Midnight... Date Friday, April 19, 2024 - 09:27 PM PST Topic Entertainment Samuel sat on the brushed steel stool, sipping his coffee, when it hit him. He was alone now for the first time ever. It started to feel like he was an element of the chair then, all stiff and dull and cold, and took another drink of coffee to try and make it all go away. He couldn’t help thinking about all the things he’d done wrong and they seemed so far away. They felt like they never even happened if truth be told, just a dream from some past point in time. But that scared him, because now he had nothing. No more past and, really, no more future. The door sprung open with a nasty clang and he didn’t move. He just sat and drank his coffee. As he set his cup down, he lifted the spoon to stir it, and with a tiny almost imperceptible glance, used it look behind him at the person entering the diner. Through streams of brown liquid and a bad polish job, he saw a leather clad figure, probably his same height, wearing a black bandana and a five-o-clock shadow. Slowly with a discrete and casual air, he sat next to Sam at the counter. He hadn’t really noticed it before, but now Sam had an excuse to look up from his coffee and see that the diner was a chrome and steel 50’s mock up, most definitely designed after the era, for it held with it the insipid feeling of forced cliché’ and boldness. He hated diners like this, so trite and sad, grasping at some bygone time and style just to seem interesting and appeal to a mass audience of tasteless youths and over-nostalgic jerks. But then again, everyone needed a safe place, or at least a re-creation of what people think is a secure place or time. “You come ere’ off ten, comrade?” The dark fellow belted, bathed in a very real Russian accent. “When it suits me.” Friendly perhaps, Sam though. Maybe he’s just friendly. But Sam had seen many men that looked like him, and they never played friendly. Mostly they played the quite, concerned type, which is what Sam was playing right now. No, this man had an agenda. Or he was drunk. “’When eet suits me’ I like dat! You know, I haff bean ere’ for quite some time, and I haff never seen you ere’” “’Quite some time’ eh? You only just got here.” His tone began to change, and so did his face. Maybe he didn’t like to be quoted. “Yayss, but I have bean cominck to dis ess-tab-bleesh-ment for some time, and you have never bean here.” At this point Sam didn’t feel like playing this game any longer. Though he did stink faintly of Vodka, this man wasn’t drunk: He wanted something; time, money, information, and maybe even Sam’s life. In fact, they may already be looking for him. If they where, it was wise not to be just sitting here, sipping bad coffee and getting accosted by some Russian, who most likely works for them. “I’d love to stay and chat, but unless you need something, I’ve got to be….” He took Sam by the arm, and calmly, but holding back extreme force, set him down on the stool. “No, no, comrade, seet, seet.” Sam was beginning to turn over ways to escape, but all of them where quite foul, and slim chances. At the sign of some type of duress, the solitary waitress slinked toward the two of them. “Can umm, I get you anything?” “My friend ere’ weel ave more coffee, eh. I weel have coffee as well.” I guess you didn’t hear me, comrade. I have to go. Afraid I’ve got some things to attend too.” The waitress watched uneasily and poured. “I, as well, ave theengs to attend to.” The waitress stopped pouring. Sam took his cup. “I’ll let you go then.” Sam wrenched the cup towards the Russian. The steaming liquid launched into his face, and he clutched at Sam as if he was falling from a cliff. With his free hand Sam grabbed the Jericho .40 S&W from his shoulder holster, and as the dark one regained a footing, he too went for a gun concealed in his jacket. But Sam was ready first, and pumped the last three rounds he had in his into the Russian. Blazing cracks of thunder roared over the screams of the waitress, now planted securely behind the chromed oven. Suddenly, all those past events, all those seedy dealings, they didn’t seem quite so far away. In fact, Sam felt so different that all his fear, all his worry, evaporated like thin streams of spilled coffee. He was the old Sam now; callous and alert. He knelt down to the dead Russian, picked up the heavy Colt .45, saw that it was suitable, and put it in his pants pocket. “Please, don’t kill me!” The waitress, he had forgotten her! It wasn’t as if he wasn’t in trouble to begin with; trouble even worse than the police. But the less heat on his ass, the better. “Why would I kill you? I wasn’t even here. I did see a fat spick in this seat here though, right?” “Yeah, yeah, su, some big guy.” “A big Puerto Rican.” “Yeah, a really big Puerto Rican.” “It’s a shame that they had that argument over some ex-girlfriend. I’ll take this.” Sam picked up the Russian’s coffee, took a sip of the thick black fluid, and set the cup down. “You better call the police. Damn Puerto Ricans.” When he left, he knew it would take at least a half and hour for that girl to finally gather the strength to leave the safety of that oven. He would be gone by then, but hopefully he would leave enough fear in that waitress to get her to tell his version of the truth. It didn’t matter, because the cops would be all over the missing gun in no time, and Sam had more to worry about than a few boys in blue. They wouldn’t exactly be busting their balls over some dead Russian in the middle of Chicago, especially with all the other stuff that was giving them hell. Of course Sam was part of that, too. This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=621