Rivercrest 2073: VISCERAFEST

(#WIP) Chapter 05: Adventitous Facilitation

".........to see a few familiar faces returning to the VisceraFest battlegrounds, along with a satisfying amount of newcomers, like multi-platinum, West Coast Hip-Hop artist Wrekktakular. He promises to steal the show and be this year's victor, bluntly saying to the reigning champion Lyle Vibbert-known to all of you out there as Splinterwing-that he's coming for his number one spot. I, like everyone else, can't wait to see how that goes,

"And on that note, I am concluding this evening's broadcast. This has been Samantha Kord for Rivercrest Action N-"

Fuck. I had forgotten to turn my TV off this morning, so it's been playing all day. I'm surprised the neighbors hadn't beat my door down over it. They probably assumed I was in here passed out or something, especially with how loud it was. Although I haven't had a drink in over three months, I still wouldn't blame them for believing I was full of that liquor.

After all of this VisceraFest nonsense I'm wrapped up in, I could certainly use one. However, I have to fight that urge.

I'm totally exhausted, and still quite shocked that I was visited by Xander Cargill's granddaughter, but I need to just clear that thought from my mind and eat something. I don't have the energy in me to make a big meal, and I definitely don't feel like waiting on takeout, so I guess I'll just make myself some cereal. A nice bowl of cold corn flakes oughta do the trick.

I go in the cabinet for my favorite bowl-which is a dark yellow bowl with purple lines around it and green rocket ship silhouettes inbetween them-but I can't find it. I always make sure to wash that bowl and put it up after each use, so it's odd to me that it's not in its place. And oh, in case you were wondering why I'm using such a childish bowl, well that bowl was my son's favorite. When my wife left with him in tow, she left all of that behind, and I just didn't feel like getting rid of it. I use it in rememberance of him.

To be honest, that does me no favors. I miss my boy, and just my family in general, but these mementos only provide me with heartache. On the other hand, using that bowl would be a way to center myself and temporarily forget my current worries.

***

It's been over thirty minutes and I'm still frantically searching for that bowl. I thought that I may have put it in a different spot, but it's nowhere to be found. There's a load of dirty dishes in the sink, but it isn't among them. I really need to get to those before they bring roaches or something else. Fuck it for now, I'm just going to get another one.

The box of cereal is already on the counter but the flaps are open, as well as the bag itself, which is something else I don't recall doing. I didn't even eat anything before I left for work this morning, so now my "Fleet-Larm" is going off. For the record, that's just what I call the anxious feelings I get when things are amiss. It is a riff on Spider-man's Spidey-Sense, which I have truthfully only used when playing with my son. Saying that out loud to anyone else would bring attention I don't want. My wife already thought it was ridiculous, so I can only imagine how others would feel.

Moving on, I open the fridge to get the milk and notice that it's missing its top. Something is definitely going on around here.

"Alright, whoever you are, you need to come out now!" I yell as I reach inside a drawer next to the fridge, pulling out a large carving knife. I hold it low, but make sure it's not too low to swing if the fool who's eating cereal out of my favorite fucking bowl decides to jump out. "I have a gun, you thieving motherfucker, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

"Well now, we both know that's a lie, Fleetwood," replies a familiar, male voice, somewhere down the hall. The man's voice is deep and raspy, but also non-threatening and monotone, which is probably just a way to get me to let my guard down. "Please, drop the knife. I'm not here to hurt you."

Yeah, so he says. I'm not buying it though.

"And what makes you so sure?" I ask, trying to keep up the bluff. I really should know who he is, but I can't seem to place him exactly. I guess that doesn't matter much now, especially since I've been found out. Still, I hold tightly to the knife, ready to swing it with all the force I have. "I may have a knife in hand, but you don't know what's on my waist!"

"Heh... I read your file, man. You're not trained in or licensed for firearm use. Hell, I doubt you know how to properly attack with that knife."

"Oh yeah? Well not everybody that has a gun is licensed or even trained! You know that it doesn't take much to pull a trigger, and it also doesn't take much to slash or stab."

"You're right about that, but you're in a panic currently," the man says with a slight chuckle. He's coming down the hall, twirling a spoon around in my favorite fucking bowl. I can hear the sound of crisp, cold corn flakes being tossed about. He's walking slowly and most likely wearing boots. I can hear them hitting the linoleum. This is the one time I'm happy I don't have carpet down that way. "I can hear your heartbeat and heavy breathing. If you have a gun, you're going to shoot without aiming and miss me. As far as that knife goes, I'll disarm you without a scratch or breaking a sweat."

I drop the knife, realizing that it will do me no good against him. He's too knowledgeable. With that being said, there can only be one person who knows all of the stuff he just casually threw out: "Lyle?"

"You guessed right, Counter," he snickers, referring to me by my job title for some strange reason. His walking becomes a lot more brisk and he eventually makes his way around the corner into my kitchen. He finishes the cereal in one big gulp, then gently places the bowl on the counter next to the sink, wiping his mouth afterwards. "Look, I'm only going to tell you this once: drop out of the VisceraFest. Don't embarrass yourself by thinking you can win. 'Cause I'm telling you, you're gonna get your asshole ripped open wider than a grizzly bear going through a bag of potato chips on that battlefield."

Okay... that was a visual I could've done without. However, he's right about me embarrassing myself with this insane belief that I can attain victory. Still, it's a bit too late to try and scare me away.

"Yeah... I can't do that, bruh. Lucien will have a fit. Furthermore, I don't think he'll take too kindly to his top guy telling me to forfeit. You know how he is about ratings and money. Even you wouldn't survive coming between those."

Lyle chuckles, rubbing his partially greyed, ratty beard and tapping his heavy, untied boots on my kitchen floor, dropping bits of black dirt as he does. He doesn't respond with words, he just nods in agreement, but I'm getting the feeling that agreement was reluctant.

***

I've only ever seen Lyle a few times up-close. Even then, it was like a blink-and-you'll-miss-him kind of deal. He came to see me once about his kill count, but I was too preoccupied with going through the files to look at him. I will say this though, he smelled like the ruins of Chernobyl and Pompeii. I mean, what I imagine they smell like. Whatever that smell is though, it's apparently his consistent odor and is currently assaulting my nasal passages again. He smells like death, and I can hear minute, echoing screams every time I sniff.

At present, I'm afraid that if I sneeze, it'll be considered an act of necromancy and I'll resurrect some vengeful spirit of VisceraFests' past.