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Chapter 3

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'So, can ya fix it?' Bors talked to the plumber over the phone.

                'WHAT? Two hundred dollars for a busted tap? Last time I had this fixed, you've only charged me a hundred. Economy's bad? It's ONLY BEEN A MONTH. You sure got some balls making that kind of offer. And right now you're asking me to accept it? Well sonny, why don't you take your offer AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS, THATS WHAT.'

                Bors ended the call and jammed the phone on the receiver. 'Friggin' opportunists people are these days,' he muttered under his breath. The water that dripped out had already formed numerous water droplets on the silvery surface of the sink. Last thing he needed was Jack complaining. He stood there staring at the leaking tap, boggling his mind for a way to get the tap fixed. Certainly not that greedy plumber, that's for sure. Maybe I could fix it myself, he thought. Yes, that's what I'll do.

                Bors walked out of Jack's apartment to his own to get his toolbox. A landlord he may be, but thirty or so years ago, he was a 'fixer' and he could fix almost anything under the sun. Car engines, water heaters, radios, televisions and even taps. Damn fine job he did too. People would always call him for help in getting their stuff repaired. Bors would ride on his motorbike, his handy toolbox strapped at the back and then he would be off to their houses. What's wrong, mister? Broken TV? No problem. How 'bout you lady? Water heater not working? I'll see to that. And you, sonny? Radio's jammed? Ah, nothing but a little tinkering and there. See it's fixed. He was paid and tipped well. Everybody admired at what he could do.

                As he thought about the years that he had spent as a 'fixer', he couldn't help smiling. Those years were the best. It ended too early when he got a broken leg after an accident on the way back home. Crashed into a car and went spiraling down off a short cliff. The doctor said that he was lucky to be alive, could've broken more than a leg. But things became much worse. Not only did his broken leg restricted his movements, it took away the one thing that he was proud of the most, being a 'fixer'. After that, well, nobody wanted him to fix their stuff anymore. Can't have a broken man fixing my broken stuff, hahaha.

                His walking stick became his only companion. His job of being a 'fixer' was shattered. He thought he could survive on his fat bank account that came from his fixing days. Or that he could depend on his mother. So, he just sat in his house, smoked, drank and took some shots till he dropped every single day. Hell, he had so much time in his hands that he could've thought of a name for his own walking stick.

                Even after 30 years, Bors could still remember the events that occurred on that day clearly. His wake-up call. It was one fine morning to start the day. By drinking. His booze was running low as usual and so he went to the nearest liquor store to get more. 'Yes Bors? What'cha gonna have?' the shopkeeper asked. 'Why, a dozen bottles of Budweiser, my man!' he replied with all his charm. Bors paid the shopkeeper and left, chugging three bottles as he swayed his way home. And then, this black blob suddenly came out of nowhere into view. It startled him.

                So BAM! His beer bottle came down so fast that whatever he had smite didn't have a chance. As he bent down on the sidewalk and took a closer look, realization hit him and all he could do was yelp. He may be drunk, but not smashed enough to recognize what was in front of him. It wasn't a black monster or anything like that, but a young kid. Blood flowed out from that kid's head and formed a red puddle beneath his feet. That was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

                Bors regained consciousness in a hospital. First thing he found out was that the kid didn't survive, died of a massive hemorrhage of the brain. And that he was handcuffed to the bed railings. Questioned, arrested and then hauled to a state penitentiary soon after he recovered, he got to spend ten years with felons ranging from pickpockets to arsonists to murderers. Nobody likes a 'nonce' there, a person who attacks children. HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW? I WAS DRUNK! God knows how many times he said that before being ended up with bruises and cuts of all sorts. That was how things went during the first year. And the next. Even the guards didn't bother to break the fights between the inmates.

                After he got out, he went back to college with what money he could scavenge. He was almost fifty and he didn't want to waste those last few decades on getting wasted. It'll be a joke if he got hauled back to jail again, 'The Felon, There and Back Again, A Tale By Boris Harper'.

                People made fun of him in college because he was old enough to be called 'pops'. But that didn't bother him. He worked hard. And smart. His disability didn't discourage him, but encouraged him more instead. He earned a first class honors degree in Economics. He gave tuition to students. He saved his money up and bought an apartment. One became to two. He rented out the second place. Two to three. Then four, five and so on. And that was how he ended up being a landlord today.

                'Me and my sob story. Couldn't get any sadder than that,' he said and chuckled. He went into his apartment, took his toolbox and left. Huffing and puffing, he climbed back up six flights of stairs to reach Jack's apartment again, the thumping of the walking stick becoming slower and slower as he grew tired. As soon as he arrived, he set down his toolbox and collapsed onto the couch in the living room. Sweat dribbled down his forehead as he sat there taking deep breaths of air. He was old and frail, seventy-nine this coming birthday. Half a century ago, seventy-nine years old would've sounded ancient to him. He remembered when he was young, and he had enemies who were people. Now it seems like his only enemy were the stairs.

                All these thoughts were in Bors' head when he fell into a deep sleep unknowingly on the couch. Flicker. Pitch black. He couldn't see anything. Flicker. The tap. Leaking. Red liquid. Flicker. A scream. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.

                Bors woke up with a jolt. He shook his head, dismissing the vivid images he saw in his dream.

                Refreshed and rested, Bors clambered out of the chair and was ready to began work. He took his toolbox, opened it and retrieved a spanner from it. Just when he was ready to use it on the tap...

                'That's weird. Tap's not leaking anymore.' The sink. It was dry as a bone.

                Save a single drop of red.