threatened them with a gun upon their entrance. Those that weren’t generally sued me. But those were necessary sacrifices. Some things must be done for the greater good.
The knock appeared again, this time more impatiently. I looked at my watch and realized that I had spent five minutes doing absolutely nothing while the person– whoever they were– stood outside of my door.
Enter, I said, in a tone befitting a Roman centurion of old, assuming that the Romans were chain smokers and a had a bit of phlegm buildup in their throats.
The person entered.
She was tall, and glamorous, her dark eyes traveling disdainfully over my office and her nose wrinkled as if to indicate an unpleasant smell lingering about my room. But I knew that that wasn’t it. I had bathed only last month, barely enough time for the odor to return.
