Charlie's Angel

Chapter 1

 The neon lights illuminated the man's naked body. It was dark save for them, a quiet night with the heavy sort of air that comes before a storm. There were no crickets. The sign flickered. "Open, 24 hours" It blared. "Rob's Pawn and Goods"  There was another, in that parking lot outside of Rob's Pawn and Goods. He was shorter, with long, dark hair and a white T-Shirt that stuck to his skin, clammy with sweat. He crawled across the pavement on tired limbs to the figure on the ground, shaking him hard. 

"Barack? Barack, get up!" 

The man did not move. Blood crusted at his nostrils, and desert grit stuck to his clammy chest. The man, it seemed, was dead. 

-

Obama settled down on the pew, shifting uncomfortably. The wood of the worn seat creaked under his weight. Obama's church was a small one, populated mostly by grandmas and single parents, but Obama liked it there. It was peaceful, quiet, and much more laid back than some of the others in the area. But the real reason Obama liked it so much was because of 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

 He always sat in that one corner, his long, dark hair partially obscuring his face. Nobody seemed to know his name. Nobody seemed to know where he came from- and yet, he was always there. Obama knew it was wrong; he knew it was sinful. But still, he couldn't help but look. His appearance gave away nothing. Slightly short, a white T-Shirt, and a short beard. Sometimes, Obama liked to watch as he fiddled with his hair, twirling it between his fingers like he had something on his mind. 

He seemed like the kind of man with something on his mind. Obama sometimes wondered where the man came from when the sermons dragged on for too long. Maybe he was an actor, a TV star there to research a role. Obama liked that one. Or perhaps a government agent, come to seek the Lord between deadly missions. 

Or maybe, just maybe, he was there for Obama. Perhaps, thought Obama, he came to that rickety church at the end of the lane because he felt the same way that Obama did. Maybe, just maybe, he daydreamed about why Obama was here in the same way Obama dreamed about him. Obama liked that one best of all.

-

The mystery man was sitting on the curb outside the church, smoking a cigarette. The plumes of smoke lingered in the air, surrounding his head with a gray wreath.

"You're not supposed to smoke here, you know."

 Obama sat down next to him, rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to warm them up. The frosty morning left each exhale a plume of misty condensation. 

The man ignored his comment, choosing instead to gaze off into the distance mysteriously. Obama could've almost laughed; he seemed like such a caricature at that moment. After a long pause, he finally spoke:

"Who're you?" He took a drag from his cigarette.

"I'm Obama, Barack Obama. But you can call me Obama."

"So, Barack" The man did something between a smile and a smirk. "how'd you find this dump?"

"Dump? That's a little harsh, isn't it?"

The man took another draw. 

"I'm just being honest."

"I've gone here for years. I like it here, it's quiet." Obama looked at the pavement. It was very pavement-y.

"I guess I see it."

There were a few moments of silence. Just the sounds of faint birdsong and cars rushing down the interstate. Finally, the man spoke.

"I'm trying to quit, you know." He puffed out, watching as the smoke dispersed. 

"That's- um, that's good."

"The name's Charlie, by the way."

Obama smiled.

"It's nice to meet you, Charlie."