mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
107 lines
3.0 KiB
TeX
107 lines
3.0 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{Brolita}
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\chapter{Mac}
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This morning, I woke up to find myself dead.
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I don't know how it happened, or why. That's why I'm here. Easy
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G's, a dive on the bad side of town. Mac, the guy who runs the
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place, is a good friend of mine. Always around to lend an ear.
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Tonight, I hope he has two.
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My name is Luke. Luke ``Lucky'' Bavarious. I'm a private dick. At
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least, I was, before I died. My dad was a cop. A cop that didn't
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play by the rules. That's how he died. He broke the rules. Then the
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rules broke him.
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My dad died when I was 13. He didn't listen to me. I knew the
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streets. He thought, because he was old, because he was
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experienced, that he knew more about the dark realities of the city
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than I did. I tried to warn him. He didn't listen to me.
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It was a night just like tonight. Except both of us were still
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alive. At least, for now. My dad was called in to investigate a
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shooting. Prescott Avenue. The worst street in the worst
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neighborhood in the worst city. I remember him drinking when he got
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the call. He didn't always drink. Only when he {\em knew}. When he
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knew something was going down. When he knew he would be cheating
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Death. When he knew that one drink may be his last. He {\em knew}.
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And {\em I knew}.
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I've blamed myself for my father's death. I've blamed him. I've
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blamed the alcohol. I've blamed it all. But the one thing I can't
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blame is the person who killed him. I can't do that, because I
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don't know who it is. I've spent my life searching for him. I
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became a cop, because I thought I could find him. I couldn't. I was
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fired for using excessive force on a drunk one day. Served him
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right, the swine.
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Tonight, maybe, I'll find who I'm looking for.
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I breeze into the bar like a shadow. That's pretty much all I am
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now. A shadow. A shadow to my father, who is now a shadow himself.
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The world is full of shadows, shadows that we don't see until it's
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too late. I've been through a lot of crap in my time, seen a lot of
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things a sane man would be better off without seeing. Luckily for
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me, I'm not a sane man. I guess that's why they call me
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Lucky.
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Mac's behind the bar. I slam some money down. ``I'll need a strong
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one tonight, Mac. Gimme a Screwdriver.'' I wince at the sound of the
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word. I killed a man once. Stabbed him through the head with a
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screwdriver. Phillips head. Poor Phillip.
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Mac pours me a stiff one. ``Rough day?'' He asks. ``I'm just getting
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started,'' I say, lighting up a cigarette. Red Apples. Menthol. It
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stings like fibreglass, and I almost want to vomit. I take a drink
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to cool down my throat. ``Mac,'' I say, my hands shaking, ``I'm
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dead.''
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Mac looks up at me. To my astonishment, he's not surprised. He
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knows.
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``I know,'' he says. ``I'm the one that killed you.''
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My shaking hands curl into shaking fists. Mac. My friend. My brother. My
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killer. I lunge across the bar. ``You {\bf rotten murderer}!'' I scream
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at him. I can't think. I can't breathe. My cigarette falls out of my
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mouth.
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I grab his neck. From my holster, I pull my baretta.
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I don't even hear him laughing as I pull the trigger.
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