Faust

A flick by the fuse

        God willing. Lord above. If this man isn't Qin afflicted, let me be struck down by a rod of iron.

         That polyester black suit with sewing line by the sleeve, armpit, ankle to fit his statue. The shirt collar upright and stretched like two pointing guidance to the face that had never seen someone's body covered in yellow cloth, look only a man younger than you can channel. Snake-like nose, skin tone a step under wheat, narrow lips, emaciate cheeks, he's got a small cut under his right ear and temple.

Green eyes with petrifying energy that can only come from someone who's unstable. Walk with the back of palm towards the front. Now he stands very fucking close to my left with a hand in his pocket, another as a fist on the folding table full of ledgers.

I don't judge a book by its cover, or pin a man by his first impression. Even so, I believe in his inability to live till the end of year with his attitude at the lanes.

The fella behind him on the other hand, is the reason I haven't broke the fuckboy's arm for shits and giggles.

The cigarette in my mouth burns nonetheless for an inhale. The lousy thug's urging the owner to hurry the fuck up in Chinese coats in a thicker accent than my own. Cricket opens his mouth but not a word came out as I saw him visibly swallow back whatever was on his mind, and close his eyes for a single blink before nodding numbly.

As he bent down under the numerous boxes at the back with a thumb pressing against his temple and before I decide if I intend to instigate, a shift in the air change the trajectory of the thick line of gray smoke. Maybe it's one of the pigs gasping in the second mattress by the entrance, maybe it's cricket's silent venting or maybe it's a butterfly flopped its wings one more time at a Brazil rainforest.

The whiff brushes off Qin's eyes, instantly making his right eye water as he recoils by closing it and pressing two fingers on the eyelids to stop the soreness.

As someone who had been on the receiving side before. I feel for him in that one second before tensing up my muscles and tugging the cig with my tongue.

"Cao!" Leather shoes banging on the floor as he turns entirely to me. Ignoring his red and green eyes on and off and all over me, another man in a black suit strides over in well-placed steps and reluctant spirit. Some fellas recognized the small incitement and throw their heads the other way when they see the black suits.

"You got any idea how hard it is to wash the stench off this shirt?" The man scorns in broken English. His voice is.... it's not nasally, not gruffly, it's high but not as a pitch. It sounds like a tenor with a reconstructed pipe and it works hilariously bad with the demeaning tone he carries. But for whatever it's worth, the aberrant crux in his eyes are legit.

Those two fingers under his eyelid drag down to his nose as he snorts and pats on his shoulder pad like it would do anything. I screamed some blasphemy in my head and piled up a thin smirk as I take the smoke out of my mouth with my left hand while the right slide into my pocket.

"Dear apologies, my eyes must be blind to miss you." My gaze sways down to his black shoes and back to his slightly dicey face while I respond in Chinese.

Half a step away, his palms are now agitating by his sides, on and off in a fist. Considering what I'm ought to do, now seems to be a very bad time for trouble with these fellas, but that doesn't change the spite for them in somewhere south of my heart.

           "If I may suggest," I put my right hand in my pocket, each of my fingers found its lock on the steel as I grip it. "Supermarket vodka works wonders for cigarette stench on polyester, old leather, patched suits and other cheap as shit outfits." Heavy lidded eyes. The edge of both his green eyes draw longer as if smiling without a stretch of cheek. The clacking of the leather shoes stopped, cricket appeared and immediately disappeared behind the counter.