Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap)

I sit in front of my easel, my oil paints splayed out on the table next to me - along with brushes and a towel and a cup of thinner. The painting holds a painting of Jess, her image not leaving my brain lately. Something stirs in my stomach, a pit, a hole. I lean back in the chair, inspecting the strokes and brushes and colors. It looks like her all right. She smiles at me from the canvas, a flower tucked behind her ear - it's a photo from when she came home from her first date with Sam. My favorite photo of her, so excited, so happy. The Death Riders play softly from my stereo, it takes 3 knocks and a yell to knock me out of my trance of painting and metal music. I frown, checking the time:
2:15 AM
"Now what kinda psycho...?" I stand, wiping the paint from my hands on my already oil painted jeans. I crack my back, sore from sitting for god knows how long. I approach the door, careful not to step on the ring of salt which forms a half circle around the door. I check the peephole, a freakishly tall man on my doorstep. He stands with a slightly shorter man next to him but still fairly tall. "Sam."