Leftovers, and a Bowl

The long-coated man continued on his way to where he lived. He entered into the poorer district of the city. Few brick-made establishments. Most buildings in this district had their paint scraping off the walls, due to time and weathering.

Though, the various neon signs throughout it gave the place a bit more life and atmosphere. The neon hue stuck onto the passing-by man like glue. Almost every shop—or billboard up on a wall—had some type of blue, purple or red sign.

“There you go.” An old man with a scruffy, white beard petted a cat that was eating leftovers from a bowl by him. “Eat up,” he happily added.

The old fellow sat at the concrete steps of the entrance to a—somewhat rundown, but still functioning—six-story apartment block. His dark green flannel shirt looked a little rugged, but it seemed warm, nonetheless. He smiled. His left eye seemed to be a lot more greyed out than the other one.

“Evenin’, John,” the long-coated man greeted the old man as he approached.

This gave the man a bit of a startle.

“Ah.” He rotated his head to look at the approaching man. “Yes. Late evening.”

The long-coated man sat down at the stairs beside John. “Keepin’ the cat fed. What's he having tonight?”

“Oh, just some leftover meat from the soup I made last night.”

The man nodded.

“You smell of booze.”

“Yep.”

John shook his head. “So what, then? Did you achieve what you told me you would,” he asked.

“Pretty much.” The man looked down in between his legs. He seemed to be in thought. “I'm getting close, John. I just know it.”

The old man stayed quiet. He turned his head to look down at the cat eating.

“I said it to you before, but…don't let it eat you up,” John reinforced. “This life is too short to be holding on to hate like that. The world is not fair, yes. But that's just the way it is. You live with it, you move on, and you keep moving on.

“Look at Noodle here,” he smiled at the cat. “Every night, he gets leftovers from whatever I make.” He chuckled, “He's pretty much luckier than both of us combined at this point.” John's smile faded slightly as he sighed. “...Just don't let it eat you up, boy.”

He looked back at the black-bearded man, who nodded. “I'm afraid it eating me up is the thing keeping me goin’.” He began to get up as he put his hand on John's shoulder. “You are right, though. Noodle has won at life with you around.”

John sighed again.

“I'll be seeing you, old man.” The long-coated man entered the apartment block building, leaving John to himself and the cat.

The inside of the building looked old as if it was built a few decades ago. Calmly, he made his way up the raggedy, wooden stairs. The wallpaper on the walls has seemed better days—at points it has started to peel off.

The man lived on the third floor. He reached down into his left front pocket to take out the keys, then swiftly got inside.

“Finally…” he quietly mumbled under his breath, while he got his coat off. He hung it on the hanger by the door.

The apartment was fairly spacious. Right by the door and the hangar sat a long three-people couch; that looked second-hand. Opposite the front door was a square-shaped dining table with three chairs; right up against a window that overlooked the streets. A huge, neon billboard shined in through it from the other side of the road. It gave the apartment a permanent purple and blue hue at night.

To the side of the dining table, in the corner, was the kitchen and its counters. Opposite that was another smaller two-person couch with a coffee table, situated by another window—with fire escape stairs—that looked down into the alleyway.

Attached to the man's belt at the left hip was a giant knife. The blade was covered by its fine-made, yet worn down, brown leather sheath. The man took the sheath and hung it by the pocket of the black long coat.

Almost immediately after that, he made his way over to the freezer. The kitchen was a mess; lots of dirty plates and stained glasses. He took out a bottle of whiskey, and a glass from the cupboard, pouring himself a drink.

On the same wall that the second couch was up against was the entrance to the bedroom.

His hand shook slightly, but without hesitation, he gulped the glass and poured himself another one.

The man sat down on the cold floor of the kitchen. He rested his back up against the kitchen's counter, as he held the glass with both his hands.

He sat there for a while as if lost in his head. He looked defeated. That expression only grew stronger as he wiped his mouth with the backside of his hand. His lips were already doused in whiskey.

“...Here, take a photo of us…” said a female voice.

“...Ha. Sure, sure…strike a pose…”

The man took a delicate sip of his whiskey, then rubbed the ridge of his nose with his thumb and index.

“—Stop! Please s-stop this! Why— Why are you doing this—”

The man closed his eyes. His breath got heavier.

Diabo. Rimmon. Manthius.

He slowly calmed himself down before getting back on his feet. The glass was still held in his hand, and the bottle in the other. He walked towards the smaller couch with the coffee table, it looked purplish because of the hue.

At the side of the couch, just by it, was a black and rusted metal barrel that functioned as a side table. He placed the glass on top of it, then the bottle on the coffee table.

After a glance out the window, he made his way back to the coat that he had hanged. He took out his Python and the envelope that he found in Pant's pocket.

The man finally sat down on the couch, setting the envelope on top of the coffee table. Its border was wooden, but the middle had a rectangular glass pan.

With his hand, he reached down under the couch and pulled out a tin box from underneath. The box contained bullets. Lots of them; Magnum rounds.

He began loading his six-shooter, sliding in one round after the other. Although, he wasn't looking down at his gun when he loaded it. His eyes were fixated on the unsealed envelope—as if he couldn't wait to see what was inside.

After the sixth round had made its way into the revolver, he set it down on the couch and finally grabbed the envelope. He opened it, ripping the top. It contained a letter, as well as, a picture of a slightly chubby, brunette man. He appeared to be in his forties.

The man set the picture aside and grabbed the letter. He squinted his eyes as his expression got more serious.

The piece of paper read,

Dear, Pant

We are extremely happy to welcome you into our circle of business. You have proven to be useful in our endeavours, and we see the potential of what you could do for us in the near future.

Both Damian Smith and Samiell Hope have vouched for you, and have entertained the idea of having you closer in our industry from now on. Meet with Balaam Anderson at the ‘The Lollipop’ establishment as soon as possible.

Congratulations!

Sincerest regards,

T. H.

The man suddenly chuckled. “Smith, Hope…Anderson… That's the best you could come up with?”

He sighed as he scratched his beard, and took another sip of whiskey from his glass.

…extremely happy…circle of business…potential. What a load of shit. All right… The Lollipop? That brothel, he thought. One of those fuckers owns a brothel…? TH, huh?

He scratched his chin.

Okay. More leads; more names. That's good.

The man nodded and raised his glass before finishing the last of it. His other hand grabbed the photo. “Balaam Anderson, it is,” he said.

The man flinched.

“—I told you all I know, man—” A male voice pleaded. “—This…this is not going to end that way—”

His cheek nervously twitched as he heard the voice. He reached up and pressed his hand into it. “...You don't get to determine that.”

He looked towards the window, while the couch embraced the back of his head. A heavy exhale escaped through his mouth.