Inside the restroom of a diner, a man in his late 40s with dirty, scruffy blonde hair, thick eyebrows, baggy green eyes and a prominent stubble, stands in front of the sink as he finishes reading the newspaper on ‘mysterious unsolved murders’ occurring around the states.
The man wears a brown jacket with its sleeves rolled-up with a navy blue shirt underneath and a pair of brown pants and tanned boots.
He then throws the paper into the small trash bin sitting in the corner. The man proceeds to finish up, washing his hands before turning the faucet off and shaking hands clean of water.
This man’s name is Manny Pardo.
The bathroom door opens and he steps out of the bathroom, tightening his belt. He walks over towards the counter where a plate of unfinished food rests next to a cold cup of coffee as a waitress cleans around it. Manny takes the cup and finishes his coffee without sitting back down.
Sweetheart: Leaving already? You don't look too good, are you okay?
He glances at his watch. It's 7:50. He puts on a soft smile.
Pardo: Been a stressful day. You wouldn't
believe what they have me doing... I should probably go home and get some sleep.
Sweetheart: Alright. You have a nice night!
Pardo: You too, Sweetheart!
The waves goodbye as Pardo walks off and exits the diner, entering a four-door purple sedan. The car peels off into the street.
____________________________________As he drives, Pardo is behind the wheel, glancing around, staring at the colorful neon while cruising past rows of dingy stores and businesses.
The lights of North East 8th Avenue glitter and reflect against the car as it continues to glide down the street, passing by more fuzzy, hazy electric neon.
He takes his time as he keeps looking around to see a small amount of people still roaming the streets at this time of hour. Some girls are standing on the corner, beckoning passersby over for their services; Illegal, but it's something the police are too busy to handle at the moment, not like most cops care about it anyway — not in this city, at least. Speaking of which, over in a dark alley, an officer of the law can even be seen, busy getting his rocks off, having sex with a beautiful girl behind a dumpster.
Pardo then takes a look at the car's fuel gauge meter. His car is running low on gas. He decides to make a quick stop.
At a gas station and convenience store, he pulls the sedan up to the unleaded fuel pumps. He climbs out of the car, taking his keys with him as he steps inside the store. The shop bell jingles. A Korean man standing behind the counter greets him.
Cashier: Hello, sir. What can I do for you?
Pardo takes out his wallet and places the money down.
Pardo: Thirty-two on pump one.
YOU ARE READING
Helluva Hotline (Helluva Boss x Male Jacket Reader)
FanfictionAfter being executed in 1991, Y/n, a.k.a "Jacket," is sent to Hell for his actions in Miami. A few years elapsed since his arrival. He's made quite a name for himself, earning a reputation as a well-known contract killer. (A/n: Please note that som...