A Bodyguards Guard.

A Professional Job? (Chapter 1)

     "Hey, this is your stop right?" said a taxi driver. He turned around in his seat to look at his passenger.

     A teen looks up from his phone. "Oh yes, sorry sir," he replied. Putting his phone away, the teen grabs his coat, and gets out of the cab.

     The taxi driver watches his client get his stuff out of the trunk. Holy smokes, he's a handsome one, he thinks to himself. Walking to the driver's side, the teen handed him the money.

     The driver looks down, and then back up as his passenger starts down the sidewalk. "Um, hey kid, you gave me extra," the driver replies, holding a $20 dollar bill.

     "It's a tip sir," the passenger replied, without looking back.

     The teen walked into a busy intersection, with cars flying by. People bustled about, on their phones, or talking to themselves. He walked across the road, then down the next sidewalk, a path clearing as his size made passersby move. He sighed, adjusting his aviators.

     Looking around, he sees his destination. Walking up to a building smashed in between two other ones; he stares at it, in disbelief.

It was an old club.

     The build was halfway built into the ground, the bricks on the outside crumbling away with each breeze. The other two buildings were newer, and had a lot of people going in and out. Shiny windows, and sleek doors. If he hadn't been looking for it, he would have never noticed that this thing was there. Wonder if this also has witches and trolls in here. It has a old, neon sign, that was halfway lit, saying:

     "Miss Ragina's Club."

     Underneath that one, read another sign; weathered, dulled, and paint coming off:

    "Home to the best poker and hooker on this side of Las Vegas"

     The hallway to the front door had half way, ripped off, posters, that he couldn't even read. They were people with different jobs, all who were people that made bank in this town. He takes out, looks down at a piece of paper from his pocket that reads;

     Please come to XXXX on 67st, downtown Las Vegus, at 3:55.

     Also This is a profetinal setting so Please dress your best

           Mr Brookes,

     Hmmm professional eh? He can't even spell that word right. Sighing he walks down those old, wooden steps to the even older vintage looking door. He struggles for a second on the rusted knob, and opens the door.

     He gets hit in the face with the thick smell of cheap booze, and old alcohol. With watering eyes, he shuts the door, unhooking his dress coat off of a rusty nail. Then he looks around. Round tables surround the room, with an old wooden bar in the back. There were also poles in a corner with a round couch around them. In the back corner was a man, submerged in bottles of empty beer and whisky. His head laying on the table and sleeping away.

     Behind the bar, an older man was wiping glasses, and the counter, with the same rag. He's talking to himself, muttering about something; when the bartender looks up from his rag wiping. 

     The bartender was a Mexican, about medium height, and was also pretty skinny for his age; having flecks of gray hair in his black facial hair, and curly hair.

     "How can I help you, sir?" He asks, with a thick Mexican accent.

     "I am here for a job interview with Mr.- '' quickly glances at the paper again. ''Mr Brookes." replies the teen.

     "Your name, son?"

     "Tori." The bartender's eyes widen slightly, then he nods.

     "Just a moment." He moves out from behind the bar, and trudges to a side door. With a creek then a slam, he disappears behind it.

     Tori sits down, taking his sunglasses off for a moment. As he cleans them, he studies the bar counter. Tori leans closer, then quickly removes his arms; as there's dried blood, and pieces of a broken bottle, from what looks like a bar fight. A there's a loud snore makes Tori glance upward and to the back of the room. It came from the dirty man, sleeping in the back. He starts to mutter, and shifts his arm, knocking over a bottle. 

     Oh yes, real professionals here.

      A creaking of a door snaps Tori out of his thoughts. the bartender came hobbling back.

     "Follow me." he says with a tired voice.

     "Alright" Getting up, the disgruntled, future worker follows the man to the side door. There was a faint sound of music, as Tori went up to it.

     "He's in there." the bartender goes back to his bar, then stares at the sleeping man.

      Tori hesitates, then opens the door, which leads to more stairs; only more broken then the ones outside. He walked down, each step, creaking, bending, moving, as he transfers his weight from one to the other. The music gets louder with each step, and when he reaches the bottom of the ragged staircase, he could clearly hear the words of the music that was playing, which happened to be "Never gonna give you up" by Rick Astley. Cringing, Tori reaches for the rotten door knob, then thinks better of it. He pulls his hand back, then knocks on that old, vintage, wooden slat of a door, thinking, I swear, if this is a Rick Roll.